The Second Assistant

by Clare Naylor

  —Jimmy Stewart as Alfred Kralik

  The Shop Around the Corner

  By Monday morning my devil-may-care attitude was languishing in a discarded heap on my bedroom floor, along with Lara’s silver shoes, my damp G-string, and the tissues I’d used to rub off my eye makeup when I finally made it home from the party. I hadn’t even remembered to pick up a goodie bag as I made my getaway from Daniel’s. So all I was left with now was a feeling somewhere between self-loathing and dread at facing the consequences of my wanton antics. Dread that intensified with every ramp I bumped over as I made my way into the terrible darkness of The Agency’s parking lot. Down and down I went, spiraling into the fourth, fifth, and sixth circles of hell until I found a corner so remote that it was unlikely I’d meet a cockroach, let alone a coworker of any description.

  I finally pried myself out of my car, fearful that if I stayed in any longer with the doors shut, one of the Josés would spot me on CCTV and rescue me from what they would presume was my carbon monoxide death. The Josés, by the way, are one of the best things about The Agency. They’re two handsome, elderly Mexican guys, one of whom is etiolated like a bolted string bean and the other who comes up to his friend’s pelt of chest hair. They’re both called José and run the parking lot with the efficiency of a military operation and more cheek than J.Lo. They had smiled sympathetically at me on my first day and ever since had been kinder to me than any other person in the whole place. Whenever I lost my car, they would point me in the right direction without insinuating that I was an idiot. They once gave me a Rice Crispy treat when I’d had to spend my lunch hour in the Laundromat getting Victoria’s gym kit washed. Tall José taught me how to work out the profit margins of a movie one day when there was a backlog of cars trying to leave the building, and they always mysteriously seemed to know when I would be needing my car, even for an emergency prune-juice run, and would have it ready. There was something omniscient about the Josés. This morning, when I finally made it to their booth beside the elevator, they were waiting for me.

  “Ah, you made it. But now you have to go back to your car because it’s home time,” Tall José laughed.

  “Maybe she’s too poor to join the gym, so she takes her exercise by walking from her car,” the other José joined in.

  “You’re both wrong.” I said miserably. “I just needed some time for reflection.”

  “Ah, you want to borrow my mirror?” I couldn’t help but join in their giggles.

  “Well, I’m glad you guys think it’s funny. Personally, I have more serious matters on my mind.”

  “Ah, yes, we know,” Tall José said gravely. He was often the less cheery of the two.

  “What do you know?” I snapped, and probably blushed furiously, too.

  “Si te acuestas con niños, te levantas meado.” Short José nodded.

  “What on earth does that mean?” I shakily pressed the elevator button. Summoning the very thing that would take me irrevocably to face my personal hell.

  “If you go to bed with children, you’ll get covered in pee,” Tall José explained.

  “Thanks.” I closed my eyes and pondered the meaning of this, but before it sunk in that the Josés must know all about my nearly naked party antics and were undoubtedly offering me some pearl of wisdom, the elevator doors chimed open and I stepped in.

  “Morning.” A young agent from the Lit Department was standing in the elevator in his charcoal gray suit and slick hair, grinning at me. A little too broadly for my liking. I tried to remember whether he’d been at the party. But most of it was a blur by now. My brilliant subconscious wouldn’t allow me access to my memories of Saturday night in case I murdered myself. I steadfastly ignored him and tucked my chin into my neck and looked at my shoes. He got out on the first floor, and I sailed on up to the next one, wondering what on earth was going to greet me when I walked through the double doors to the assistant pool. Would Scott be standing with his hands on his hips waiting to give me my marching orders? Would my disgrace be splashed across the cover of Variety? Maybe my belongings would already be packed into a box and my replacement would be changing the font on my beloved white Mac from Times New Roman to Arial while helping herself to my emergency stash of Junior Mints.

  But it turned out that the place was eerily the same as usual. The assistants who were already in were tucked behind their desks, sorting mail, booting up their computers, and sucking on Jamba Juice with extra echinacea. I made a beeline for my desk and slunk into my seat before anyone could notice. Though in reality none of the assistants would have heard the news of my lurid encounter in the pool anyway, as none of them had been invited to Daniel’s party. The only reason I had gone was that I’d arranged the whole thing in the first place and had to make sure it ran smoothly. I hid my head with shame. If only I hadn’t got drunk and overly friendly, I might be able to have some pride in how well the party had gone. Well, until we destroyed the pool, that is.

  Still, at least Daniel wasn’t waiting for me. There were no e-mails inviting me to discuss my lewd conduct with Human Resources, and Scott didn’t seem to be here to fire me. What a relief. I put on my headset as Noah from the mailroom deposited the trades and mail on my desk.

  “Thanks.” I smiled. He smirked before moving his cart on to Talitha’s desk. I opened the mail: the minutes from Friday’s staff meeting, the new issue of Entertainment Weekly with Nicole on the cover, Variety and the Hollywood Reporter without a mention of me on the front page, and an in-house envelope that was bulging, probably with a Charlie’s Angels action figure for Scott to show to Drew. I stuck my hand inside and pulled out what looked suspiciously like my bra from Saturday night. I stuffed it back in quickly and looked around to see whether anyone had noticed. When I was sure that nobody had, I peered down into the envelope and removed the yellow sticky that was attached to it.

  You left this at Daniel’s house. You clearly need it back.

  Best, Ryan

  That fucker. I could hear snickers coming from the other desks and assumed that by now there was an e-mail circulating with my breasts on it. I would figure out a way to pay Ryan back for his little stunt on Saturday if it became my life’s mission. I contemplated the old favorites, like lacing his coffee with Visine or setting his computer wallpaper to gay porn.

  However, my revenge fantasies were interrupted by a call from Lara, who said she wouldn’t be in today. She was ill. She was also very abrupt and didn’t say anything that reassured me that I was a valued member of The Agency’s team. But I told myself not to be paranoid. The poor girl was sick, and my peace of mind wasn’t likely to be at the top of her list of priorities.

  I decided to get over myself and get on with my work. That was what I was here for, after all. I looked at Scott’s schedule and realized that if he didn’t appear five minutes ago, he was going to miss the Monday-morning meeting. This was where all the agents got together and discussed what their clients had on the slate, who they could pitch for different movie parts, which directors they wanted to match up to the hottest new script in town, and whether it wasn’t time for a movie about Attila the Hun—he hadn’t been done for ages, had he? In short, it was vital that every single agent in the building attended and put forward his or her genius ideas. So where was Scott? I called his cell phone, and a woman answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, there. This is Lizzie calling from Scott’s office. Is he there, please?” I assumed it was his wife.

  “No, he’s tied up right now.” I heard a burst of laughter, and the phone went dead. I’d heard from Lara that Mia Wagner was a bit psycho, so I wasn’t altogether surprised. At ten-fifteen I got a very pissy call from Daniel’s third assistant, Katrina, wanting to know where Scott was, because the meeting was about to start. I said that he was at the doctor’s and that it was my fault I hadn’t let them know.

  “Oh, yeah, right,” she said. Another dead line. It was going to be one of those days.

  By eleven o’clock I began
to worry a little. While it was clear that I was not going to be fired after all, if my boss got the boot, then I might be out of a job anyway. I had been fielding calls from just about everyone and had run out of all the usual “He was on the line a minute ago, but he got cut off going through a canyon”–type excuses and was feeling desperate. I riffled through Lara’s book, but all I could see, apart from a lot of cryptic-looking red triangles on the corner of the pages, which were obviously code for something fascinating, was that Mia Wagner was at Canyon Ranch spa until tomorrow. Fuck, maybe that wasn’t his wife who’d answered his cell. Maybe he’d OD’d at home or been murdered by a cult. This was California after all. All I knew was that I had to find him, dead or alive, by one o’clock because he had a lunch with Steven at the Four Seasons, and that was nonnegotiable. I knew that last month Scott had gone out of his way to get invited to a bar mitzvah where Steven was, and then he’d had to be very oleaginous to secure this lunch. There was no way on earth, if he was alive or sentient, that he would miss it.

  I picked up yet another call and armed myself with excuses.

  “Scott Wagner’s office.”

  “Lara?”

  “No, this is Elizabeth,” I said with forced cheeriness.

  “Where the fuck is Lara?”

  “Who is this, please?” The man sounded breathless and a bit psychopathic.

  “It’s me. Scott, for Chrissake.”

  “Thank God for that.” I couldn’t conceal my relief.

  “I need to be picked up.”

  “Okay. Where are you?”

  “The Milk Maid, South Fairfax!” he barked. “Someone stole my car, and I have this fucking lunch with Steven. So get it done now. And for fuck’s sake don’t mention this to anyone!”

  “Sure,” I said efficiently, but he’d already hung up. I grabbed my keys and the Thomas Guide out of the drawer and hurried, as casually as possible, to the elevator.

  When I finally pulled up outside 398 South Fairfax, I wondered if I’d gotten the address right. This whole time I’d assumed that The Milk Maid was an organic restaurant and that Scott had been having a breakfast meeting and been unlucky enough to have his car stolen. But there wasn’t a strawberry smoothie or healthy raisin muffin in sight at this joint. This was a sleazy motel. Probably built in the late seventies. It was one of those drive-by pit stops where you have to check the sheets for pubic hairs and worry all night long that somebody, maybe even the manager, is going to rob you. What on earth was Scott doing here? I parked in the lot, made certain to lock my doors, and followed the half-blinking neon sign to reception.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Scott Wagner’s room.” I took a careful look around. “I think.”

  “Room ninety-one. Second on the left. Tell him he owes me for two nights ’cause it’s after eleven,” the skanky young guy on the desk spit. I nodded and practically ran down the sticky brown carpet toward Room 91.

  I knocked tentatively on the dirt-ingrained door. “Scott. It’s me.”

  “What?” The door opened a crack, and there was Scott. Not, I have to say, looking über-thrilled to see me.

  “Are you okay?” I asked as I edged my way out of the corridor and into the dimly lit hellhole of a room.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You called me. Said you wanted to be picked up.” I wondered if he’d finally crossed the line from recreational drug user into incomprehensible weirdo junkie.

  “Where’s the car?”

  “Down there.” I pointed out the window at my Honda, looking very vulnerable in the parking lot below. Scott seemed really spun out.

  “I asked for a car. A Mercedes. A limo. I meant to send a driver.”

  “And here I am.” Fake cheery thing again.

  “Did you bring any clothes?” I noticed then that he was wearing a very small, balding white towel.

  “Clothes? No. Was I supposed to?” Jesus, the least I expected was a little gratitude. I’d stuck my neck out for him all morning, made myself look even more moronic than I really was as an assistant, and come all this way to pick him up. And he was just yelling at me.

  “I need something to wear to lunch, for Chrissake. Pants? Socks? Shirt?”

  “What happened to yours?” I asked stupidly. I really had to learn when to just do and not ask.

  “Fuck, Lizzie. Not the time for twenty questions. Some bitch stole them. I need something to put on.” He paced around the dingy room, which was definitely not the Four Seasons. It smelled of sweat and smoke and every bodily fluid you didn’t want to imagine. I held my breath.

  “Okay, well I have this Juicy Couture sweatsuit that I just bought, out in the car. But it’s meant for girls—”

  “Go get it, then. I have a lunch, and I cannot wear a goddamn towel. At least not one from this motel!” he yelled, and I darted from the room. Happy to run to the parking lot and refill my lungs.

  I was less happy to part with the brown paper bag containing my brand-new Ceylon blue Juicy sweatsuit that I’d bought at a sample sale on Sunday to cheer myself up. I knew that once I gave it to Scott, I’d never see it again. Though, on second thought, I’d never want to see it again, as he was clearly going to have to wear it without underwear, and judging by where he’d been sleeping . . . well, I’d have to boil it first. I handed it over and told myself that it was only a material possession and not life or death or anything really important. But it still hurt.

  When Scott finally sat down in the passenger seat wearing my snug-fitting prize possession, I could have wept for my loss. That is until I looked at him properly and realized how eye-poppingly ridiculous he looked, and then I nearly howled out loud with laughter. The top was cropped, and he’d zipped it all the way to the neck. The drawstring pants were hanging low so that his hairy stomach was exposed, and the sleeves were about four inches too short. He just looked so un-Scott that, before I could help myself, out slipped a quick giggle.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Scott snapped.

  I bit my lip and shook my head. “No, of course not,” I said stoically.

  “You better fucking not be,” he said as he sulkily lit up a cigarette without asking if he could smoke in my car. And without opening the window. But as we headed out onto Fairfax toward the Four Seasons, Scott began to stroke the plush velour on his thigh contemplatively.

  “I look pretty faggy, huh?” he said with a curl of his lip.

  “Just a bit.” I gulped back a snicker. With that he began to crack up, and seconds later we were tearing across town in my aging banger, laughing hysterically in the bright, midday sunshine to the sounds of soft rock on the radio.

  “I just can’t believe it,” I said as I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. “You’re going to walk into a restaurant wearing that and take a meeting with Steven S.”

  “Goddamn right I am,” Scott said defiantly. “Those bitches thought they’d screw me over. But I’m not gonna let them win.”

  “Which bitches?” I asked instinctively, before wondering whether grilling my boss about his sordid private life was a wise move.

  “You really wanna know?” he asked earnestly.

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “I really want to know how you came to be in that den of iniquity at eleven A.M. without a stitch of clothing and a car.”

  And maybe I shouldn’t have asked. But too late now. Scott lit up another cigarette, pushed his seat back for more legroom, and began.

  “I was planning to go straight home after the premiere last night. I’d even laid off the sauce and left the party early to get some sleep for this lunch with Steven. Which I have to say I’m fucking proud of scoring. And as I’m driving home, at a stoplight on Doheny, this woman in a black Range Rover starts checking me out. I swear to God, Lizzie, she was hot! No more than twenty-three. Little pigtail things in her hair. And Mia’s away and all, and I’m a little turned on from watching a sexy action movie premiere beforehand, and here’s this chick in a little white T-shirt with no bra, rubbing her godda
mn tits and staring at me. Winking. I mean, what’s a guy supposed to do? So I roll down my window and say hi. I figure it can’t hurt to be friendly, and then she licks her lips and asks me if I want to follow her to a hotel. I mean, show me the guy who can turn down that, Lizzie, right?

  “So I follow her to the Hayloft. And it’s not the Bel Air, but fuck it. She seemed to get off on the sleaziness, so who am I to interfere? So I get us a room, and before I can even shut the door, she’s taking off my clothes. I mean, she was hot for it. And she’s kissing my chest, biting my nipples, and she takes my zipper down with her teeth, and I was bare-assed in a matter of seconds. Then she takes off her top, and I’m trying to touch her really cute little tits, but she wants me to take a pill first. So I pop an X, and we’re rocking and rolling. Fooling around. And it’s fun.

  “Anyway, we party some more, and I’m just about ready to come when suddenly the room starts to spin and the wallpaper’s doing the tango. But she’s still on the bed and kissing me, and it feels kinda nice when she ties me to the bed, so I let her do whatever the hell it is she wants to do. And I’m just spacing. But the next thing I know, she’s putting on her clothes and she’s talking on her cell phone to someone, and eventually I just fall asleep tripping my balls off.

  “Then, when I woke up this morning, I had no fucking clue where I was, but I managed to untie myself—and guess what? She stole everything. My Porsche, my keys, my wallet, my watch, my phone. Even my clothes. The whole fucking lot. Which is when I realize that she set it all up. She left this nicely typed little note on the bed in an envelope and all, telling me—

  ‘Dear Mr. Wagner,

  You may remember that some weeks ago you had the good fortune to leave a party in Laurel Canyon with my good friend Grace. You took her home, and before having sex with her in your hot tub, you told her that you were an agent and that it would be no problem finding her work. That if she left her card, you’d call. And you promised her representation. But you never called, Mr. Wagner. Which we consider to be the worst kind of bad manners, so we decided to ensure that no aspiring actress ever fell prey to your low-life lies again. We can only hope that the loss of your car, clothes, and wallet reminds you to have more respect for others in the future.