by Zoey Dean
me, as if she'd just noticed me. "You did get the table, right, Taylor?" she cooed.
"I was just going to do that," I said quietly, clenching my right hand into a fist.
"Well, you should probably call right now," Kylie said chirpily. "You know how hard it is to
get Nancy after three. C'est impossible! "
I glanced at Iris, but she was absorbed in the dossier. I slunk out of her office, imagining Kylie
as Drew Barrymore in Scream--you know, where she gets dragged out of her house and then
attacked with a machete.
While I reserved Iris's favorite table, Kylie teetered over to my desk. "The window!" she
hissed.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "And is the window table available?"
When I hung up, Kylie perched her tiny, bony butt on the edge of my desk. "I think it's great
that you're so interested in the creative aspects of this job, Taylor," she said, playing with her
silver Raymond Weil watch, "but you really shouldn't be pitching scripts. Not when you have
other stuff to do." She nodded in an earnest, concerned way, as if she had just delivered this
speech out of the goodness of her heart.
I counted to five as she took a deep breath. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Goody." Kylie stood and sauntered back over to her desk.
"Oh, and I just sent you an e-mail about Iris's lunch meetings for the rest of the week. Just so
you don't forget."
I gritted my teeth, ignoring her, and tried to look busy as I opened up the NewYork Times
crossword puzzle. It had been a habit since college; I always did the puzzle when I was feeling
down. It made me feel good to feel a little clever (which was why I never did the Saturday
puzzle--too depressing). But before I could be calmed by the orderly black-and-white grid and
predictably cryptic clues, an IM pinged on my screen.
Auteur85: hey stranger
Auteur85: how's the biz?
I cringed. Brandon. He was probably at his desk at the production company, drinking black
coffee, a salmon-colored copy of the Observer at his elbow.
JournalGirl07: Fine. How are you?
I straightened up in my chair and made it a point to type with correct punctuation, which at least
made me feel superior.
Auteur85: good, same ol same ol.
Auteur85: u hate yr life yet? ready to come back?
I stared at the screen, my fingers poised over the keyboard. Brandon was a dick, this was clear.
But if he were worthy of an honest response, what would I even say? My life here was a
constant, uphill battle, but I wasn't ready to pack it in yet, was I? I tapped the keyboard lightly
with my fingertips, not typing anything yet.
And then I signed off. Did I mention that I'm good with conflict?
"Oh. My. God. He told you they were Vince Vaughn's pants?" Kylie was nearly doubled over
in laughter at the story Andrea was telling her. I hadn't really been listening because I was
going through Iris's expenses, organizing them into weekly reports, but I'd heard enough to
gather that, after the Bond premiere where I'd seen her, Andrea had gone to Villa, where she'd
been accosted by a tattooed makeup artist. Hoping to impress her, apparently, he told lies that
ranged from the sexual (he claimed to have had a threesome with Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu-how very Charlie's Angels) to the sartorial (though he was only five feet seven, he swore on
his pet poodle's grave that he was wearing what had been, until very recently, Vince Vaughn's
favorite pair of leather pants).
Of course Kylie and Andrea weren't letting me in on the fun at all, but I didn't mind that much;
unlike some people, I was getting work done.
"Of course you gave him your number," Kylie cackled.
"Not even!" Andrea shook her head and laughed. As she did, its shimmery chesnut-colored
waves caught the light.
And that's when I remembered what Brett Duncan said about Andrea. Summoning my
courage, I cleared my throat.
"I love your hair," I said to Andrea, smiling brightly. It was true--she did have very nice, very
lustrous brown hair. It fell in soft waves around her shoulders and perfectly framed her slightly
mannish features. "I know that might seem like a weird thing to say, seeing as how we haven't
been introduced yet"--here I shot a glance at Kylie--"but really, it always looks amazing. What's
your secret? Products, or just good genes?" It came out sounding a little more gushy than I
meant it to, but a wide smile immediately lit up Andrea's dark-eyed face.
"Both!" she said happily. "Bumble and Bumble helps, but really, I have my mother to thank.
You should see her hair. It's down to her waist."
"Very Frida Kahlo," I offered.
"Totally," Andrea agreed. "Of course my mother doesn't have a unibrow."
"Well if she did, I'd know where to send her," I said. "My roommate's a genius with waxing.
Actually in this case I think she'd call it 'brow design.'"
Andrea laughed again, and I felt a flush of pride.
"By the way, I'm Taylor," I said. "The Robin to Kylie's Batman. Or something like that."
"Andrea," she said, smiling and patting her curls. She glanced down at her watch. "Ooh," she
exclaimed, "it's time for lunch already."
Oh my God, I thought. Lunch is a battleground. I smiled brightly. "Actually, I was about to
head to the commissary myself."
"Great!" Andrea exclaimed, flipping her hair again, a little proudly this time. "You should
totally come with us."
I smiled victoriously and reached for my purse, but Kylie beat me to it.
She stood and slung her LV-monogrammed bag over her shoulder. "Actually, Taylor, you
need to stay and man the phones," she pronounced. Her tone was pure-blooded bitch.
Just then Iris came sliding out of her office on her way to her own lunch date with the head of
marketing. I saw my chance.
"Oh Kylie," I said sweetly, "I'm starving. Couldn't you mind the phones for me, just this
once?"
Iris peered at Kylie quizzically, waiting for her response. With Iris right there, Kylie couldn't
possibly refuse. "Of course," she said through gritted teeth.
But as they say, if looks could kill, yours truly would have been sent to the morgue faster than
you can say ER.
The Metronome commissary was a large, sparsely decorated room with brilliant white walls
and floor-to-ceiling windows on its sunny east side. It was one o'clock, the peak dining hour,
so most of the shiny chrome tables were occupied by Metronome staffers talking shop. Sitting
in here alone, as I'd done on many occasions before, I'd heard about Kate Winslet's donut
obsession, Pete Doherty's poor hygiene habits, and our very own Tom Scheffer's body
dysmorphia. It had been an education of sorts.
The salad bar took up much of the space in the center of the room and, as usual, there were half
a dozen willowy girls diving into the lettuce. You'd think they'd be tempted by the saffron
risotto or the glistening flanks of the rotisserie chicken--certainly I always was--but no, this
was L.A., where everyone was on a diet. So they piled their plates high with mesclun greens,
which they supplemented with a few shreds of carrot, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and maybe
a slice of beet or two. There were cookies at the far end of the salad bar, but so far I'd never
seen a single female eat one.
Andrea was one of the salad girls, of course, though she a
ctually went so far as to put a hardboiled egg on top of her greens, six grams of fat be damned. In honor of our blossoming
friendship, I forsook the pizza station and followed her lead down the trays of vegetables. I
learned that we both like balsamic vinaigrette, but that didn't make me think we were sisters or
something.
We set our trays down at a table by the wide, plate glass windows that looked out over
Metronome's grand front entrance. Andrea ran off to get a Diet Coke, and I tucked myself into
my plate of rabbit food. Through the windowpane, the rays of strong sunshine felt blessedly
warm on my face, and I closed my eyes for a moment, basking in the glow. Even though L.A.'s
warm weather had appeared on my Pros/Cons lists before leaving the East Coast (Cons:
Leaving Brandon; Pros: Leaving Brandon), I'd hardly spent any time outside since I'd moved.
I heard a tray being plunked down across from me and opened my eyes. Cici was staring at me
curiously. But the fact that she'd chosen to sit across from me was at least encouraging.
"Sorry, I haven't been getting out much," I explained sheepishly. Great. My lunchtime debut,
and I was sunbathing in the middle of the commissary like some cave-dwelling freak.
"I totally get it." Cici nodded, smiling, to my surprise, like she really did. "Gould's been making
me stay late pretty much every night recently. I have not been getting my vitamin D."
Andrea returned with her soda, and then Amanda appeared too. If she seemed surprised to see
me sitting with the cool girls, she didn't show it. She offered me a friendly smile, as if our
interactions usually went like this. It made her seem a little delusional, if not downright twofaced, but really, I wasn't in the mood to complain.
"So," Amanda began, looking around at each of us as if calling a boardroom session to order.
"What do you all--"
But she was interrupted by Wyman, who plopped into the empty seat next to me, his cheeks
flushed pink. "Oh my God you guys," he said, pushing his thick glasses up on his nose with-for once--an unstudied air. "You'll never believe what just went down."
I smiled slightly. Gossipy Wyman, I decided, was a refreshing change from Film Snob
Wyman.
Not waiting for the girls to play twenty-one questions, Wyman spilled. "You know how
Melinda Darling has been looking kind of chunky recently?"
Amanda and Cici nodded, as if this was a normal lunchtime topic of discussion. It probably
was. "Yeah, and seems to think those silk charmeuse blouses are helping her case," Cici
cackled.
"She's not carb-loading--she's preggers!" Wyman exclaimed, slapping the table for emphasis.
"No!" Andrea cried.
I kept my head bent a little, chewing my mesclun, and made a mental note to throw away
anything silk charmeuse until I'd overcome the urge to eat pizza, cookies, and everything
remotely tasty in the commissary.
Wyman continued to fill us in on Melinda's pregnancy. I learned it was her first child, and she'd
already named it Friday, regardless of the sex. Her husband's last name was Rubenstein, which
meant that in a matter of months there would be a child named Friday Darling Rubenstein
entering the world. Remarkably, no one seemed to care about the poor child's ridiculous name
at all.
Amanda removed a spoon from between her pouty red lips and pronounced, "I'll bet my Light
& Fit she doesn't come back to work after she pops out that kid." She gave her shiny black bob
a toss.
Wyman clapped his hands and concurred. "Obviously. Her husband makes serious bank at
Paramount."
"So how long do you think it'll be?" Cici said softly, looking around the commissary as if
afraid someone might hear.
It dawned on me that the assistants, shallow as they might be, weren't fascinated by the
fluctuations in Melinda Darling's weight for its own sake. They were interested because her
pregnancy meant she'd probably leave Metronome.
"I think she's due in three or four months," Wyman provided, keeping his voice low too.
"I bet you they move up Joey Abel," Andrea whispered. Seeing the blank look on my face, she
leaned toward me. "You know, the CE who looks like Harry Potter."
I nodded, instantly knowing who she was talking about. He had unruly dark hair and round,
wire-rimmed glasses. All that was missing was the lightning scar on his forehead.
Joey Abel, I also knew, hadn't been CE for more than a year. If he were to move up in rank, an
entry-level creative executive position would be open.
We all scanned each other's faces, an unspoken understanding passing between us. In a few
months, the job every assistant dreamed of would be available, and all of us could be in the
running.
Cici broke the silence first. She tossed her head and raised her Diet Coke. "Here's to Melinda's
baby!"
"Long live Friday Darling!" I cried, getting into it. Everyone raised their glasses and laughed.
It felt good, laughing along with Kylie's friends while Kylie was stuck answering phones and
sending whiny IMs to her tennis-player boyfriend. But this lunch was bigger than getting back
at Kylie. There was something to aim for now. If I could turn things around in a week, who
knew what I could accomplish before Friday Darling made her debut?
And did I mention I was wearing Zac Posen?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Santa Anas blew dry, hot air over the West Hollywood basin, frying the chaparral up in
Griffith Park and above the Malibu coast. Inside a ballroom at the Beverly Hilton, though, it
was absolutely freezing. I pulled one of Quinn's Vince cashmere cardigans around my bare
shoulders and wrapped my hands up in a napkin. I'd thought the sleeveless sheath dress from
Catherine Malandrino would be perfect for the luncheon, but clearly I should have stuck with
my old wool suit.
Iris, in a tailored white suit, was seated at the head table, because the Association for Women in
Entertainment had named her Woman of the Year for her clear-eyed vision and outstanding
contribution to the film industry. She was very blasé about it all, though; she had drawers full
of awards like this.
"What's wrong with you?" Kylie asked, frowning slightly as she delicately spooned some cold
cucumber soup to her mouth.
Apparently my teeth had been chattering a little. "Just a bit chilly, I guess." I shrugged.
"It's good for the metabolism," Kylie commented, dabbing at her mouth politely with the lilac
linen napkin. A waiter leaned over her and refilled her crystal goblet with bottled Voss water,
looking at her like he was starving and she was a steak.
I'd been looking forward to the luncheon, both for a change of scenery and for a chance to wear
this slate blue dress, which, if I do say so myself, made my eyes pop. But so far the event had
been underwhelming. For one thing, the room was just your basic gussied-up conference room
( not the International Ballroom, where they host the Golden Globes), with cream-colored walls,
cream linen tablecloths, and cream padded chairs. The only real color in the room was provided
by the flower arrangements, lurid explosions of lilies and birds-of-paradise that made Iris's
eyes water from the pollen. The other problem--and this was the larger one, I admit--was that
Kylie and I were seated together, sandwiched between two older women, wearing mink stoles
&nb
sp; and sipping Bloody Marys, who had absolutely no interest in talking to us.
This meant that I had to scramble around for polite conversation as we worked our way
through the fish course. I settled on the topic of her handsome, tennis-playing boyfriend, since
he had nothing to do with Metronome and would, in theory, be easy enough to talk about.
"So how are things going with Luke?" I ventured.
Kylie stiffened a little. "Couldn't be better," she said archly, playing with her fork. "How about
you? Any dates recently?" Her green eyes scanned mine curiously.
"No," I said honestly. After the disaster with Mark Lyder, I'd been too afraid to go out with
anyone else--not that there'd been that many opportunities--and had nursed a secret superstition
that another date might cost me my job. But I wasn't about to voice my weird fears to Kylie,
especially because the whole Kylie-trying-to-get-me-fired thing was a supremely awkward
topic. I said instead, "Everyone I meet here seems to know everybody else. I'd feel weird dating
someone, knowing they were... I don't know. Always looking over my shoulder, I guess." I
leaned back as the enamored waiter refilled Kylie's water again. "Is that weird?"
"No, not at all," Kylie sighed, and she actually seemed to mean it. She brushed a long, buttery
curl over her shoulder. "In this industry, it's hard to know which relationships are real and
which ones aren't. That's why it's so great to have a boyfriend who's doing something totally
different with his life."
I speared and ate a little piece of asparagus thoughtfully. (I was starving, but of course I had to
keep table manners in mind.) How weird it was to be having what seemed like a normal
conversation with Kylie. It almost seemed like she was confiding in me. "So you'll never date,
like, a director?" I prompted.
Kylie violently shook her head. "They're fun to flirt with, but you don't want to date any of
them," she said. "And agents are worse." She shuddered as she knifed her fish. To her left, the
older woman in the dramatic fur stole (she'd told us she was a costume designer before turning
away to ignore us completely) blathered on about Cate Blanchett, who apparently had a
designer's eye for fabric and line. Her companion gazed into the lilies as if she were being
hypnotized by an extremely boring shaman.
