by Zoey Dean
"On one hand, agents are everywhere, and they can be helpful, but...," Kylie pointed her fork at
me, "if something goes wrong, they can talk shit about you to everyone. Have a bad breakup?"
She snapped her fingers. "All of Endeavor knows your favorite sex position." A frown came
over her pretty features, and I wondered momentarily whether she'd been burned by an agent
before. But then she laughed gaily. "For agents, my policy is look but don't touch!"
I thought again about Mark Lyder and how eager he'd been to tattle on me after I'd rejected him.
Kylie's policy wasn't exactly revolutionary, but it was probably a good rule of thumb.
"My advice?" Kylie said, swallowing. "Find a guy who worships you. Instead of himself.
There aren't a lot out there, especially in L.A., but there are a few. You just have to really look."
Kylie dabbed her Chanel-glossed lips with her napkin and put down her fork. After five bites,
she was done with lunch. And frankly that was more than I'd ever seen her eat before.
I contemplated Kylie's counsel as I delicately buttered a roll. At least in relationships, she
seemed to have her priorities straight. Not many girls as ambitious and calculating as Kylie
would date a guy who taught tantrumy Angelenos how to hit a yellow ball across a net. Maybe
she wasn't as dreadful as she'd always seemed. Or maybe she was being nicer to me because
after my week of victories, she was finally starting to see me as a worthy adversary.
My thoughts were interrupted by my iPhone.
Dress looks good on you
But the cardigan so doesn't go
I sat up straighter, looking around the room for Quinn. A gigantic Asian-inflected branch-andtwig-and-lily centerpiece blocked my view of Iris's table. Keeping the phone on my lap, I
typed:
Are you here? Can't see you
A moment later, Quinn responded:
Lesson #5: Enlist a faithful assistant.
Kylie glanced at my phone pointedly. "What are you doing? The speeches are about to start."
"It's nothing," I said, angling my hands further under the table.
Meet me in the ladies room. 5 minutes.
"I can't believe what you're doing to that dress," Quinn scoffed as she smoothed her long
auburn hair in the gilded vanity mirror. "Couldn't you go out and get a cute little shrug or
something?"
I sighed and reluctantly slid the cardigan off my goose-bumped arms. I thought about turning
on the hand dryer for some warm air, but that seemed déclassé. "What are you doing here?" I
asked. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"
"Columbus Day," Quinn sighed, turning around. She wore a baby blue satin wrap top over
black tuxedo pants, and a diamond necklace in the shape of a Chinese symbol. I wondered
what it meant . Spoiled? Too Good for You? Then I scolded myself. Quinn might not be the
nicest girl around, but she was making herself extremely useful.
"My friends are all at the beach, but my mom has to go and get herself honored by a bunch of
dried-up old ladies. It's so unfair." She toyed with the petals of a potted orchid and gave me a
quick appraisal with her cold blue eyes. "So at least you look better."
"I feel better," I said honestly. "I'm starting to get things under control."
Quinn fingered the Chinese symbol on her necklace. "So then maybe you don't need me
anymore." Her voice was cool and calculating.
"No, no, I do, I really do," I said quickly. "What did you mean about enlisting an assistant?"
"You need someone who's got your back at all times. Someone who helps you out."
"You mean like that guy who carries JLo's umbrella?"
Quinn rolled her ice blue eyes and didn't even bother to dignify my remark. "Did you notice the
tall brunette girl who was with me at Pinkberry? That's Lucinda. She's my number two. You're
looking for someone who'll be loyal to you and do what you say. Also she'll have to tell you
what people are saying about you. It's like rule number one. I should have given that one to you
first."
"What if I don't want to know what people are saying?"
Quinn picked up a bottle of spray cologne from the silver amenities tray on the counter. "It's
about knowing the brutal truth at all times," she said, spraying perfume into the air. "That way,
no one can hurt you or surprise you. You take away their power. Think about it: nobody ever
wants to hear anything bad about themselves. But don't you ever lie awake in bed at night
wondering what the worst is? Doesn't it make you afraid?"
I sat down on one of the pink satin chairs in the powder area. I didn't know if these Manolos
were Quinn's or one of her friend's, but they were not as comfortable as I would have liked. "I
guess it could be a little scary."
"Like, nobody except for me is going to tell you that you sort of look terrible right now. But
doesn't it feel good to know that I'm always going to tell you the truth?"
I plucked at a stray thread on the seat cushion and glanced at my reflection in the big gilded
mirror. I looked cold and tired. "Fine, then. I hear what people are saying about me. Big deal."
Quinn smiled. "And I guess there's kind of a companion lesson to that one too. A lesson
number six. That's not so brutal. If you want to hear it." Quinn pushed a row of gold bangles
up her tanned arm.
I pursed my lips and made a funny face at myself in the mirror. "Fine," I said.
"Always know more than your enemies. Get inside info whenever possible. Like on my mom,
for example. You should totally be using me to learn how to suck up to her."
I very nearly smacked myself on the forehead when she said that. Why hadn't I thought of that?
I should have been pumping Quinn for info on Iris weeks ago. It was like ninth grade, when it
took me months to realize that everyone was just looking up the answers in the back of the
geometry book, whereas I was figuring out everything for myself like a good little nerd.
Granted, that was what I was supposed to be doing, but cheating was so much easier.
I gazed up at Quinn towering over me. "I was thinking of getting her some flowers. To
congratulate her for the award."
Quinn held up her hand and shook her head. "She hates flowers, duh, she has allergies. Here's
what you do. She loves these chocolate bars that you can only get in France."
I held out my arms helplessly. "Well, unless you've got a ticket to Paris in your little Chloe
bag--"
"France and at the French deli in the Farmer's Market," Quinn cut me off. "My mom goes
crazy for them." She propelled herself off the counter and walked past me toward the door.
"Which is where getting the assistant helps," she said.
"Right!" I exclaimed, clapping my hands together. That would be easy, actually: Julissa. She
was covering Iris's phones right now.
I walked over to the amenities tray and spritzed a little hair-spray onto my updo while I dialed.
Julissa picked up on the first ring. I told her about the bars and gave her the name, supplied by
Quinn. When I clicked off, Quinn was staring at me. "I'll ask her to be my official assistant
later," I explained.
"Okay." She nodded, seemingly satisfied. "And one other thing I've been meaning to teach
you." She came back from the doorway and stood directly in front of me. "The ultimate
deathstare."
"The deathstare?"
"It's crucial, so pay attention. Okay. First, you so
rt of squint your eyes. Like this." Quinn
narrowed her blue eyes until they were slits. "Almost like they're watering up. And then, you
do the mouth." She raised her top lip a half-inch and curled it slightly. "And then you just stare
that person down and hold for at least five seconds. Like this."
I was shocked that such a simple expression could make someone look so cruel. Honestly, I
would have done just about anything to make her stop staring at me.
"Now you try," Quinn commanded.
I tried to squint my eyes into mean little slits. I frowned too, just for good measure, and then I
raised my upper lip in my best imitation of a ferocious snarl.
Quinn guffawed. "Give me your iPhone," she said, reaching for my purse.
When I handed it to her, she held it up to her face, deathstared into the camera, and snapped a
picture. "There," she said, handing the phone back. "Just practice that in the mirror."
I gazed at the picture. It was very intimidating. "Thanks."
"You'll get the hang of it," she muttered, walking to the door. It was the closest thing to a pep
talk she'd ever given me.
I went to follow her, but Quinn stopped and held up her hand. "Count to a hundred," she said.
With that she turned on her heel and waltzed out.
"Are those Anne-Sarine bars?" Iris turned the purple and gold foil-wrapped bars, tied together
with red ribbon, over in her hand. "Oh, Taylor. These are my favorite."
Kylie glanced up from her computer. "What's that?" she asked, her eyes darting suspiciously
from Iris to me and back again. She'd been surprisingly nice to me since the luncheon, but I had
a feeling that after this, that would no longer be the case.
"You like them?" I asked innocently. "They're my favorite. I got addicted to them the last time I
was in Paris." Not true, but whatever. Kylie tensed up defensively, as if she owned France.
"When my roommate told me you could get them at the Farmer's Market, I totally flipped! I
could eat them all day long."
Iris held the bars and beamed at me. "I really appreciate this, Taylor," she said warmly.
"Well, congratulations again," I said, smiling back. "I've got to go catch up on some agent emails, but enjoy!"
Kylie was staring at me instain on the ceiling disbelief. I could get used to seeing her face like
that.
I found pert, elfin-faced Julissa at the Xerox machine, copying scripts. "Did everything work
out?" she asked eagerly. "Those were the right kind, right?"
I peeled a ten and a twenty out of my wallet and handed them to Julissa. "It worked out great."
"Oh no, that's too much," Julissa said, eyeing the bills.
"Take it," I urged. "It's not like anyone's paying you around here, right?"
Julissa smiled and gingerly took the money. Behind her the copier spit out page after page of
what some were hoping would be the next Seth Rogen flick.
"So, Julissa, I have a question for you," I said, leaning casually against the fax machine. "Sort
of a proposition. How'd you like to be my personal script reader?"
Julissa gave a little squeal. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, there's no way I can handle them all. Just read the ones I give you and let me know if
they're good enough to pass on to Iris."
I thought she was going to fling her arms around my neck, but then she composed herself and
turned to the copier, plucking out the first few copies of the script. "Thank you," she said,
blushing and looking down at the pages.
"Oh, and one more thing," I paused. "You're coming out with me tonight. That is, if you're
free."
"Are you hanging out with Jessica Biel?" Julissa asked breathlessly. In the kitchen the morning
after the premiere I'd told her about my astrology conversation with Ms. Timberlake.
"No. It'll be with my friend Brett. To El Guapo."
"Awesome. I love the Guapo!"
As Julissa skipped down the hall, I couldn't help feeling a little bit guilty. This girl didn't even
have a desk of her own, and she was one of only three interns in the office. How was she
going to read all these scripts?
But then again, wasn't that what assistants were for?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
So how do you think I'm going to get out of this?" I asked, looking down at my rubber nurse's
dress, white fishnet tights, and red satin fuck-me pumps.
"Lots and lots of baby powder." Magnolia adjusted her cleavage to its maximum plumpness
inside her skimpy French maid outfit. "You did Purell that, by the way, right?"
"Yes," I said, elbowing her in the ribs. I'd gotten my little getup from Wardrobe (no doubt it
was left over from the Brett Ratner movie the studio had done a few years back). When
Magnolia asked me who I was supposed to be, I told her Florence Nightingale on Cinemax.
She said she was Jennifer Anniston in that one housecleaning scene in Friends with Money,
but really, she looked a little sluttier than that and she knew it.
Ah yes, Halloween. Back in Cleveland, we celebrated by decorating our houses with
spiderwebs and black lights, wearing costumes from the drugstore. In college, it was all about
witty, ironic costumes; my senior year I'd gone as a Desperate Housewife, complete with an
apron and a bloody knife. The residents of L.A., however, apparently viewed the holiday as an
excuse to bare as much flesh as humanly possible without showing their reproductive organs.
From where I stood in the middle of Heidi Klum's annual costume party at The Green Door, I
could count three Officer Naughtys, three Skanky Nurses (plus me, number four), three
Hercules, two Greg Louganises, and five Playboy Bunnies. As I sipped my martini, Adam and
Eve passed me by, strolling along in fig leaf-decorated G-strings, golden Mystic Tans, and hisand-her six-packs.
Magnolia whistled. "Who is the cutie?"
I thought she was talking about Greg #2, but then I saw her gazing raptly at a man with long
straggly hair and a full beard wearing a navy sweatshirt and faded jeans. "You're not talking
about the Unabomber, are you?"
"He's cute," Magnolia said defensively.
I'd almost forgotten that Magnolia's taste in men was the same as her taste in dogs: shaggy and
smelly.
"I suppose he's got a certain Cisco Adler thing going on," I offered.
Magnolia drained her drink, then handed me her empty glass. "Wish me luck," she said and
then sauntered over to him.
The music changed to a remix of a Silversun Pickups song as I took another sip of my martini
and scanned the crowd for Brett. Other than our trip to El Guapo, I'd barely seen him recently.
I'd had too many scripts to read. Even after pawning some off on Julissa, I still had a stack two
feet high on the floor of my living room.
And I wasn't the only one up to my ears in work. Iris was chasing some Gondry script, Tom
Scheffer and Peter Lasky were still trying to figure out Camus's Nightmare, the assistants were
all still gossiping about Melinda Darling's possible departure, and yours truly was trying to
keep Iris happy and Kylie off my back. Both of those tasks were getting a little easier every
day, though, and as I felt my cocktail beginning to have its effect I was pretty certain that things
were all right with the world.
Of course, I was standing alone in the middle of a party wearing a latex dress. So I figured I
ought to find a friend and do a little mingling. Since Magnolia and t
he Unabomber were still
looking deeply and soulfully into each other's eyes (and since I thought I saw his hand moving
toward her butt), I decided I should find the bar.
I pushed my way past some potted palms and two women dressed like Sexy Kittens (really,
did they have to go there?) and grinned. There was Brett Duncan, leaning against the bar,
talking to a white-faced Dracula. Brett was in a medieval doublet and blue stockings that
showed off his enviable legs. At his hip, he carried a long sword that looked as if it might
actually be dangerous.
"Brett, hey!" I called. "Nice tights! Who are you? I'm slutty Florence Nightingale."
"Romeo! And you can be my Juliet," Brett cried, kissing me on both cheeks. Instead of
introducing me to his wan-faced friend, he dragged me to the dance floor. I tried to protest that
I needed a drink, but his nicely buffed fingernails were insistent on my arm.
"Perfect timing," Brett whispered in my ear once we'd made it a safe distance from the bar. He
nodded toward Dracula, who was now staring dejectedly into a blood-colored cocktail. "That
was awk. I haven't seen that guy since I ran out of his apartment. I'd had too much to drink, and
trust me, he looks better with the bloodsucking makeup on, as I discovered once my beer
goggles wore off. "
I giggled and grabbed Brett's drink, taking a hearty swig. It was funny to think of Brett being
so skanky. Although I supposed I wasn't in a position to talk, given my current outfit.
"Listen," Brett continued, twirling me as a Duffy track blared over the speakers. "You have to
come up with me to my aunt's house in Sonoma for a weekend, for a little wine tasting. The fall
is all about the merlot, and it's the perfect place for some L.A. detox. I won't take no for an
answer!"
"Of course!" I agreed, even though it sounded like my presence was not optional. It was funny,
though. A few months ago, a quiet "detox" weekend away from Hollywood was all I could
have wanted. Now the idea of leaving L.A., even for a weekend, made my body quake a little.
What would happen when I was gone?
"Hey Sexy Nurse," slurred a voice from somewhere behind me. "I've got, uh, something
swollen down below. I think you should look at it!" Then whoever it was guffawed and fell
