Girls on film: an A-list novel

by Zoey Dean

  "Anna Percy?" A diminutive Asian woman in an Armani suit had come out for her.

  "Yes." Anna stood up.

  "I'm Wei Ling Feinberg, Margaret's assistant." She shook Anna's hand. "Did you have any trouble finding us?"

  "No, not at all."

  "Good. Want some coffee? A Coke? Bottled water?"

  Anna declined. "Well, come with me," Wei Ling

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  instructed. "It's still a sea of boxes, so watch your step."

  Anna followed the assistant through a set of double doors and down a long hallway, passing a glassed-in conference room with a view of the Santa Monica Mountains. As they walked, she could hear snippets of phone conversations--most of them extremely profane--from inside various offices.

  "Those schmucks screwed Al and Miles on Hysteria , so now they can bite me. I've got a long memory, Bob--"

  "Tell your asshole of a boss that he'd better take my goddamn call, or you'll never temp in this town again."

  "So what if her play is in previews? They're offering two hundred and fifty for her to polish the script, and she doesn't even have to do a good job."

  Margaret's office was at the end of the hall. It faced west, toward Brentwood, Santa Monica, and the ocean beyond. Though workmen were laying a Navajo-pattern carpet, Margaret sat placidly behind her steel-and-marble desk. When she saw Anna, she rose gracefully and came to the door. "Anna, I see you found the madhouse. Did Wei Ling offer you anything?"

  "Yes, thanks." Anna turned to the assistant, but she'd already disappeared.

  "Coming through." Two workmen were hauling an enormous framed poster for One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest toward the doorway; Margaret and Anna had to step aside to let them pass.

  Margaret sighed. "Why don't we go to the conference room? I think it's the only quiet spot right now."

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  They headed back the way Anna had come-- Margaret stopping at a few offices to introduce Anna to various employees. Finally they landed in the conference room. It could seat twenty comfortably at a long table surrounded by buttery leather high-backed chairs. Anna drifted over to the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows: the room featured the same view as Margaret's office. But looking down, she could see just the edge of the Los Angeles National Cemetery, with its countless rows of soldiers' headstones gleaming white against the green grass.

  Margaret shut the door, and the jangly energy of the Apex office turned to relative tranquility. "Please." Margaret sat in a big chair at the head of the table and gestured Anna into a place to her right. "So, Anna. Would it be safe to assume that you know how to use e-mail and a copying machine?"

  Anna smiled. "Yes."

  Margaret touched her arm. "We'll try not to load you down with too much scut work. Frankly, with your looks and pedigree, we can make better use of you out there." She gestured toward the window. "And I guarantee it will be much more fun. Are you game?"

  "Absolutely," Anna said enthusiastically.

  "How about reading screenplays and books? Interested in writing coverage?"

  "Sorry, I don't know what that is."

  Margaret laughed. "Let me fill you in on a Hollywood not-so-big secret. In this town, none of the big execs

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  read. They get their youngest staffers to read books and screenplays--and write up summaries for them. That's called coverage."

  "But how can they tell whether or not it's any good?" Anna wondered. "I mean, it's all in the writing, isn't it?"

  "Unfortunately, a lot of producers don't consider writers very high on the food chain," Margaret said. "Which is one of the reasons so many high-concept god-awful films get made. Here at Apex, though, we have great respect for the written word."

  Anna nodded. It did sound interesting. And maybe it would help her with her own writing.

  "Wonderful. Well, we've got a closet full of scripts and bound galleys and fifty file drawers full of coverage summaries you can learn from. Help yourself. If you take something, just put it back. Anyway, I'm a jump-right-in kind of woman and we're a jump-right-in kind of agency. One of my clients--a playwright from New York--just got hired off a pitch to write a script for Touchstone."

  "Pitch?" Anna asked.

  "Sorry, another term of art. He had an idea that we thought was salable, so I set up some meetings for him at the big studios. Paramount passed, but that was no shocker. Warners passed, and that surprised me. But Touchstone Pictures bit. Anyway, I got him a fabulous deal, mid-six figures against low seven. He went back to Manhattan to buy an apartment, and he's coming back out here on Saturday. The Steinbergs are giving a

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  big Maxomile party in the hills on Sunday. We'd like you to escort him there."

  The name Steinberg meant nothing to Anna, but she figured she could research it. Still, she was surprised at Margaret's suggestion. "I'd be happy to. But shouldn't it be someone with more experience?"

  Margaret waved a dismissive hand. "He's a twenty-one-year-old boy wonder with the maturity of an eggplant, but he's also bloody brilliant. Believe me, Brock will be thrilled to see you."

  Anna was taken aback. Brock was such an uncommon name. Could it possibly be ... ?

  "Margaret, are you talking about Brock Franklin?"

  "Yes, exactly."

  Anna laughed. "I know him."

  It was Margaret's turn to look surprised. "How is that?"

  "He went to Trinity, where my sister, Susan, and I went. He was a senior when Susan was a junior. I think maybe they went out once or twice."

  "Well, this is fantastic, isn't it?" Margaret marveled. "Clearly I've chosen the perfect intern. I don't have details yet on time and place, but as soon as I know--"

  The conference room door slammed open and a tall, middle-aged man with blondish hair and a deep tan barged in. "Dammit, Margaret, we need you on this call," he fairly spat. "Artisan is trying to fuck us on the fucking deal. Again."

  "Fine, I'll be right in. Clark, this is our new intern, Anna Percy. Anna, this is Clark. She--"

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  "Fucking Artisan," the man interrupted her. "One fucking hit and they think they're Jack Warner. It's now or never, Margaret." He turned around, slamming the door on his way out.

  "Manners aren't his long suit," Margaret said wryly. "But he's got a client list a mile long." She stood. "Sorry to cut this short."

  Anna rose, too. "Thanks for your time. I'm looking forward to working here."

  "Lovely." She held the door open for Anna. "Be sure to ask Tamara at the desk to validate you. I'll be in touch."

  Margaret shook Anna's hand. Anna didn't understand that last part about Tamara and validating, so she just found her way back to the elevators to the ground floor. When the doors opened, she was surprised to see Adam standing by the guard's desk, reading the sports section of the Los Angeles Times .

  "Hi," he said. "Jerry's was closed--some movie of the week is shooting there. So I came back. I didn't want you to get lost."

  Anna smiled. "That was considerate."

  "Didn't take long," he said, folding the newspaper and putting it under his arm.

  "No, but it looks like it's going to be great." They walked to the elevator that serviced the parking garage. "I get to take Brock Franklin to a party on Sunday."

  "Should I know who he is?"

  "No, not really. He wrote a hit play about crass and callow Upper East Side rich kids and got a million-dollar

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  deal from it, evidently." Anna chuckled. "Not that he needs another million dollars."

  "How would you know?"

  "My sister and I went to school with him. You've heard of the Franklin Mint? Same family."

  "Well, that's convenient. What else?"

  The elevator came and they stepped into it.

  "I met one of Margaret's partners," Anna went on. "Well, met is the wrong word. We were in the same room briefly, though he never looked at me. And his favorite word was fuck . Clark something or other, I think his name was. Then
someone named Tamara was supposed to validate me, whatever that means."

  The elevator door opened onto the parking level. "Whoa, back up one," Adam suggested. "Clark Sheppard?"

  "I don't know. Maybe." Anna found her parking ticket and gave it to the valet. He told her it was ten dollars, and she paid for her parking. "I think so."

  "Blond hair, deep tan, on the tall side?"

  "Yes," Anna said. "Why?"

  "Sheppard," Adam repeated. "Doesn't that last name ring a bell?"

  She had to think for a moment. And then, suddenly, she knew.

  "Oh, shit."

  "Oh yeah. He's Cammie's father."

  The attendant brought Anna's car around and they got in. "Well, hopefully I'll never have to work for him specifically," Anna said.

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  "From what I hear, everyone works for him. He's that kind of guy."

  "I guess I'll find out," Anna said. "What's that part about getting validated by Tamara?"

  "It's the part about saving yourself ten bucks. Tamara is probably the receptionist. Validate means to stamp your parking ticket so that you park for free."

  "Phew. I was concerned it meant validate my self-worth," Anna added wryly.

  Adam cranked Coldplay back up as Anna headed back to Wilshire Boulevard. So Cammie's father was one of the partners in the agency where she'd be interning. It got her thinking about his daughter and her alleged interest in a friendship with Susan.

  "Adam, do you mind if we make a stop at the Beverly Hills Hotel? On our way back?"

  "I don't suppose you're inviting me to take a room and ravish you."

  "A bit premature."

  "Hey, a guy can dream."

  "My sister is staying there. I just want to stop in and say hi."

  "Yeah, sure," Adam said easily, but there was a question in his eyes.

  "It's ..." Anna stopped. But she knew she was being ridiculous. Susan's problems were hardly state secrets. So what if it was personal family information?

  I am not my mother , Anna reminded herself.

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  "My sister, Susan, has had some problems lately. With alcohol."

  "Welcome her to Los Angeles--she'll fit right in."

  "But Cammie and Dee are such party girls ..."

  Adam nodded. "I see your point."

  "So it's okay with you if--?"

  "Sure," Adam said. "Hey, maybe your sister will want to come meet Bowser. But I have to warn you, he's a one-woman dog. And his heart already belongs to you."

  But when they got to the hotel, Susan wasn't in her room, and the valet reported that her car wasn't in the lot. Anna tried to convince herself that she didn't mind. She'd spend a little time with Adam, take the dog for a walk up in the canyon, and then go home and work on her screenplay. Maybe she'd even e-mail it over to Sam for notes. Susan could take care of herself.

  Probably.

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  Retail Therapy

  At that moment Susan was with Cammie Sheppard at the Beverly Center, a multiple-story upscale mall in West Hollywood. They were on an impromptu shopping expedition. True, the Beverly Center had its share of tacky chain-store outlets, but there were also some more-than-decent boutiques, and the mall attracted visitors from all over the world. Cammie and her friends considered it a spectator sport to watch tourists ooh and aah as they wandered from shop to shop.

  Cammie believed in retail therapy. She knew it was a cliché, but what better way to forget about her own problems than to acquire something--or somethings--new to wear? That Anna was unhappy about Cammie befriending Susan made the shopping expedition that much more delicious. That Ben and Anna were no longer BenandAnna was only a small comfort. The humiliation she'd endured on New Year's Eve, when she'd done everything but give Ben a lap dance to try and get him back, wasn't likely to go

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  away so easily. Simply put, Anna had screwed Cammie by screwing Ben. And Cammie couldn't forgive that.

  "Oh, try this on, Susan. It'll look great on you!" They were in the Betsey Johnson boutique, where Cammie held up a stretchy, low-cut black net top with four inches of fringe that began just under the bust.

  "Black is my color, but the fringe is kind of tacky," Susan mused. So far, she hadn't seen a thing that appealed to her.

  "You're going for a kind of rich-girl biker-chick thing, right?" Cammie pawed through another rack of tops and held up a hot pink camisole. "You sure you don't do color?"

  Susan shrugged, touching a purple minidress with the middle cut out. "It's all just too ... colorful ."

  "Then this is perfect," Cammie decreed, thrusting a slinky jet-black top at Susan. Susan took it and thoughtfully held it up against herself, then frowned. "I don't even have to try it on; it's too small." She groaned. "God, I'm a size eight."

  "You sound like my friend Sam," Cammie said, oozing sincerity. "Don't you think it's important for us women to be more accepting of our bodies? You shouldn't dis yourself like that."

  "Rehab carbs," Susan said, sighing. "I always look like a pig when I get out."

  Cammie gave God a mental high five. How lucky could she get? Anna's sister had just finished with

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  rehab? Life was looking better and better all the time. "Oh God, I know just what you mean," she agreed. "I gained like eight pounds my last time in."

  "No shit, you were in rehab?"

  Cammie tried to look contrite. "I don't like it to get around, but yeah."

  "I just did Hazelden. Where were you?"

  "Sierra Vista," Cammie said, automatically naming the Arizona rehabilitation facility where her father had ordered so many of his clients to go and dry out.

  "Wow. I hear it's rugged there. What was your thing?"

  "What wasn't? Sex, drugs, alcohol," Cammie confided. "I was an equal opportunity abuser."

  "Tell me about it," Susan agreed. "I haven't been away from Hazelden for more than few days, but I'd kill for a shot of vodka. Not Stoli. Flagman. Iced. Liquid bliss."

  "Totally," Cammie agreed. She spotted a pair of black pants and lifted them off the rack. "But it's not a good idea. Listen, we should change the subject. They told me in rehab that the worst possible thing to do is to start talking with another addict about how much you liked your drug of choice. Hey, why don't you try these pants? Then we can hit M*A*C. I'm out of Spice lip pencils."

  Susan smiled and took the pants from Cammie. "Okay. Be right back."

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  "You got it," Cammie said.

  No, she thought as Susan disappeared into one of the changing rooms. I've got it. Actually, I've got her. Hook, line, and sinker. All I have to do is reel her in, anytime I want to.

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  Cousin Alexis

  "So, how many movie stars do you know?" Alexis asked Ben as they strolled down the Santa Monica promenade. It was a gorgeous evening, in the low seventies, and the outdoor parts of the restaurants were all full. They passed a mime playing a harmonica and two kids tap-dancing on a makeshift cardboard stage.

  Ben had to laugh. His cousin Alexis, who lived in Salt Lake City, Utah, of all places, had just turned fifteen. With her glossy auburn hair falling over one eye and cargo pants that bared inches of taut midriff, she could easily have passed for twenty--that is, until she opened her mouth. Then she sounded more like she was twelve.

  "Oh, dozens," Ben teased.

  "Stop!" She playfully bumped her hip into him. "I'm serious!"

  Alexis and her parents hadn't been to Los Angeles to visit Ben's family for three years, and she was so excited, she could barely keep from skipping down the promenade.

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  "Okay, I know a couple," Ben admitted. "But I'm not name-dropping."

  "Aw, c'mon," Alexis wheedled as they strolled past a Banana Republic and a street vendor selling silver earrings. "Please?"

  "Jackson Sharpe. In fact, I was just at his wedding."

  "Wow!" Alexis breathed. "That is so cool. I mean
he's really old and everything, but still. So what was the wedding like? Who was there?"

  Anna was there , Ben thought. Why did every road seem to lead to her?

  "Was Jennifer Aniston there?" Alexis prompted. "Or Beyonce? Oh my God, I would kill to meet her. Or how about Tobey Maguire? He is so hot."

  "Nope," Ben said. "But... let's see. Mike Myers was there. And Jim Carrey. And Nicole Kidman."

  "Get out !" Alexis exclaimed. "Oh my God, did you dance with Nicole?"

  I danced with Anna, Ben thought. He could see her in his mind's eye: flaxen hair flowing to her shoulders, swinging against her high cheekbones. The elegance of her slender neck. The spot just between her collarbones where he'd kissed her--

  "So did you?" Alexis interrupted.

  "I had a date," Ben explained.

  Suddenly, as if thinking about Anna had conjured her up, he saw her heading toward him. She was almost all the way down the block with some guy, laughing. No, it couldn't be her. It was just some other tall, lithe blonde--

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  She came closer. It really was her. And she was with Adam Flood. Their arms were linked. They looked so happy.

  It was like a fist to Ben's gut. So that was the real reason she'd blown him off. She was with Adam. Damn. Why couldn't it be some asshole? Adam was a good guy, even though, at the moment, Ben wished he would curl up and die.

  "That girl is looking at you," Alexis said, jutting her chin toward Anna. "Do you know her?"

  "Do me a favor, Al, pretend you're my girlfriend, okay?" Ben asked.

  "Yeah, I guess," she said with a shrug. "But why?"

  "Tell you later. And I'll owe you one. Anna!" he called. Ben and Alexis headed for Anna and Adam. Ben quickly introduced everyone. He put his arm around Alexis's shoulders. She did her part by nuzzling against him.

  "So, what are you guys up to?" Ben asked, as if running into Anna meant about as much to him as running into, say, Sam.

  "We went up to Runyon Canyon with my dog," Adam explained. "Then I introduced Anna to Pink's World Famous."

  "Standing in line to get hot dogs was a new experience," Anna added. She seemed nervous. Her eyes flicked over to Alexis, then back to Ben. "How about you two?"

  "Oh, we just spent the afternoon making out," Alexis said blithely. "We were at Johnny Rockets, and this couple in the next booth yelled, 'Get a room!' So--"