The Second Assistant

by Clare Naylor

  “Why don’t they go and complain to Human Resources?” I was aghast, and slightly disbelieving.

  “ ’Cause they want to keep their jobs.” He laughed.

  “Why would anyone put up with such abuse?” I asked innocently.

  That’s when he looked at me and smiled. “I’m Jason Blum. And you, I noticed from your credit card, must be Elizabeth.” He held out his hand and shook mine.

  “Good to meet you.” I put the receipt between my teeth and picked up the tray of drinks with the other hand. “Thanks.”

  “I’m a writer, director, and all-around good guy. If I do say so myself.” He swung over the other side of the counter and held the door open for me. He had short, wheat-colored hair and wide green eyes, and he laughed louder than anyone I’d ever heard before, which gave him a warm, open air. “See you around.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I was swept out onto the street, somewhat dazed.

  Back at my desk, as I scrubbed the ink from my hand and left ear (go figure) with a Kleenex, I was hit by a wave of schadenfreude. Somehow, knowing that there were other people in this business who were as unhappy as I was made me feel a little better. And even though I got every single one of the coffee orders wrong and everyone looked at me as though I was the biggest lame-ass who ever touched down at LAX, I was feeling optimistic. I was a bright girl, wasn’t I? Everyone used to say so. I scored very respectably in my SATs. My school report cards said that I made friends easily, and I’d certainly impressed Congressman Edmunds enough for him to hire me on a top security part of his campaign. I couldn’t be such a sorry loser that I couldn’t handle the job as, let’s face it, second assistant to someone in the entertainment industry (for which read Ministry of Fun, Senior VP Mickey Mouse), could I?

  I got back to work on the list Ryan had sent. I’d dealt with the live girls, now how about the live birds? I called a man in Sacramento who owned an aviary and did a little deal on some birds of paradise and parrots. He assured me that they weren’t going to kill one another. He’d also offered me hummingbirds, but common sense told me that letting the smallest bird in the world loose at a party of Hollywood heavy hitters would mean it was only a matter of time before someone inserted one into an orifice they shouldn’t or snorted one up along with their line of cocaine. Daniel had decided that the theme of the party was supposed to be “Jungle Madness.” I saw it as my responsibility to provide the jungle part. Hoping that the madness would happen all on its own.

  Next I got to work on the sponsorship deal. I made a huge mistake to begin with by telling Piper-Heidsieck and then Veuve Clicquot that there would be no press allowed. I then tried to lie to Tanqueray and told them that I was almost certain that there would be press, but when the woman got pushy and asked me to sign a document testifying to this, I lost my nerve. But I did manage to pull off a coup with Jose Cuervo tequila, who promised me as much as my guests could drink. Who could argue with that? We could have margaritas and . . . well, margaritas. And of course slammers and shots and maybe even girls with guns. Or was that horribly nineties? Who cared—we could bring it back. As soon as anyone saw George with a pretty girl on his arm and a tequila gun on his tonsils, they’d all be dying to follow suit. All I had to do now was ensure that the invitations were hand-delivered. I pulled down the document with the guest list and began to fill in courier forms. Though when I reached about the hundred fiftieth, a shadow fell over me. I looked up and saw a man who I could only assume from Lara’s description yesterday was Ryan.

  “Elizabeth?” he asked tersely.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Ryan. I just had a call from Cuervos, and they said you’d agreed to let them supply drinks for the party.”

  “Yeah, as much as we can drink.” I nodded proudly.

  “It’s not a frat party.” He narrowed his already narrow eyes and glared at me. Lara was right—the guy was practically oozing slime. He looked like a weasel, and you just knew that he’d be mean to fat girls in bars. He was that type.

  “I’m well aware of that.” I tried to keep my cool. Think bigger picture, Elizabeth, think bigger picture. Which was what I’d begun to tell myself when I felt the tears prick at the inside corners of my eyes.

  “And you were aware, I suppose, that the liquor they are so generously offering to provide us with is Jose Cuervo tequila?”

  “Yes, yes, I was.” I even managed a small yet confident smile.

  “Do you know nothing about life, Elizabeth?” He moved really, really close to my face. I could smell last night’s garlic on his breath. I inched back in my seat.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, I guess you don’t.” He looked at my hair as though he’d been asked to floss his teeth with it. Then at my clothes. I dug my admittedly untidy nails into my palms. “Because even the most clueless douche bag from Idaho would have known that these people don’t drink anything but Patrón Silver tequila.”

  “Patrón Silver?”

  “Yes, you silly little girl. Even people from Sherman Oaks know that.” And with that he spun on the heel of his overpolished shoe and strutted cockily out of my office.

  I looked around to see whether anyone had overheard. There was really only so much public humiliation a girl could take in the space of eleven days, and I think that I had reached my limit. Naturally everyone was silent, and they all seemed intent on figuring out the precise punctuation of their e-mails, but no fingers tapped on keyboards, all telephone conversations had been mysteriously halted, and Courtney and Talitha were chewing on their lips as if their sides would split with laughter if they stopped. I didn’t know whether to yell or cry. But before I could succumb to one or the other, Talitha fractured the silence.

  “He’s right. I once had a couple of margaritas at Bar Marmont made with some low-rent tequila and barfed all over this guy’s business card.” She nodded sagely. “While he was still holding it.”

  “Well, it beats shitting on his shoes,” said the mail guy, who was passing with his trolley. And everyone laughed. Except me.

  5

  She looks familiar, but, dearie, these blondes all bleach alike.

  —Esther Howard as Mrs. Kraft

  Born to Kill

  “Elizabeth, we’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Cameron.” I looked up and saw a bright, white, light-gleaming woman and assumed that I was experiencing a divine visitation. Which ought not to have surprised me, because I had been praying an unprecedented amount since I’d joined The Agency. Usually along the lines of:

  “Please, God, do not let Daniel Rosen find out that it was me who spilled Wite-Out on the calfskin sofa in the lobby and then tried to wipe it off with a copy of the Hollywood Reporter.”

  Or:

  “Please, God, make Scott Wagner take so much cocaine that he has a nosebleed for the rest of the week and has to stay home. Because even though it’s a job that a chimpanzee could perform, I still have not learned how to program his video player and last night recorded Will & Grace instead of the Knicks game.”

  But in spite of my prayers, it wasn’t a visitation, it was a movie star. And her teeth shone as brightly as any I’d ever seen. And her golden hair hung about her shoulders more goldenly than even Goldie Hawn’s in Private Benjamin. Oh, yes, Cameron was a movie star. And as well as blinding me with her light, she seemed to be asking me a question.

  “I’m sorry, would you mind repeating that?” I asked with a slight frown.

  “I said, would you mind if I waited here and hung out with you until Scott arrives back from lunch? It’s just I get a little weirded out waiting in reception.” She leaned in and whispered, “I always think Daniel Rosen’s going to come by any minute, and he scares the shit out of me.”

  “Of course not. Of course you can wait here.” I scuttled to my feet in such a hurry that my chair overbalanced and ended up on the floor. “I mean, where exactly did you want to hang out?”

  “Oh, I’ll just sit here.” She perched on the corner of my desk and
pulled a copy of Allure out of her purse. “What are you going to wear to the party at Daniel’s, by the way? I was thinking hot pink. I’m kinda sick of those dresses of no color. You know what I mean?”

  “Pink sounds perfect,” I agreed. “If you like, I can organize it so that the cocktails match your dress. Just let me know.” I was such a creep. So desperate for friends that I was offering to theme a party around someone’s dress.

  “So are you taking a date?” she asked as she sipped from the can of Diet Coke that had been sitting on my desk since this morning.

  “I don’t think that I’m allowed,” I confided. “Actually, I’ll be kind of on duty.”

  “Oh, I see. God, well, that’ll make it more interesting for you. At least when someone boring tries to talk to you, it’ll be easy to pretend you have to whip a waiter’s ass or something. So do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Actually, no. I’m pretty new in town. And I’ve been kind of busy.” Christ, I had no idea how important boyfriends were in Hollywood. It seemed that having a man to share a pizza with on a Friday night completely validated your existence, your beauty, your choice of gym, and your general interestingness in a way that it never would have done in D.C. I made a mental note not to be too scarred by the Jake Hudson experience and find myself one soon.

  “Shame.” Cameron, quite understandably, seemed a little over her conversation with me. I didn’t have a boyfriend, I was deferential to the point of creepiness, and I kept trying to check out the label on her pants, because if I looked halfway as good in them as she did, I was going to buy them no matter what they cost. I plucked up the courage to be casual-friendly.

  “I love your pants. Where did you get them?”

  “Oh, I dunno. What does my label say?” She stuck her butt across my desk, and I carefully looked. This time my prayer went:

  “Please, God, do not let me extract the label from her pants in any way that will suggest that my interest is in anything more than what brand they are. Or I will die.”

  “Oh, whaddaya know? Kmart.” I laughed too gaily, relieved not to have been arrested for being a pervert.

  “Oh, hey, that’s cool.” She giggled and slid off my desk. “And here he is. The handsomest agent in Hollywood!” And she leaped up like a Labrador, or a golden retriever maybe, as Scott walked along the corridor.

  “Cam, baby!” He grinned widely as she hugged him tight. “Come on over here. I’ve been missin’ you.”

  “You have not. I hear you’ve been bopping . . .” And she whispered the woman’s name in his ear. Scott actually looked a little shocked. Whomever she thought he’d been bopping, Cameron was correct. Lara, who had just walked back into the room, gave Cameron a polite hug before Scott led her away to his room.

  “So let’s talk business, baby. You gonna bring home that Academy Award for me this year, you gorgeous bitch?” Scott laughed as he closed the door in Lara’s face.

  “So did you call Jake back yet?” Courtney asked in a faux-casual manner as she swung backward on her chair and checked her newly bleached teeth in a compact mirror.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said calmly. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t think I will.”

  “Jeez, what? You think maybe by your not calling him back, he’ll just want you even more?” she asked sarcastically.

  “No, I’m just not especially interested.”

  “You’ve changed your tune.” She snapped her mirror shut.

  “I thought he was great. Before I realized what a complete slut he was.” I laughed, trying to sound as though I didn’t care, when really I had thought of little other than how, short of becoming Julia Roberts, I was ever going to get Jake Hudson to fall in love with me. Shortly after which I officially gave up. “Besides, I’m having enough trouble figuring out how to work the phones around here. I’ll leave dating until I’m competent enough to call guys back.”

  I knew that Courtney was thinking what a stuck-up bitch I was, but then she’d think that no matter what I said or did. I smiled at her as warmly as I could and then got back to my work.

  But no sooner had I put my head down than Cameron came bounding out of Scott’s office.

  “Okay, honey. See you Saturday. Is it a pool party? ’Cause if it is I better call around to the Beehive and get my bush waxed.”

  “Can I come to the Beehive, too?” Scott slapped Cameron’s ass, and Lara looked disgusted.

  “Oh, and hey, I love your new assistant.” Cameron came over and kissed me good-bye. “See you at the party.” Then, as she was about to kiss Lara good-bye, too, she did a double take. “Is your hair virgin?” she asked me.

  God, I wondered, what was it with everyone around here? They were obsessed with sex. And hair. I must have looked puzzled.

  “Virgin. Have you never had your hair colored?” she asked as she took a lock and gazed at it.

  “No, actually. I mean, not really. I once used a plum-colored mousse when I was sixteen, but it was a disaster and my scalp turned pink so—”

  “Oh, honey, that is so exciting.” She was flapping her arms in glee.

  “It is?” I asked. Thinking that she was going to say it was the most beautiful, natural color she’d ever seen and that L’Oréal might want to copy it for a new shade. Bumblefuck Mouse, perhaps.

  “Oh, my God, yes. Billy is going to die for your hair! He loves virgin hair. You have to go to him and say I sent you. This is wild. You’ll look amazing at the party once he works his magic. Tell him Cam thinks honey blond, to make your eyes stand out.” Cameron winked at me and began scrawling Billy’s number on my notepad.

  “Okay, kids, gotta bounce. See you Saturday.” With that she was gone. Ladies and Gentlemen, Cameron has left the building.

  “Elizabeth, I have to do a run to the Coffee Bean for Scott’s three o’clock.” Lara stopped by my desk and avoided eye contact with me. “Will you come help me carry the stuff back?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Shall I put the phones on voice mail?”

  “Oh, yeah, you do that.” She scuffed the toes of her gray suede boots against the carpet as she waited. In fact, if I hadn’t known that Lara was not a creature given to self-doubt or awkwardness, I would have said that she was experiencing both of the above.

  I walked in silence next to Lara as we made our way down the corridor and through the atrium. I wished that I had something to say to her, and that if I did, she might actually want to listen. I hated this cold-shouldering. It had been keeping me awake at night, and yesterday, when I’d talked to my mother on the phone, I had almost broken down and admitted how miserable the whole thing was making me. And that I wanted to come home forever. But I hadn’t. I was too proud and didn’t want my parents to worry.

  When we arrived at the Coffee Bean, the first thing I saw was Jason Blum’s face. He smiled at me and gave a lower-wattage version of the same to Lara. Which was understandable. She did come over as pretty terrifying.

  “Ladies,” Jason greeted us.

  “Hi.” I smiled.

  “We’d love . . . well, I’d love a cappuccino.” Lara turned to me. “Elizabeth?”

  “Oh, I didn’t know we were getting anything for ourselves. Well, I’ll have a soy chai latte,” I said. It was my new favorite, and I suspected it was laced with morphine, because it was highly addictive.

  “Great, oh, and six black coffees and a latte, too,” Lara added. And as Jason got to work, she turned to me, pulled at the gold chain around her neck, and began, “Elizabeth, I’m really sorry.”

  I was unprepared for this, and the froth on my chai latte caught in my throat. I struggled not to cough my lungs out.

  “I was horrible to you about Jake Hudson, and I shouldn’t have been. I know you probably made a completely honest mistake, and I overheard what you said to Courtney the Cunt earlier about him. And even if you hadn’t made a mistake, I shouldn’t have behaved like that. Can you forgive me?” She looked genuinely sheepish. I noticed that Jason was listening intently between blasts of th
e milk frother.

  “Oh, God, of course I can. I know that you were only trying to get out of organizing the party with Ryan,” I said. “And I can’t really blame you for that.”

  At which Lara’s stony-serious face broke into a smile. I thought she might hug me, but nah, she wasn’t that type.

  “You’re right. He’s a jerkwad and a half!” she laughed. “But seriously, I’ve had experience dating men in the business, and it truly doesn’t work. I just thought that I was passing on the benefit of my wisdom.”

  “Well, thanks. Personally, the only reason I didn’t call Jake Hudson back was because if he’d compared me to all the women he’s ever dated he’d have reported me to the FTC for not complying with the term ‘girlfriend.’ You know. Check legs: one set—fabulous. Check eyes: two—the same color as the ocean at dawn. Check clothes: expensive and beautiful. Answers: no, no, no.”

  “Yeah, right. Check brain: one—fucked up, weird, neurotic, and empty. Answer: no.”

  Lara and I laughed as Jason handed over our consignment. And as Lara walked out the door holding the drinks, he turned to me and said, sotto voce and without Lara’s being able to overhear, “I cannot believe you fell for Jake Hudson. No way.” And he looked like he might die of amusement. Not that I cared anymore. Lara and I had made up. I had a friend. I had a friend. I wanted to jump up and down and perform a tribal dance of gratitude. But I didn’t. For all sorts of reasons.

  When the Saturday of the party dawned, I lifted my head off the pillow and noticed that it wasn’t actually dawn yet. It was 4:00 A.M., and my mind was awash with a million and one problems. I was reminded of the million and second problem when I turned over and caught a nostril full of the gentle scent of peroxide on my hair. Oh, God. Yesterday over lunch hour I’d gone to see Billy. Colorist to the stars. That ought to have been the first clarion call of danger. Stars, darling, not assistants. In no copy of Allure was he ever described as Billy, colorist to girls who make under $3 million a year. Billy had apparently done me a “rilly, rilly hewge” favor by squeezing me in at less than six months’ notice. Billy was Italian and not nearly so excited by my virgin locks as Cameron had generously imagined he might be. He walked around me, lifting sections of my brown hair as though they were radioactive waste. If he’d had a pair of tongs and a rubber glove handy, I’m sure he wouldn’t have hesitated to use them.