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"What do you think of me throwing your name out there for one of those reality shows where they gather a bunch of B-list stars in a mansion, or put them on competitive diets?" Pointing at her, he concluded. "You could do something like that."
B-list stars? Had he completely lost his mind? "Live with wannabe celebrities? Do I look like I need to lose weight?" She sucked in her gut and felt her navel nudge her backbone. "My face adorned a gazillion lunch boxes, umbrellas and T-shirts when I was a kid. Throughout the eighties, I was the reason millions of people turned on their TV sets every Friday night."
He handed her his empty glass. "May I trouble you for another?"
"How can I sink to the level of reality TV? I'm an actress, not a side show freak." Why couldn't he find a serious role for her? "Have you seen what they do to people on those shows? Every facet of their lives is exposed and they're made to look like fools."
She glanced around for Hilda, her housekeeper, then remembered she wasn't there. Poor Hilda counted on this job. She had to find a way to keep her, even if it meant digging into savings to pay her salary. Taking Clive's glass, she crossed the room to mix him another martini, dropped in an olive.
"At this point in your career, love, any exposure would be positive."
"Why should I subject myself to such humiliation?"
Because you're nearly broke. At the rate you're going, you'll lose everything before long. They'll find out you're nothing special--just someone who got a lucky break because of her last name--Henry Farnsworth's no-talent granddaughter.
Swallowing her fear, she said, "I've been taking voice lessons. Maybe a movierole with singing?" She returned to the table, set Clive's drink before him.
"No one's making musicals now. Reality television is where it's at, sweetheart. It's hotter than hell and you know it." He turned sideways in the chair and yawned. "If you're not interested, I'm sure I can find a dog food ad or another infomercial."