Jen turns her infamous squint on our showrunner. “Lisa, I have to be on the east side at one for another meeting.”
Jen has this expression about her, Ugh, people, do I really have to talk to them? There is something about her that is fundamentally unfuckable. I guess she’s pretty—we’re on TV, the network’s not evolved enough to cast uggos yet—but it’s an anemic kind of pretty. She’s a whey-faced canvas upon which she’s applied the “vegan boho” palette. Lots of tea-stained lace schmattas are involved. Maybe that’s where this unsexiness comes from, the fact that she has no idea who she is or what she stands for. Everything is an imitation, flower child cosplay, with the end goal being money and success, rather than fulfillment and pleasure.
Even this bougier Jen before me feels like a well-thought-out move on the chessboard. Word is that Jen has glossed up her appearance to reignite her relationship with the person who put her heart through the Vitamix just before the last reunion. The third button of her linen shirt is undone. Saucy minx. But there is no way to know for sure, primarily because Jen refuses to talk about her personal life. This sends me into orbit. We are on a reality TV show! We signed up to share all aspects of our lives, even the humiliating heartbreak. I had to endure Sarah dumping me twice—once in real life and once again when it aired, but Jen has managed to wiggle off the hook. She wants the promotion and adoration of being on TV without having to make any of the sacrifices.
“Now that we are all here,” Lisa tucks her chin and stares me down from the other end of the table, “let’s get started.”
Kelly picks up her production packet, her spine rod straight.
Now that we’re all here? I glance at the door. “Steph lost in one of her two hundred rooms?”
The field producers laugh.
“Steph’s not coming,” Jen seems very pleased to tell me. Since when does Jen refer to Stephanie as Steph?
“She’s not coming?” I survey the room, looking for anyone who is as gobsmacked as I am. We have never had a Digger skip the all-cast prod meeting before.
“She’s in Chicago with Marc,” Lauren volunteers, watching closely for my reaction, knowing I am well within my rights to bug out that Stephanie is in Chicago with our director of photography, alone. They don’t film you early and alone unless they think your storyline is pertinent to the season. No one wanted to film me, early and alone, presiding over the yoga auditions.
I refuse to show that I care, but damnit, I care. “Why wouldn’t we do it when she’s back then?” I ask Lisa.
“Because,” Lisa says, “you’re all busy bitches and four out of five of you ain’t bad.” She picks up the production packet and flips the page. “Headline events . . .”
Everyone turns their attention to the packet before them. I try to focus too, but all I see are numbers and words instead of dates and locations. I detect movement and glance up in time to see Lauren lean into Jen’s side and whisper something, holding a knuckle to her lips to contain a giggle. Jen manages to crack a smile without short-circuiting.
It’s hard to believe that the very first episode of Goal Diggers kicked off with Jen and me shopping for recycled dresses at Reformation, hours before the party for the grand opening of her second Green Theory location. We were something resembling friends back then, butting heads once we realized that our definitions of health inherently threatened the other’s business model, with hers being “skinny” and mine being “eat the doughnut.” Truly, that is the crux of our issues—that and Jen’s unmitigated disgust with my body—though Jen likes to make it out as though I “stole her mother.” It’s not my fault Yvette is disappointed in Jen for choosing a path in life that makes women smaller.
“We had talked about doing a ride to raise money for Lacey Rzeszowski’s campaign,” Kelly is suddenly saying, and I come to with her looking at me, encouragingly. We’ve been discussing ways for our businesses to acknowledge the results of the election.
I clear my throat. “Lacey . . . ?”
“Rzeszowski,” Kelly prods. “We talked about this, remember? She’s one of two hundred women who are running for political office for the first time this year? Making a bid for a seat in the New Jersey Assembly?”
I am drawing a blank. The Green Menace seizes the opportunity.
“One thing I’m in the process of doing is designing a limited line of juices called Clintonics,” Jen says, her eyes ever narrow.
Lisa taps her pen against her forehead for a few moments, trying to work out what Jen has just said. “Oh my God,” she says when it clicks. “Clintonics. Fucking hysterical.” Yeah, so hysterical she doesn’t even laugh.
Lauren nods. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Her energy is manic, depending on what she’s on that day. “And they’re supposed to be good for your voice, right, J?”
“They’re concentrated with what we call ‘the warming spices’ in Ayurvedic culture,” Jen says in a tone that tells me to prepare for terminal boredom. “Cinnamon, cardamom, and clove are traditionally used together to provide a diverse supply of antioxidants that help boost immunity, but tulsi is the new super spice that the homeopathic community has discovered supports lung and throat health. To help our voices as women carry.”
There are mumbles around the room about how smart this is, how timely. I’m just thinking that of course that guy broke up with her. Jen’s farts must smell like death.
“We could sell them at the front of SPOKE,” Kelly suggests, tentatively, because she knows we have a strict policy about pushing food or drink on our customer. I feel strongly that SPOKE shouldn’t influence women’s dietary choices. They get enough of that everywhere else they go.
“You need a permit to sell outside of the restaurant and it’s a pain in the ass to get,” Jen says. “Plus, your girl doesn’t really do the juice thing.”
“I love them.” Kelly shrugs, and I put my finger on it. Kelly’s lost weight. It’s only a few pounds, and I didn’t notice in those duster cardigans she usually wears, but in that tight getup from Forever 21, her chest looks like a grill pan.
Jen raises her eyebrows, amused by this, and I can’t say I blame her. If Jen’s sister were here, sucking up to me, I’d be pretty fucking amused myself.
“Think on it,” Lisa says, licking her finger and turning the page. “Let’s talk Morocco.”
Now it’s my turn to sit up straighter. Let’s! “I had a conversation with one of my investors last night. About funding the trip. Whatever we need. Travel, lodging, transportation. We’re totally covered.”
“Is big daddy single?” Lauren bats her eyelashes.
“Back off,” Lisa says. “It’s Greenberg who’s in dire need of rebound D.”
Jen turns a livid red.
“Wow, Laur.” I fold my arms across my chest, glowering at her. “That’s really sexist that you would just assume my investor is a man.” An awkward hush falls over the room, and I let everyone stew in it a good long while. “Just kidding.” I stretch my arms over my head with a leisurely yawn. “He’s totally an old white dude from Texas.”
Everyone but Jen laughs.
“Can we focus, please?” Lisa squeaks. Lisa is pushing fifty but has the voice of an eleven-year-old choirboy and this manages to make her all the more terrifying. There is something deeply disturbing about being told that you’re about to become so irrelevant even your own grandchildren won’t remember your name by a woman who sounds like Pinocchio, which is something Lisa said to Hayley when we went to Anguilla to shoot her new control-top swimsuit line. You haven’t lived until Lisa has eviscerated you in an exotic location.