lot of those girls were a bit outrageous to begin with.” He glanced around the table. “Have I put you to sleep yet, Mr. Bennet?”
“No more so than our dinners usually do. Carry on.”
Chip grinned. “The other reason things could get dramatic was that the alcohol was flowing, and not just at night. They’d serve booze from lunch on, and if there was a justifiable way of offering it earlier, like a Bloody Mary at brunch, they’d do that.”
“Now it’s actually starting to sound civilized,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Too bad you’re married, huh, Dad?” Kitty said.
“You’re being filmed, and you’re mic’d, from the time you wake up in the morning until you go to sleep at night.” Chip was still holding his fork above his plate, not biting. “They’ve taken away your cellphone and forbidden computers, music, even books and magazines—partly to avoid copyright issues, but also because none of that makes for good television. Who wants to watch people read? Or if you were listening to music, it’d be hard for the editor to cut the scene. But that means you’re bored, you have no privacy, and you’re separated from your normal support system. It’s a perfect storm for acting out. I guess I’d say people are themselves, but they’re also not themselves, if that makes sense.”
“Are you mic’d when you’re taking a dump?” Lydia asked.
“Lydia,” Jane said.
Chip seemed unfazed. “That’s the one place you do get privacy.”
“What’s Rick Price like?” The question came from, of all people, Aunt Margo. For the past eleven years, which in TV math was somehow the equivalent of eighteen seasons, Rick Price had been the host: an affable-seeming fellow from Phoenix, Arizona, who had gotten his start as a meteorologist.
“He was a good guy,” Chip said. “The same off-camera as on. It must be a strange job, because on a typical day, I’d guess he was on-set four or five hours, but then some of the challenges and ceremonies would literally last all night. Or he’d travel with us to Barcelona. One thing I had to remind myself was that even though he was nice, part of his job description was to stir the pot. He and the producers were like town gossips. They’d tell me, ‘Such-and-such girl told so-and-so that you said this to her.’ ”
“It’s your sister who convinced you to do the show, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bennet said. “It wasn’t your idea.” From their separate ends of the table, Liz and Jane made eye contact.
“I hadn’t seen Eligible when Caroline suggested I apply. She shot a video of me, just chatting for a few minutes. But I filled out the forms. I thought it was silly, but I did it to humor her.”
“I knew it!” Mrs. Bennet said.
“Now, I must admit,” Chip added, “that before you’re selected, they subject you to a very intense background check. There’s a battery of psychological and physical exams that must be as thorough as what a vice-presidential candidate goes through. The producers aren’t messing around. So it would be disingenuous to pretend I just woke up one day and found myself on TV. I could have opted out along the way.”
In a warm voice, Cousin Willie asked, “Any skeletons in your closet they uncovered?”
Chip shook his head. “For better or worse, I’m a pretty dull fellow. But they called my college roommates, my former employers, my parents—who were, by the way, none too thrilled to hear about my plans. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, I suspect they felt the way you would if any of your lovely daughters announced they were appearing on reality TV.”
“Being on Eligible just sounds annoying,” Liz said. “As a journalist, I’ve seen how the sausage gets made in the entertainment world, and it’s actually not glamorous.”
“I’ve interviewed so many famous people,” Lydia said in what was apparently her Liz imitation, and Kitty, following suit, added, “Did you guys know I’ve been on TV three times?”
To Chip, Liz
“No more so than our dinners usually do. Carry on.”
Chip grinned. “The other reason things could get dramatic was that the alcohol was flowing, and not just at night. They’d serve booze from lunch on, and if there was a justifiable way of offering it earlier, like a Bloody Mary at brunch, they’d do that.”
“Now it’s actually starting to sound civilized,” Mr. Bennet said.
“Too bad you’re married, huh, Dad?” Kitty said.
“You’re being filmed, and you’re mic’d, from the time you wake up in the morning until you go to sleep at night.” Chip was still holding his fork above his plate, not biting. “They’ve taken away your cellphone and forbidden computers, music, even books and magazines—partly to avoid copyright issues, but also because none of that makes for good television. Who wants to watch people read? Or if you were listening to music, it’d be hard for the editor to cut the scene. But that means you’re bored, you have no privacy, and you’re separated from your normal support system. It’s a perfect storm for acting out. I guess I’d say people are themselves, but they’re also not themselves, if that makes sense.”
“Are you mic’d when you’re taking a dump?” Lydia asked.
“Lydia,” Jane said.
Chip seemed unfazed. “That’s the one place you do get privacy.”
“What’s Rick Price like?” The question came from, of all people, Aunt Margo. For the past eleven years, which in TV math was somehow the equivalent of eighteen seasons, Rick Price had been the host: an affable-seeming fellow from Phoenix, Arizona, who had gotten his start as a meteorologist.
“He was a good guy,” Chip said. “The same off-camera as on. It must be a strange job, because on a typical day, I’d guess he was on-set four or five hours, but then some of the challenges and ceremonies would literally last all night. Or he’d travel with us to Barcelona. One thing I had to remind myself was that even though he was nice, part of his job description was to stir the pot. He and the producers were like town gossips. They’d tell me, ‘Such-and-such girl told so-and-so that you said this to her.’ ”
“It’s your sister who convinced you to do the show, isn’t it?” Mrs. Bennet said. “It wasn’t your idea.” From their separate ends of the table, Liz and Jane made eye contact.
“I hadn’t seen Eligible when Caroline suggested I apply. She shot a video of me, just chatting for a few minutes. But I filled out the forms. I thought it was silly, but I did it to humor her.”
“I knew it!” Mrs. Bennet said.
“Now, I must admit,” Chip added, “that before you’re selected, they subject you to a very intense background check. There’s a battery of psychological and physical exams that must be as thorough as what a vice-presidential candidate goes through. The producers aren’t messing around. So it would be disingenuous to pretend I just woke up one day and found myself on TV. I could have opted out along the way.”
In a warm voice, Cousin Willie asked, “Any skeletons in your closet they uncovered?”
Chip shook his head. “For better or worse, I’m a pretty dull fellow. But they called my college roommates, my former employers, my parents—who were, by the way, none too thrilled to hear about my plans. Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, I suspect they felt the way you would if any of your lovely daughters announced they were appearing on reality TV.”
“Being on Eligible just sounds annoying,” Liz said. “As a journalist, I’ve seen how the sausage gets made in the entertainment world, and it’s actually not glamorous.”
“I’ve interviewed so many famous people,” Lydia said in what was apparently her Liz imitation, and Kitty, following suit, added, “Did you guys know I’ve been on TV three times?”
To Chip, Liz
Similar Books
