Antiques Swap Read Free Page A

first day on set, which is to say our shop, Jena had immediately clashed with Mother (no surprise there), becoming easily exasperated with her eccentric star’s theatrical demands. The talented young woman was ready to quit, when I took her aside.
    â€œLook,” I said gently, “I understand that you’re frustrated, stuck in this hick town dealing with a wild woman . . . and, for you, this is just a stepping stone to better things.” I paused, then went on. “But if you can’t handle her, how are you going to manage Hollywood actors with much bigger egos, and who have the power to fire you?”
    Jena studied my face. “What should I do? Ignore her?”
    I laughed once. “Oh, no. That’ll only makes things worse. Think of her as a child. If you want her to do something, you have to cajole, flatter, and manipulate.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome.”
    Smooth sailing ever since.
    Phil was asking, “Anybody got an antacid?”
    I could tell by the melted butter stains on his shirt that he’d partaken of the fried delight while waiting for us. Probably not that many fried butter stands in LA.
    Mother, who always carried a small pharmacy in her purse, obliged, and Phil popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed sans liquid.
    Mother turned to Jena. “How do I look, dear?”
    â€œYou look lovely, Mrs. Borne.”
    â€œMore powder?”
    â€œYour skin is perfect.”
    â€œToo much rouge?”
    â€œJust the right amount.”
    â€œPerhaps a different shade of lipstick?”
    â€œThat one complements you well. You look ten years younger. Twenty.”
    Mother beamed. “Thank you, my dear! What a lovely young professional woman you are.”
    And I winked at Jena, and she winked back, as Mother turned her attention to Phil.
    â€œWhat’s on the call sheet today, dah-ling?”
    His wince was barely perceptible. “I’ve got several vendors already lined up for you to visit.”
    â€œI have pages?” Mother asked officiously.
    Sorry to disappoint, but most reality shows are at least loosely scripted, a process made looser by Mother, since she often ignored the “pages” she was demanding.
    Phil shook his head. “This will be improvised.”
    â€œBut the play is the thing!”
    I said, “Mother, it’s like Second City—‘something wonderful right away.’ You’ll be fine.”
    â€œWell, obviously, dear—but what about you? You have no training!”
    Phil waved that off. “You and Brandy won’t even be miked.”
    Which suited me fine—I hated wearing that battery pack on my fanny with its cold cord snaked up my shirt.
    Mother frowned. “Not even a lavalier? ”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell . . . what will I say? What is my motivation? One can’t improvise properly without a premise from which to create.”
    Phil said, “Your motivation is to get this pilot in the can. The premise is you’re shopping.”
    â€œFor what? Antiques? Collectibles? Am I to bargain like an Arab trader? Meaning no ethnic slur. Am I to introduce myself as the star of our new show? I can’t build a house without bricks, man!”
    I snorted. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Mother.”
    Phil sighed. “What you say really doesn’t matter, Mrs. Borne.”
    â€œWell, of course it matters!” Mother huffed. “We’re establishing my character here! Not to mention there will be lip-readers in our viewing audience.”
    The producer/director/cameraman was on the verge of losing his laid-back composure—and I’m sure the one-fourth pound of butter in his stomach was no help.
    Jena touched Mother’s arm. “Vivian . . . just be your wonderful, charming, vivacious self.”
    That girl would go far in Hollywood.
    Mother beamed. “Well, that I can do, dear! Standing on my