Hollywood Is Like High School with Money

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.