by Zoey Dean
the international sign for crazy next to his head.
I took a sip of coffee and tried to look away from Brotman's open, chewing mouth. Deming's
agent was stocky and compact, with a shaved head that was slightly pointed at the top. I could
see how he'd gotten the nickname the Silver Bullet, back when he had several A-list clients. It
was mostly the shape of his body, but it was also his no-nonsense, cut-to-the-chase manner.
Arnie wasn't a bullshitter, which set him apart from pretty much all the other agents I'd met. But
he, too, had had a meltdown, albeit one that didn't send him off to Grizzly Adams land like
Deming. As I'd learned from a little Internet research, he'd had a year-long coke binge in 2000
(at the advanced age of thirty-seven), which cost him pretty much all of his high-profile clients.
He was clean and sober now, but not exactly humbled. He still looked like a powerful player,
there among the theatrical red and gold décor of the Gardens restaurant at The Four Seasons.
Beneath the brightly colored (and frankly ugly) contemporary paintings on two of the walls,
executives in their power suits checked their BlackBerries and brokered multimillion-dollar
deals over their Belgian waffles.
"I know he's a handful," I said carefully, "but there has to be some project that would entice
him to come back." Thus far in our meeting, Arnie had been friendly enough, but far from
encouraging. I was beginning to feel a little less sure of myself.
"Look, I'll be honest with you," he said, cutting into his Dungeness crab cake Benedict with the
side of his fork. "I'm not sure he wants to come back. From everything he says about
Hollywood, it'd take a hell of a lot for him to get behind a camera again, especially for a studio.
You know the story of his last movie. Nightmare." Arnie shuddered. "He never shuts up about
it."
I swirled my orange juice around in my glass. Deming's one and only major studio movie had
been plagued with problems from the get-go, from unforeseen budget cuts to unreasonable
demands from the studio bigwigs. (The latter thought they should have a say in the movie's plot
and editing; Deming felt they should write him a blank check and go about their business.)
When they finally locked picture, it was with the bigwigs' cut, not the one that Deming had
wanted, and of course Deming threw a fit. The bigwigs were so sick of him by then that they
sent it to just forty theaters its opening weekend and hardly marketed it at all, with the result
being that it was a total box office disaster.
"Well, that's not going to happen with us, Arnie," I assured him, picking at the strawberries in
my fruit plate. "He'll get to call the shots here. And with a talented, budding star who happens
to worship him."
"It's still kind of a long shot, kid," Brotman said as he delivered a forkful of crab cake into his
mouth. "I mean, the guy's almost a conspiracy freak. Just warning you."
"Look," I said firmly. I leaned forward and put my fork down on my plate so that Arnie would
know I was all business. "I'm guessing Deming's the most talented client you have at the
moment. Right?"
Arnie Brotman slowed his chewing and then sort of shook his head around in a gesture that
could have meant yes, no, or maybe. My heart was beating hard--I was shaking down an
agent!--but at the same time I felt strangely calm. I knew what I was doing, and it felt good.
I looked him right in his beady brown eyes. "So doesn't it bother you that he's just sitting up
there on an island, bird-watching or whatever he does? When he could be making great movies
again? And making you a nice commission? Have you seen the fan pages on the Internet? Do
you know that the original posters for Journal Girl sell for thousands? I mean, Deming is a
huge deal. He affected a lot of people. Don't you feel some responsibility to get him back out
there?"
Arnie dotted his lips with his snow white linen napkin. I had his full attention now.
"Look, I just want him to be working again," I went on. I knew I was close--I just had to keep
talking until I could get Arnie to nod yes. "And if he wants to work with us, we've got all the
elements here. A good script, a great star, and a studio that will do everything to keep him
happy. So what are we waiting for? Let's get him on the phone today and pitch him the script."
Arnie shook his head. "Nope. Doesn't work that way."
"What do you mean?" I asked. I glanced over at the nearest table, where a starlet was playing
with her egg-white omelet and gazing into the eyes of a man wearing the silky shirt and
predatory look of a would-be manager. I was starting to get impatient.
He tore off a piece of croissant. "You gotta go up there. Pitch him in person. He won't do any
business on the phone, doesn't trust it. He wants to get a 'read' on you in the flesh." He chewed
and swallowed. "Now you know why the guy doesn't work anymore. You know where he
lives? It's practically Alaska."
I sighed. I knew this, didn't I? I'd been sending postcards up there for years. Of course, I didn't
know exactly how remote it was. But if the U.S. Postal Service could get there, surely it wasn't
that hard. "Have you visited him?" I asked carefully.
"Once." Arnie pierced a slab of melon. "And that was enough."
"If I go up there, what do you think my odds are?" I asked.
Arnie squinted until his eyes nearly disappeared as he idly tapped his knife on a croissant.
"Pretty good," he said after a while. But his voice seemed a little hesitant. "Who knows? I
mean, he's no Howard Hughes--he does cut his fingernails at least--but he also makes Stanley
Kubrick look normal. But I'll tell you this." He took a sip of coffee, then put it down in its
saucer with a clack. "I looked at the script last night. And I think it's as close to something he'd
do as anything else I've seen. So go up there, stroke his ego a little bit, make sure he knows
who Holden MacIntee is, and I think you've got a shot." He wiped his mouth and got up. "And
now I gotta go. I got another breakfast at L'Ermitage." He checked his thick gold watch. "But
good luck, kid." He tossed his napkin on his seat. "And for a rookie, you're not a bad ballbuster."
I crossed my arms across my chest as I watched the Silver Bullet wend his way out of the
restaurant. I figured it was time to invest in a pair of hiking boots and a compass. If anyone
was going to get to Michael Deming, it was going to be me.
"Iris is looking for you," Kylie said in an imperious tone when I walked into the office. "And I
think she mentioned she has some dry cleaning that needs to be picked up."
From the way she delivered this information to her computer screen, it was clear that Kylie was
herself again. Her hair, drawn up into a chignon, was once again silky and straight. A flowerpatterned silk blouse and a cute little pencil skirt had replaced the tent dresses and the wrinkled
capri pants. And her superiority complex seemed firmly, resolutely back in place.
I put my bag on my desk with an irritated thump. I booted up my computer and instantly a
barrage of IMs from Brett Duncan lit up my screen.
Bduncadonk: where you been, girl?!
Bduncadonk: u didn't rsvp to my Goog invite
Bduncadonk: u better be ready to slug some vino this wknd!
I rubbed my temple furiously. The Sonoma trip. He'd sent me a Google calendar invite with all
the details, but I'd totally forgotten about it.
Just then Iris called out from inside her office. "Taylor? Are you out there?"
Kylie smiled smugly as she played with a pearl drop earring. She was so confident, so
composed--it was as if her meltdown had never happened. It was as if... it was as if she knew
she was getting promoted.
Maybe somehow it was happening after all. Maybe Iris wanted to tell me herself, before she
made the general announcement.
"There you are." Iris appeared in the doorway, an exuberant look on her face. "Where have you
been?" she asked, almost out of breath.
"I had a breakfast. With Michael Deming's agent," I said. "I was just going to tell you all about
it--"
"Is this about Holden MacIntee?" Iris interrupted. "I got a call from Bob Glazer this morning."
Iris folded her arms. "Apparently you pitched Holden MacIntee a script that we don't own and
that nobody here has even read."
Uh-oh. I clutched the edge of my desk--suddenly I needed to sit down. Out of the corner of my
eye, I saw Kylie sit up straighter, eager, no doubt, for what she hoped would be a real
fireworks show.
"Um, actually I can explain that--," I began.
"Apparently Holden loved it."
My hand tightened even more on my desk. I sort of wobbled a bit, then steadied myself.
"What?"
"He loved it," Iris repeated. "And he wants to do it. Holden called Bob this morning from New
York to tell him. Provided of course that Deming is on board. So, is it true?"
Behind Iris, Kylie's eyes were still wide, but the smug smile had vanished. Now she just
looked shocked.
"Didn't you tell Holden that you had a commitment from Deming already?" Iris asked.
I couldn't help it--I sank into my chair, which squeaked a little in protest. "Oh... yes. Yes. I
did."
Iris was so focused on me she wasn't even blinking. "So it's all done?"
I was about to tell her the truth when Quinn's words flew into my head. Act like you know
everything, even when you don't. The project was done--almost. All I needed to do was just see
him in person and pitch the project. Of course he'd say yes.
"He's in," I said confidently, sitting straighter in my chair. "I just need to go up there and meet
with him and have him sign the contracts. But otherwise we're all set."
Iris nodded, and I watched as a radiant smile slowly bloomed across her thin, handsome face.
"Then congratulations, Taylor. You just got the promotion."
At first I didn't think I'd heard her right, but Kylie's horrified expression confirmed it--Iris had
just promoted me!
"Oh my God, really?" I gasped. I wanted to seem cool and collected, but it was impossible; I
could hardly breathe. I felt the tears rising up behind my eyes but I blinked them away.
"Really," said Iris, reaching into her pocket for a tissue and holding it out to me. "This was
quite an accomplishment."
I waved it away, smiling gratefully. I wouldn't cry--not today! I wanted to dance on my desk
and turn a cartwheel down the hall; I wanted to run to the commissary and eat every cookie on
the cookie cart; I wanted to kick off my kitten heels and throw them into the air; I wanted to
take Kylie's votive candle and fling it out the window. But of course I did none of these things.
I simply grinned like an idiot as Iris shook my hand.
"Oh, and this writer," Iris remembered. "Who is she?"
"Dana McCafferty," I said, beaming. Maybe I should send myself a bouquet of flowers, I
thought. Maybe I should finally get those highlights I'd been thinking about forever. Or maybe
I should go out and spend two thousand dollars on a celebratory dress. "She sent in a spec to
us, but nobody would read it."
In my peripheral vision, I could see Kylie stiffen.
Iris shook her head in wonder. "Well, call her up and tell her we're buying her script. And print
me out a copy, please. Oh, and Taylor," she said, stopping on the way into her office. "You'll
move into your new office on Monday."
"Thank you, Iris," I said.
My new office! I was almost too happy to breathe.
Six feet away, Kylie was typing an e-mail as if none of this had just happened. I cleared my
throat to see if she'd look at me, but she kept her eyes on her computer. It was as if I were
already gone.
Well, fine--if that's the way she wanted to play it, let her. She'd lost and I'd won, but I didn't
need to gloat. I just needed a little breath of fresh air. I got up from my desk and hooked my
purse over my shoulder. As I walked down the pulsing, multicolored hallway to reception, past
the open office doors of the other CEs, I felt the tears welling up again. I'd actually done it--I
was going to be one of them.
I stepped outside the office into the crisp, sunny December morning. The palmettos lining the
walkway moved slightly in the breeze. There was a marble bench a ways up ahead, book-ended
by planters full of jade green succulents. For the first time in all these weeks, I allowed myself
to sit down on it. As of Monday, my days of worrying about answering a ringing phone for
somebody else were over. I'd never have to make another spirulina smoothie. From now on,
someone else would photocopy things for me. Peter Lasky pulled up in a Porsche convertible
and I swear he almost smiled at me. In the distance I could hear the rise and fall of a tour
guide's voice as he explained to his group of wide-eyed visitors the wonders of movie magic.
I could sit out here all day long if I wanted to. This was my home now. I wasn't going
anywhere. Finally, after months, I could relax.
After a few more happy, solitary moments, I got out my iPhone.
"Hello?" said a tiny voice.
"Dana? This is Taylor Henning from Metronome." I closed my eyes. "We want to buy your
script. We're going to make your movie."
The shrieking that followed was so loud and high pitched that I had to hold the phone from my
ear.
"Really? Really? REALLY? " Dana asked.
"Yes, Dana," I said, and this time I really did cry a little. "Really."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Damn, girl," cooed the Calypso salesgirl when I breezed out of the fitting room and examined
myself in the three-way mirror. "If you don't get that, it'll be a crime against humanity."
The other salesgirls gathered around me as I gazed at myself from several sides at once. The
girl was right, even if she was working on commission. The lavender silk dress wasn't cute, it
was seriously hot. I hardly recognized myself. My arms were toned from Buddha Ball, my hair
was falling softly around my shoulders, and even my butt was more JLo than "oh no."
"I'll take it," I said definitively. "And whichever earrings go with it."
I normally avoided the shops on Sunset Plaza, but in two hours I'd be gazing into the big baby
blues of Mr. Tennis, Luke Hansen, and I thought he ought to have something nice to look at as
well. And it would be a gift to me too--a victory gift. As I walked back into the fitting room, I
didn't know what to be more excited about--the promotion this morning, my first date with
Luke in less than two hours, or my trip to see Michael Deming tomorrow. Really, never in a
million years would I have anticipated so many good things happening at once. It was like The
Secret had exploded in
my face.
I was halfway out of the dress when my iPhone buzzed with a text. It was Brett.
Where'd you disappear to yesterday? Hope you're packing. Just bring a cute dress and your
liver--we leave at 7 a.m. I'll bring the coffee!
Shit. I still hadn't told him about Michael Deming, my promotion, or the fact that I would not
be heading to Sonoma tomorrow morning. Got promoted, I wrote back hastily, feeling a little
guilty but knowing he'd get over it . Can't make it this weekend. Sorry!
I had just hit Send when my phone rang again. I rolled my eyes. I loved Brett and all, but did
he have to be so clingy?
But instead of another text from Brett, Quinn's face flashed on the screen. I hadn't spoken to
her in days, and truth be told, I'd almost forgotten about my sixteen-year-old former mentor. I
hadn't even called her about the promotion.
"Congratulations," Quinn said when I picked up. Her tone was only a little warmer than usual.
"I heard the good news."
I grinned as I finished working my way out of the dress. It was good to hear Quinn so
impressed for once. "Thanks. I meant to call you, but--"
"Hey, can you meet me at the Chateau in fifteen minutes?" Quinn interrupted.
That wasn't much warning, but what should I expect from a spoiled teenager? I glanced at my
watch. It was six-thirty, and I had to be at Koi at eight. And why did Quinn suddenly want to
be seen with me, at Chateau Marmont no less? "Um, I don't think I can," I said breezily, sliding
into my jeans.
"I really need to talk to you," Quinn demanded. "So can you just come here?"
The salesgirl's hand suddenly darted through the crack in the curtain. It held the perfect pair of
silver drop earrings, which I took from her eagerly.
"What about Sunday?" I asked. "My Sunday is looking much better." I pulled my top on and
stepped out into the store, shaking my head. I admit that I'd certainly called Quinn in a crisis,
but I'd never actually demanded that she meet me anywhere. All I ever asked for was a little
advice, sent my way in a timely text.
"Seriously, Taylor," Quinn said, her tone growing much cooler.
"Fine, I'll be there. But I only have a few minutes." I hung up without waiting for Quinn's
answer and then handed the Calypso girl my credit card.
