Trena gave a noncommittal nod. So far they were on the same page. She had no interest in repeating the usual tired format. And yet, it struck her as odd that Ira would choose Heather Rollins to speak on his behalf. If anything, she would’ve expected Aster, or Layla, or one of his numerous assistants. Not some B-list TV star. Still, Trena’s job at the moment was to look, listen, and learn. The time for judgment and conclusions would come later.
“He wants to tell a story.”
“The story of Ira?”
Heather shook her luxurious mane of blond hair. “No, I don’t mean a biography. Anyone who wants to know that can simply pick up a back issue of Fortune or Vanity Fair. Ira wants the focus to be not just on him, but on the world that surrounds him.”
Trena stared wordlessly. She had no idea what Heather was getting at.
“His vision for RED was to build a space where one can create their own narrative. The guest list will be extremely limited, very exclusive, and expertly curated. Unlike his other clubs, it’s not about the number of bodies that walk through the door. It’s about cultivating an interesting and eclectic group of adventurous people who are willing to check their egos in order to engage with each other in deeply experimental, new ways.”
“It’s starting to sound like a combination of Soho House and a private sex club.”
“Not at all!” Heather’s face was aghast. She’d completely missed the fact that Trena was joking.
Trena vowed to lighten up and go easy on her. After all, Heather was merely the mouthpiece, and she’d probably spent days memorizing the spiel. The least Trena could do was pretend to go along.
While she’d been lost in her thoughts, she realized Heather had taken the opportunity to study her. “How’s it going with James?” she asked, brown eyes flashing.
“Excuse me?” Trena balked.
Heather shot her a knowing grin. “Can’t say I blame you. James is hot as fuck and loyal to the core. You could do a lot worse, you know.”
Trena stared in shock. Surely Heather had wandered wildly off script.
“Wondering if we can get back on topic,” Trena said, her voice stiff.
Heather gave a casual shrug. “Sorry if I caught you off guard. Consider that part of checking your ego.”
“Along with my right to privacy?”
Heather paused to consider. “In some cases, yes. But surely not all.”
Trena was scrambling to make sense of the weirdness, when Heather motioned toward the sign on the door, which consisted of raised white letters that spelled WATCH. Opening the door, she ushered Trena inside.
Again, the room was done all in white. There were several rows of comfortable-looking white lounge chairs, all of them with individual video monitors.
“Ira’s taken the idea of reality TV and kicked it up several notches,” Heather said in response to Trena’s reaction. “To quote the great prophet Andy Warhol,” she said without the slightest hint of irony, “‘In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes.’ So why should the housewives and the Kardashians have all the fun?”
“You’re going to film people?”
“Those who sign the consent form, yes. Those who prefer to watch can come here and indulge their inner voyeur.”
Trena nodded like she was getting the hang of it, but she wasn’t, or at least not entirely.
“So each room is a set?”
“Yes.” Heather made a steeple with her hands, supporting her chin. “That’s why everything is white, like a blank canvas. The participants decide the design.” She dropped her hands to her hips and said, “So, what do you think?”
Trena rehearsed a few responses in her head. Rejecting them all, she said, “Are you the spokesperson just for tonight, or every night?”
Heather laughed. “Just tonight.”
“And why have you agreed to do this? Surely it’s taking time away from everything else you have going on?”
Heather met Trena’s gaze and held it for longer than expected. “Because Ira asked me to help.” Quickly switching gears, she added, “Anyway, for tonight, we thought it would be really cool if we let you guide the narrative.”
“But I thought this was just a walk-through. I don’t have my camera crew. I’m not sure what’s going on here.”