by J. J. Bella
This client, however, had one major difference.
"I just wanted to call to make sure you didn't forget that you'd be having Olivia this next week."
The difference, of course, being that Amy was the mother of Olivia, my five-year-old daughter.
"Of course I remembered," I said, standing up and grabbing my coffee.
As busy as I was, I always looked forward to my time with Olivia. Amy had her most of the time, and our arrangement was that once every two months I'd take her for a full week, with occasional afternoons and dinners thrown in here and there. This allowed me to stay on top of my work, while still affording me the opportunity to spend quality time with my daughter.
"Good," she said, her voice icy. "I don't want a repeat of last month's incident, is all."
I winced at the reminder. Olivia's last visit with me had…slipped my mind. Work had been crazier than usual, and I only remembered that it was my week to take her when I looked from the set I'd ben supervising to see Olivia walking through the scene blithely, as though nothing were out of the ordinary. After making my apologies, I learned from Olivia that after Amy hadn't been able to get ahold of me, she decided to just drop the girl off at my work, figuring that I'd take care of things from there. It was a mistake I didn't care to repeat.
"That won't happen," I said.
"I mean, I know you're ‘mister big time producer' now, but hopefully you won't forget about little details like your daughter."
I took in a slow draw of air, noting right away that she was trying to goad me into a fight. I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.
"Understood. Just bring her by my place tomorrow.
"Fine. See you then," she said, followed by her hanging up the phone.
I allowed myself a small smile as I put my phone on mute and set it on the desk where it wouldn't distract me. I'd just side-stepped what could've been a very taxing situation, and on top of that, I had a week with Olivia to look forward to. All that I needed to do was to dive into this script. Taking my seat, I opened the first page, eager to see if Murray's effusive praise was more than just talk.
It took only moments before I learned that it wasn't.
Chapter Four
I spent the rest of the day thinking about the coffee incident, shuddering in embarrassment when the moment formed in my mind. Sure, Sophia had talked me down from the edge, but I still couldn't get over how I'd made such a stupid, silly mistake. And all because I got distracted by Jace's hotness and then was too scared to ask him for a clarification on the order. But I happened to be nearby when Jace, his agent, and his assistant left the offices, and on his way out he said goodbye to me and some other employees; I don't think he even remembered who I was.
Well, that was less thing to worry about. Mr. Cohn's memory, on the other hand, likely wouldn't be so porous.
The afternoon went on, and just about as the day wound down to a close, Mr. Cohn caught me in the hallway. I was expecting the dressing-down to end all dressing-downs, but instead, he said only this.
"Mr. Whittaker wants to see you. Now."
And with that, he continued on down the hallway.
I stood there for a moment, my mouth open slightly as I took in what he'd just said. Simon Whittaker was the owner of Bronzeplate Studios, and one of the biggest names in the New York film production industry. Our offices were two floors, and he and the rest of the big shots stayed on the floor above us, rarely feeling the need to walk among the peons, as it were. Why Mr. Whittaker was taking the time to meet with me personally, I had no idea. But Mr. Cohn said now, so now it was.
"What the hell was that all about?" asked Sophia, who happened to be nearby enough to hear about my meeting.
"I have no idea," I said, still in shock.
"What does the boss want with you?"
"Maybe my coffee thing is a bigger deal than I thought," I said, my voice sounding far away.
"Oh, bullshit, Mia," said Sophia, slapping my arm playfully. "I dunno…maybe he wants to give your career a leg up. You know, in exchange for your legs spreading apart."
My eyes went wide.
"Sophia!" I said, shocked at what she'd just said.
"Oh, come on," said Sophia. "Everyone knows that Mr. Whittaker's not exactly shy about dipping that little British pen of his into the company ink. I mean, how the hell do you think a total airhead like Whitney went from gopher to personal assistant in, like, a month?"
"Maybe she's just a good personal assistant," I said.
"Oh yeah," said Sophia with a smirk. "I bet she's really good at assisting with things. Personally."
It was true that there were rumors of Mr. Whittaker's…less-than-professional behavior, but I just chalked it up to stupid gossip. Though I'd be lying if I said that part of it wasn't because I was totally disgusted by the idea of him putting his hands on me.
"OK, I have to go, like now," I said.
"Good luck!" said Sophia. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
I didn't even want to think about that meant. I darted down the hallway and to the elevators in the lobby. Moments later, the elevator doors opened to the second floor, which I'd never seen before. It was a beautiful space with old world charm, the aesthetic of dark wood and low, orange lighting reminding me of the study of some old Victorian mansion. Mr. Whittaker was a man of old-fashioned tastes, and it was easy to see that with one look at this floor. Men and women dressed in expensive suits and with important airs about them walked her and there, talking to each other in low tones. Their eyes flicked to me as I walked through the office, and I was sure that in my gofer outfit of a simple t-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and a ponytail gave me away instantly as someone who'd perhaps gotten off on the wrong floor.
I wandered through the office with wide eyes, taking in the luxury of the décor and more-or-less being overwhelmed by everyone around me. Eventually, I found my way to Mr. Whittaker's office, the stately double doors guarded by Whitney Abernathy, the gorgeous blonde who may or may not have put in some "overtime" to land the cushy job that she now had.
"Yes?" she asked as I wandered up to her desk, her tone dismissive and her ice-blue eyes cutting into me like cool glass.
"Um, I'm Mia Hunter," I said, my voice small. "I'm here to see Mr. Whittaker."
"Do you have an appointment?" Whitney asked.
"Yes. I mean, no, I mean, Mr. Cohn told me to come up here."
Whitney threw a suspicious glance my way before picking up her phone.
"Sorry to bother you, Mr. Whittaker, but there's a woman here named Mary who says you told her to come see you….mhmm…sure…I'll send her right in."
With that, she hung up the phone.
"He says to come in."
"Oh, ok. Thanks," I said.
As I walked towards the doors, anxiety pooled like hot metal in my stomach. I'd only spoken to Mr. Whittaker once, and that was only in passing; I'd ever had anything close to a meeting with him. Part of me, the more insecure part, was certain that this was about putting my head in the guillotine personally for screwing up Jace's coffee order. But there was only one way to find out.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
If the rest of the office was old-school and classy, Mr. Whittaker's space was that times ten. It was a vast office, the floors covered in ornate tapestries, the ceilings high and vaulted, and the walls lined with bookshelves. In the center back of the room, behind two massive windows that looked out onto the city, was Mr. Whittaker, a small figure seated at an enormous desk of rich, dark oak. If the effect of his space was to make whoever entered feel small and insignificant, then mission freakin' accomplished.
"You Mia Hunter?" called out Mr. Whittaker from where he sat, his voice a lilting Cockney accent.
"Um, yes, Mr. Whittaker, sir- that's me."
"Well, don't stand there like you ain't got a damn brain between your ears; come sit down."
I walked across the office, my footfalls soft on the rugs below. Taking a seat in one
of the red, high-backed chairs across from the desk, I looked over my boss. He was a squat little man, his pudgy body dressed in an expensive-looking double-breasted suit, his fingers adorned with gold rings. His face was fat and froggy-looking, his eyes large and round, his mouth thick like a pink slug. The first thought to cross my mind was that if he didn't have the kind of perks to dangle in front of girls that a job like this afforded, then he probably wouldn't be getting laid at all.
Sitting with my hands on my knees, I waited for him to speak. He took a slow sip of the large, silver mug next to him, looking me over as if he were assessing my fitness to move a large piece of furniture.
"Heard you had a little cock-up at the meeting downstairs," he said, his mouth spreading into a smile.
Great, I thought, the first thing out of his mouth is about my mistake.
"Um, yes," I said.
"Young lady, this is a big office; you're going to have raise that little voice of yours above a whisper if an old man like me's got any chance to hear you."
"I said, ‘yes'."
"I hope you're not sweating too much about it," he said, folding his large hands on his desk. "Happens to the best of us."
I felt a small rush of relief at this; my fear that he'd brought me up here to fire me faded.
"It was my mistake," I said. "I hope it didn't affect our relationship with Jace."
Simon let out a low croak of a laugh. "Please. That little shit oughta be down on his knees kissing my shiny black shoes after what we've done for him. He knows it, too; that's the secret with these actor-types: know when to let ‘em have their little hissy fits."
"I…see," I said, not sure where he was going with this.
"Anyway, let's get to the point of why I brought you up here. Once ol' Cohn let me know of the great coffee disaster, I decided to find out just who this young woman was who so offended Mr. Landau. I pulled up your information…and it's impressive."
Now my blush formed on my face.
"Thank you," I said, my voice quiet. "I mean, thank you."
He nodded at my volume increase as he looked over some printouts that sat in a pile on his desk.
"Graduated with honors from the University of Missouri, summa cum laude from UCLA with a masters in film production…very good stuff here. But you're untested, I see; not much to show for your time here aside from bringing a damn latte to any suit who snaps his fingers at you."
"You have to start somewhere," I said.
He nodded, the answer seeming to please him.
"That's right; you have to start somewhere. But if you don't do anything to stand out, then you don't end up going anywhere."
"I…I guess you're right," I said.
"Tell me, little miss, what do you want out of this business of ours? You're pretty enough to be on the screen, but judging by your presence at our humble little organization, you're more interested in puttin' them up there than being in ‘em."
"I…I want to have my own film production company someday. I don't care if it's the biggest one there is, or the one with the most famous stars, but I want to be able to call the shots, to be the one in charge."
He raised his eyebrows at this.
"A real self-starter, huh? Want to be the one wearing the pants? But why movies?"
"Well, I've loved the glitz and glamour of film since I was a little girl. I remember I the first time I watched An American in Paris when I was little…it was like nothing I'd ever seen. I knew from then on that I had to be part of this world."
"The business calls us in its own way," he said. "And if this industry was nothing but big-headed stars nothin' would ever get made."
He took a sip of his coffee, considering my words.
"I want to give you an opportunity to prove yourself. We've got some openings for producer assistants, and we prefer to promote from within, you see. Aside from the little mishap this morning, it looks to me like you'd be a rather good fit for the job."
I said nothing, the excitement welling in me.
"Here's what I'm gonna offer you: first, a little task. This film with Jace- it's a project that plenty of production companies would love to have. And we're one of them. There's gonna be a bidding war for this little project, and I want to win it. So, I need someone to come with me to take notes, keep tabs on all the numbers flying around."
"I mean, I'd love to," I said. "But don't you already have an assistant?"
"Oh, you mean the little bird out front?" asked Simon, laughing a dry chuckle. "Well, let's just say Whitney has her talents, and leave it at that."
Ugh. Imagining this guy flopping around on top of me was enough to make me want to puke a little. But he was giving me an opportunity, alright, and I was glad for that, at least.
"So, take notes for this meeting tomorrow, and if we get the picture, we'll see if there's a place for you on the crew doing something a little more substantial than fetchin' beverages. Got it?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm happy to do it."
"That's the spirit," he said. "The meeting's gonna be tomorrow at noon. Meet with me at eleven, and we'll go over there together. Any questions?"
"No; I think I've got it."
"Great," he said. "That'll be all then."
I stood up and prepared to leave. But before I could, he spoke once again. This time, his eyes were fastened to my body, his gaze moving up and down in a way that he had to know was painfully obvious.
"One more thing, Miss Hunter:"
He smiled that same wide smile he had on his face when I first walked in.
"Looking forward to working with you."
I mumbled an agreement and thanks before heading out of the office. Whitney was still at her desk when I stepped out, daggers flying at me from those blue eyes of hers. I left the offices as quickly as possible, eager to get back down to the familiarity of the first floor. As I rode the elevator down, I thought about how dirty I felt when Simon looked at me as I left; it seemed to me that his motives for giving me this opportunity weren't as altruistic as he let on.
Sophia was waiting for me when I came back down, an eager, excited look on her face.
"Well?" she asked, following me back to my cubicle.
"I'm working as his assistant for the bidding tomorrow for Jace's script."
"Are you fucking serious?" she asked. "That's amazing!"
"Yeah…" I said, my voice trailing off.
Sophia's eyes narrowed.
"Please tell me you're not finding something to worry about with this; I'd kill to work with Simon the way you're gonna."
"I mean…yeah, you're right."
I decided to keep my apprehensions to myself. After all, he could've just been checking me out in an obvious way, and that was it. Why would someone like him, someone who'd be able to get at any girl in this business he had his eye on, want to sleep with me so badly? I was being paranoid and anxious, as usual.
"We have to go out and celebrate. There's this new wine by my place in Nolita; we have to go there after work; this new bartender that started is, like, the hottest fucking guy I've ever seen…"
Sophia's voice trailed off as I focused once again the strange sense of foreboding that was gripping me. Whatever the reason, this meeting tomorrow was going to make or break my career so far.
Here goes nothing, I thought.
Chapter Five
The script was good. Very good. So good, in fact, that I knew that I'd be a fool to not do whatever it took to get these two writers working for me. I read it over and over, realizing that the combination of the offbeat nature of the script and its mainstream appeal made it perfect for what I'd been imagining would be the best next step for Thorne Pictures. And with an up-and-comer like Jace Landau starring, it had the potential to make some serious money. Murray'd steered me in the right direction, and the only issue that remained was the question of whether or not any other producers had seen the potential in the script that I had.
I guess I was going to find out.
The meeting was for the next day at noon, and I was ready to do whatever it took to make this picture mine. I spent the morning getting my head right, going to the gym, having a large, protein-rich breakfast, and making sure that nothing interfered with the out-to-kill attitude that I knew I'd need for the bidding. I'd been to meetings like this before, and they could get brutal. When five big-shot producers all had their eyes on the same script things always seemed to feel like they were one unkind word away from escalating to an all-out bloodbath.
So, when my car pulled up to the tower in Midtown Manhattan where the meeting was set to take place, I was ready to do whatever it might take to bring these two screenwriters into the fold at Throne Pictures. Stepping out of my car, I took a sip of my coffee and looked up at the building before me. It was a towering shape of glass and angles, a black antenna at the top that reached up into the sky. I checked my watch and saw that I was right on time.
After making my way through the lobby and taking the elevator up to the fiftieth floor, I arrived at the large conference room where the meeting was being held. Strangely, though the table was laid out with notepads and pens, a spread of pastries and small sandwiches in the middle, no one else was there. I checked my watch once again, confirming that I was a few minutes early.
But before I have a chance to consider my situation too deeply, the doors opened and a small crowd filed into the room, all of them bustling around a pair of figures who I couldn't make out. I recognized the men and women in the group as other producers in the city, most from companies around my size. Once they began to peel off, I said my hellos to those of them I knew, and made my introductions to those of them who I didn't. And all the while I tried to steal a glance at the two men in the middle who were the center of all this commotion. Surely, they were the screenwriters. I had to see what they looked like, to see the look of the men who were able to write such a screenplay.
When everyone finally took their seats, I finally saw them. They were two brothers, not identical but nearly so. They both had slight frames and were dressed in fashionably tight jeans and flannel shirts, one with a face baby-smooth and the other with one of those obnoxious twirly-tip moustaches that I'd see every now and then on the hipsters who lived in Williamsburg, They both wore the same curly brown hair, though the one without a moustache's head was topped with a trilby hat. They seemed to have a strange air to them, almost effete, as they looked over the producers who were clamoring for their work, both of the men wearing haughty little smiles on their faces. Sure, they were talented, but something about them made me want to reach across the table and gave them a smack. I just didn't understand artist-types.
