by Zoey Dean
room--the kind of thing that an L.A. real estate agent would call "loft style" but was really more
Laura Ingalls Wilder. In the corner were a couple of doors, which I assumed led to the
bedroom and the bathroom. There was no TV in sight, but books lined the walls, and piles of
them rose from the floor like stalactites. A pair of binoculars sat next to a plate of sandwiches
and a jar of Miracle Whip on the broad kitchen table. The stove was one of those Little House
on the Prairie contraptions that use logs instead of gas.
It occurred to me then that Michael Deming wasn't just living under the radar. He was living
under the poverty line. This made me shrug off my jacket with a new confidence. Deming's
dire financial straits were about to make my job a lot easier.
"Please. Sit down," he said gently, pointing to one of the Shaker-style chairs. "And what
would you like to drink? Coffee?"
"Yes, thank you," I said. I was feeling more relaxed now. I had a winning lottery ticket in my
pocket that I was ready to hand the guy.
"I still make a good cup, if I say so myself," he said as he poured me a mug from the Cuisinart
ten-cupper, which seemed to be the only electrical appliance in the house made after 1986. He
set it in front of me and then sat down himself. "So, Taylor."
He looked at me very intently, and for a long time he didn't blink. If this was a staring contest,
he was welcome to win it; I blinked and looked down at my coffee. Deming cleared his throat.
Who knew how long it had been since he'd spoken to another person? It could have been
weeks.
"You can see that I live a very different life from my peers. Or rather, my ex-peers," he said
with a humble smile. "Believe it or not, I'm very happy here."
"I believe it." I didn't, actually, but it seemed rude to disagree. I mean, really, how happy can
one be living alone in a house made of Lincoln Logs? The poor guy didn't even have a dog to
keep him company. (I had a few I could loan him, though, if he was interested...)
"It suits me. Simple. Quiet." He cut my sandwich into halves with a steak knife and passed it to
me. "When I left Los Angeles, I was a very unhappy man. I think I've changed quite a bit since
then."
No doubt, I thought. Certainly he looked different--he looked like he could really use a
personal grooming appointment with my roommate. But I raised my eyebrows encouragingly.
If he wanted to talk, I ought to listen. "How so?" I asked and then took a bite of my sandwich.
It wasn't half bad, but then again, I was starving.
"I'm sure you've heard a little bit of what happened to me," he continued as he gazed ruefully
into his coffee cup. "It was my fault too, of course." He shook his head, smiling. "I believed
what people told me. God, I was an idiot."
I know the feeling, I thought but didn't say. It had taken me a while to see through Kylie's crap.
"I had to take their orders. I had to cast their stars. And then they recut the film until I didn't
even recognize it." He shook his head with regret. "Now the only movies I make are of
wildlife." His eyes twinkled. "Squirrels and foxes are so much easier to work with than
actors."
I laughed. "You have a point. Squirrels don't need personal chefs or bodyguards, and I've
never met a vain, insecure fox."
Deming leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling for
a while. I wondered how long this was going to take. I appreciated a thoughtful decisionmaking process, but I wanted to get the deal done and then take a nap. I was so tired, my hands
were tingling. I looked up to see what Deming was seeing. Cobwebs.
Deming finally cleared his throat. "I guess I'd like to ask you why, knowing all of this, I should
make your movie, Taylor. I read it last night. And yes, I can see what you might think I might...
add to the story. But I guess my question to you is, why me?" He tore his gaze away from the
cobwebs and turned his disconcerting eyes to me. "Why would I be your first choice?"
Because I've been writing to you once a week for seven years, and you are responsible for even
putting me here in the first place, I wanted to say.
But I couldn't say that. For one thing, the idea that he'd even gotten my letters seemed farfetched, now that I knew how far from civilization he lived. He probably communicated with
people by smoke signals and didgeridoo. And second, I wasn't here as a fan. I was here as a
creative executive. And creative executives didn't gush. They pitched.
"You should do this movie because movies are your passion, Mr. Deming," I said confidently,
leaning forward in my chair and fixing him with the same frank stare I'd given his agent, the
Silver Bullet. "This is what you should be doing. Not hiding your talent away in a cabin. But
bringing another poignant, true story to the screen."
He nodded slightly, but I couldn't read his expression. He leaned over and produced a pipe
from a small drawer, which he put in his mouth, unlit. A pipe? I thought. He was really taking
this backwoods thing seriously. Once he agreed to the deal, I was going to have to introduce
him to Tom Scheffer's superhealthy, super-L.A. smoothies--those would get him straightened
out.
"We'll respect your vision," I went on. I could feel my voice gathering force. I knew I was
right, and I wanted him to know it too--he needed to do this movie. "We will let you make this
movie the way you want to. Everyone involved with this has the highest regard for your talent.
And one of the biggest and brightest male stars on the planet wants to work with you."
He stopped nodding and took the pipe out of his mouth. "Who is that?"
"Holden MacIntee. Vanity Fair just proclaimed him the new It boy."
His brow furrowed in concentration. For a moment I wondered if Deming didn't know who
Holden MacIntee was. But no, that was impossible. Two-year-old girls knew who Holden
MacIntee was. Yak herders in Siberia knew who Holden MacIntee was.
"He loves your work," I continued. I had pushed aside my sandwich, even though I was
starving. "Loves it. He told me this himself. And putting him in this movie guarantees us a
huge opening. At least twenty million, depending on the season. And that's conservative."
Deming slowly nodded at me, now with a faint smile on his lips. Outside it had begun to snow,
and I could see the little flakes spiraling down through the kitchen window. I thought of L.A.,
with its year-round sun, its unapologetic glitter, and its gorgeous chaos, from the green hollows
of Topanga Canyon to the funky, trashy lanes of Fairfax Avenue to the gaudy lights of Santa
Monica pier. I felt a sudden swelling of homesickness. Who didn't love L.A.? It was such a
lonely life out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere. There was no way Deming could stand it any
longer.
Deming still watched me, nodding, smiling faintly. He was already getting excited, I could tell.
He just needed one tiny more push. "And well, aside from that, we'll give you more money
than you've ever been paid in your life." I couldn't help looking around at the ramshackle cabin,
with its ancient appliances and secondhand furniture. "I guarantee it."
There was a short pause as Deming studied me. He sure wasn't much of a talker.
"Well, thank you for coming," he said, getting up. "I'll be in touch."
"You know, I'd be happy to quote you a
figure right now," I said. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm
authorized to do that."
He smiled and waved me off. "That's not necessary. I'll be in touch."
As he walked me across the faded woven rug, I thought about telling him about the letters. It's
me, I wanted to say. The girl who's been hounding you! The girl who's your biggest, craziest
fan. But it just wouldn't seem professional. And besides, I could always tell him over dinner
sometime when I visited the set. He would really get a kick out of it then.
"Thanks again, Mr. Deming," I said at the door. I pressed a business card into his hand.
"No, no," he said. "Thank you." He put the pipe back in his mouth and I swear, his eyes were
almost twinkling. Maybe he was thinking about all the remodeling he could do. The cabin
could be a nice place, really, if someone poured about a hundred grand into it. Then he shut the
door.
"Just take me back to the airport, please," I told the driver.
My hand was in my purse before I even had my seat belt on. Miracle of miracles, my iPhone
got service out here. I scrolled down to Quinn's e-mail.
THINK I JUST MADE MY FIRST DEAL!
I held the phone in my hand, waiting for Quinn's normally speedy response, but there was no
answer. Odd, I thought, slipping it back into my purse. But then again, our little arrangement
was over.
As the cab crunched back down the bumpy, snow-covered road, I leaned back against the soft
vinyl and quickly fell into an easy, contented sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Her furniture will be moved out, unless of course you like it." Amanda offered me a forced
smile as she unlocked the door to what had once been Melinda Darling's office.
I stepped inside and couldn't help releasing a small sigh of satisfaction. There were red
lacquered bookshelves along one wall and a low gray suede couch with sheepskin pillows. I
raised the blinds, and the winter sun came streaming in, illuminating everything like a klieg
light. "It looks fine. But yes, I think I would prefer white," I said, placing my bag on the sleek
Lucite desk. My Lucite desk.
"Your schedule's on the computer," Amanda went on, tucking her black chin-length hair
behind a delicate ear. "And let me know about artwork and plants, though it might be a little bit
tough to get everything done before Christmas break." She shifted her weight from one
stacked-heel leather boot to another. "Is there anything else?"
"Yes," I said. "I'd love some cappuccino." I didn't even want it that much, but I couldn't help
it--the thrill of having someone else get one for me was just too much.
Amanda looked almost surprised. But wasn't this part of her job too? "No problem," she said
after a beat. "I'll let you get settled."
She closed the door softly behind her. In all my excitement about the promotion, I'd never
stopped to think about who would become my assistant. I felt a little sorry for Amanda--she'd
felt so superior to me my first day, when I broke the copier with the Paul Haggis script, and
now she was forced to fetch me my caffeine. Well, at least I didn't have Wyman. I wouldn't be
able to stand him blathering on about Italian postwar neorealist cinema all day. Yes, I saw
Umberto D., I'd have to scream, and it was the most depressing movie of all time! Now go
make me a freaking smoothie!
I sat down in my Aeron chair and looked contentedly around the room. It was bigger than my
West Hollywood bedroom and much, much cleaner. That first day, when Kylie walked me
around the Metronome halls, seemed like a lifetime ago. If anyone had told me that I'd have my
own office with my own little sign on the door (TAYLOR HENNING, CREATIVE
EXECUTIVE!) just four months later, and with a marquee project to boot, I would never have
believed them. Never, ever, ever.
I turned on my Mac Pro. I'd made plans to meet Luke for lunch on Larchmont, but maybe I'd
send him a quick e-mail. My new computer was gorgeous--sleek and white, with a crystal-clear
twenty-four-inch flat-screen monitor and an ergonomic keyboard that promised to make typing
feel as good as a hand massage.
There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," I called, leaning back in Melinda's six-hundred-dollar chair. My lower back
practically sang out in joy.
Julissa walked in, looking approvingly around her. She was wearing pigtails, and she looked
about twelve. "Nice," she exclaimed. "You did it! Congratulations."
"Thanks." I smiled gently at her, trying not to seem too wildly overjoyed at my new digs. I
didn't want to be gauche.
"Iris wants to see you." She raised her eyebrows a little.
Surely Iris was just calling me in to congratulate me. Maybe she'd bought me a plant for my
office so I could turn mine into a primeval forest too. "Now?"
"Yeah." Julissa nodded and ducked out again.
Walking down the hall to Iris's office in my sleek black dress, I felt like a totally different
person than I was in September. I felt smarter, more confident--hell, I even felt taller, though
that was probably just the three-inch heels. I breezed into the outer room, where my old desk
seemed small and abandoned.
Kylie sat typing in an exquisite mocha silk wrap dress, her votive flickering on her desk. Her
back was perhaps just a bit straighter than usual, and her nose was elevated just a few inches
higher. Clearly it was important to her not to wear her defeat too obviously.
"Good morning, Kylie." I figured I might as well start off on the right foot. What, after all, was
the point of being uncivil to someone beneath me?
"Good morning," she replied coolly. She didn't stop typing. It was about as friendly a response
as could be expected. I thought I could get through all this resentment, given a little time, but I
wasn't going to dwell on it now.
I peeked past a miniature orange tree into Iris's office. "You wanted to see me?"
Iris sat hunched over her desk, her head in her hands, fingers slowly massaging her temples.
"Close the door, Taylor," she said without looking up.
I shut the door tentatively. Through the window behind her, I could see a gigantic Christmas
tree, complete with fake presents, in front of Soundstage 6. "How was New York? Did
something happen?" Maybe she'd had a turbulent flight or had gotten bumped from first class
and had to sit next to a really fat guy in coach. Or what if Holden had thanked her for
requesting the meeting? After all, I'd told Iris the face-to-face was his idea. Not that these were
real problems, though--the good news of the Deming project would overshadow any of it.
Iris finally looked up. Her mouth was pursed as if she'd just tasted something bitter, and her
face was a strange, sickly color of gray. "How many times have you met my daughter?" she
asked.
A lump formed in my throat. Quinn. What had she done? "Your daughter? What do you
mean?"
"Don't play dumb with me," Iris said coldly, taking her glasses off and tossing them onto the
desk. "How many times? Once? Twice?" Her voice was cold and hard.
I was at a loss at first. "What are you getting at?"
"I'll show you what happened. After you packed me off to New York."
She tilted her twenty-two-inch plasma screen so I could see the TMZ.com web page. And the
headline.
When the Cat's Away, Her Kitt
en Will Play
Can anyone say rehab? Quinn Whitaker, the sixteen-year-old daughter of Metronome honcho
Iris Whitaker, let it all hang out on Saturday night (consider a bra next time, Quinn!), throwing
the party of the year while Mom was out of town. Hollywood celebretards Rumer Willis,
Vanessa Hudgens, Hania Barton, and Quinn's boy toy, actor/DJ Blake Miller, joined Quinn in
sucking down the SoCo and stripping down in the hot tub. Who's the most effed up rich kid in
L.A. now, Jamie Lynn?
I swallowed. "Oh my God," I said. I knew Quinn was no angel, but I didn't think she had it in
her.
"Do you know that I have never ever let her stay at home for a weekend before? Her father was
on location in Vancouver. And when you called and said that this was the last time I could meet
Holden for this big movie, I thought, Okay, she's a big girl. I can trust her." Iris tapped her
fingernails on her BlackBerry, and underneath the desk I could hear her kicking something
with her foot. She was so agitated that she literally couldn't sit still. "In one night, all of that
hard work--of being home with her, of having dinner every night, of making sure she didn't
turn into yet another Hollywood casualty--all of that was gone." She got up from her chair and
turned her back to me. "What you did was unconscionable."
I felt horrible for Iris, but I didn't see how it was my fault. Quinn had thrown a party--what did
that have to do with me? "I don't understand," I said.
"What did you think was going to happen? That she just wanted some quiet time to herself?"
Suddenly I wanted to sit down, but I was strangely afraid to. I didn't like where this was going.
"She told me everything, you know. All about your little deal." Iris turned around and shook
her head at me in disbelief. "The fact that you would use a teenage girl like that..." She paused.
"You know, in all my years in Hollywood, this is the lowest I've seen anyone stoop."
I couldn't meet her gaze--I stared down at the floor. I felt nausea creeping up on me, as well as
a dawning comprehension of what sort of trouble I might be in. I couldn't believe Quinn had
told her everything. Hadn't we agreed it was a secret?
"And this is the best part. I got a call from Michael Deming this morning."
