BENNETT AND ASPEN MAKE OUT.
ADAM FOX: Or what about Bailey, the gorgeous Pilates instructor from Santa Barbara with a heart of gold?
BENNETT AND BAILEY ROCK CLIMB. SHE’S A NATURAL. WHEN THEY REACH THE TOP, THEY KISS.
BENNETT: You’re perfect.
BAILEY: No, you are.
ADAM FOX: Or Max, the long-distance runner from Kansas City who shares Bennett’s passion for competition?
BENNETT AND MAX WATCH FOOTBALL. AFTER AN EXCITING PLAY, THEY JUMP IN THE AIR AND BUMP CHESTS, SPILLING BEER EVERYWHERE.
ADAM FOX: Or will our newest bachelorette,Bennett’s high school sweetheart, Edie, unlock his heart?
THE GIRLS SURROUND BENNETT ON THE SOFA. HE PLAYS A GUITAR AND SINGS.
BENNETT:I won’t let your head hit the bed, without my hand behind it.
EDIE AND ZO JOCKEY FOR POSITION ON THE COUCH. ZO SHOVES HER AND EDIE FALLS TO THE FLOOR. BENNETT DOESN’T NOTICE.
ADAM FOX: Whose heart will be broken for good?
MONTAGE OF GIRLS SOBBING IN FORMAL WEAR.
ADAM FOX: And who will be left to pick up the pieces alone?
SOMEONE FAINTS AT THE KEY CEREMONY.
1:00:00 ADAM FOX: All that and more, tonight onThe Key.
13
Peter!” Jessa called from the craft services truck. “You’re late!”
“It’s seven fifteen. My call time is eight,” he replied, climbing out of the back seat of the Lincoln Navigator.Keystaff were everywhere—unloading cases from vans, hauling equipment, erecting lighting rigs around a beach volleyball court where, in just about an hour, eight gorgeous women were set to prance around in bikinis and maybe even hit a volleyball, all for the love of one complete douchebag.
What more could America want?
“I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve got a case of sabotage for you to investigate!” Jessa said wryly as she handed him a cup of coffee. “Mushroom coffee imported from Finland, one Splenda, just the way you like. Let’s go.” She pushed him toward the clubhouse.
In addition to outlining the quid pro quo with the Beach Club (at least two clear shots of the Beach Club’s signage to air prominently during the episode, one talking head with the leaddescribing the luxe surroundings, and first right of refusal on anyKey-produced nuptials), the production notes also helpfully quoted GOOP’s review of the location, deeming it the “go-to destination for luxury beach weddings made to impress out-of-towners.” As they stepped through the clubhouse doors, Peter couldn’t help but agree with the assessment. The Beach Club’s Malibu-rustic décor had the exact je ne sais quoi every fishtail-braided bride could ask for. An entire wall of glass facing the ocean. Thick farmhouse beams crossing the ceiling. Plank floors burnished to a soft gray, as if they’d been weathered by the sea itself. Reclaimed-wood dining tables attended by a variety of flea market chairs. White linens, white candles, white china, various frondery, and driftwood waiting on a sideboard for a slew of unemployed actors in tuxedos to arrive and set and fill and clear for another #marriedmybestfriend jubilee.
Peter sighed. The Beach Club’s ambience was not dissimilar to the wedding he’d had at a ranch in Santa Barbara eight years ago, except Julie would’ve never allowed the driftwood. She’d spent $20K on floral alone.
Now the space was quickly converting fromMartha Stewart WeddingsintoKeyproduction control. Monitors were being set up to stream feeds from the cameras on the ground. Producers were working on laptops or pacing around, consulting iPads and calling out orders on walkie-talkies. Typically, Peter liked to post up in the command center and own the story from a global perspective—develop characters, find plot beats, identify vulnerabilities, and radio them to the producers on the ground or the PAs logging footage in the corner. But with Carole Steele still breathing down his neck—he was fielding texts and calls from Carole and her emissaries all day every day—Peter was more focused than ever on overseeing every single part of the show. Today he’d be on the ground, right next to the action.
Jessa led him out a glass door and onto a large deck.
“Look,” she said, pointing toward the ocean.
Peter shielded his eyes with his hand and spotted a man surfing an impressive wave. A drone swung perilously overhead. “Is that Bennett?” he asked.
“No, it’s Taylor Swift,” Jessa said. “Of course it’s Bennett!”
“Just what can’t he do,” Peter said dryly. “They’d better not lose that drone. We’re already over on the equipment budget, and I’m not buying another.”
“Shut up, they won’t,” Jessa said. Bennett wiped out and the drone swooped higher in the sky. “It’s gonna look great. I just came up with it this morning. He’s going to surf some sick waves—three-hundred-and-sixty-degree drone footage—and then we’ll get him running on the beach with his surfboard under his arm, some straight-upBaywatch-type shit. Slo-mo of him shaking out his hair. Oil up his chest. The whole thing. You’re gonna love it.”