Hollywood Is Like High School with Money

by Zoey Dean

  tell her to be less of a wide-eyed innocent. "Kind of. I mean, I wrote him and... well, it's a little

  hard to explain." It wasn't hard, of course, but I didn't want Iris to get the stalker vibe from my

  story.

  Iris nodded. "Well, whatever it is, you've made some kind of impact."

  Then her smile faded for a moment, and I remembered how she had given me the deathstare in

  her office. Once again I felt my nerves jangling. I bit my lip and waited for her to go on.

  "Just so it's very clear, Taylor, I still don't like what you did."

  I hung my head--I couldn't look at her. "I know."

  "Or how you got my daughter embroiled in all of this. You're going to have to make me forget

  that. But"--she held up a finger--"you're smart. You're ambitious. You have excellent taste. And

  we need a hit."

  Still I stared at the sidewalk and waited for her to come to her point. I was glad she thought I

  was smart and ambitious, but being smart and ambitious didn't pay the rent these days-booking Brazilians and Crack Is Wack specials did. Speaking of which, I was going to be late

  getting back to my desk. I looked back toward Joylie nervously.

  Iris straightened up and put her hands on her hips. "You have your job back. You start after the

  holidays," she said brusquely. She pushed her sunglasses back onto her face and turned on her

  heels. "Oh," she said, turning around. "And I almost forgot. Merry Christmas."

  "You too, Iris." I realized that suddenly I was grinning like an idiot. This was the best

  Christmas present I could have hoped for.

  I watched Iris walk against the wind, her hair flying off her shoulders, toward her silver 700

  Series Mercedes. So maybe movies weren't totally fake after all, I thought to myself.

  Sometimes in real life there were happy endings. I pulled my iPhone out of my bag, and a

  moment later, a familiar voice picked up.

  "Hello?"

  "Dana? Guess what? "

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Shara, the raven-haired receptionist who had never, ever been nice to me, smiled cryptically as I

  walked through the spa-like lobby of Metronome Studios and swiped my ID through the

  scanner. On the other side of the big glass doors I passed the CE offices that had so awed me

  on my first day. Everyone was busy on their phones and their BlackBerries. As Kylie would

  say, Quel surprise. Cici tossed her hair over her shoulder as I passed her desk; Wyman stared

  at me through his black-framed film-nerd glasses. I held my head up very high and looked

  straight ahead. Whether they were glad I was back or not was something I didn't really care to

  know. I passed Lisa Amorosi in the hallway. In the month I had been gone, she had apparently

  discovered the wonders of the flatiron, and her normally frizzy hair was shiny and pulled back

  into a sleek ponytail. She did a double take when she saw me and then offered me a slim smile.

  Part of me wondered if it was my clothes: a plum-colored long-sleeved top with a pretty flower

  appliqué from Forever 21 and a pair of black tweed pants from Banana I'd bought on sale.

  Nothing on my body cost more than forty dollars, which was definitely bucking the

  Metronome trend. But screw it, I told myself. Did I really need to be decked out in an outfit that

  cost as much as a down payment on a car?

  I continued on down the hall, past the open mouths, toward Iris's office. At least now I would

  have Kylie's desk, and Kylie would be on the other side of the floor, in Melinda Darling's

  office. I had no idea what to say to Kylie. I'd stayed up half the night trying to formulate the

  most civil hello I could think of, but in the end, what I said didn't matter nearly as much as how

  I said it. Quinn had taught me that much. And anyway, from now on, I wasn't going to think so

  hard about how to act around people. I was just going to be me. Maybe that was a corny

  philosophy--certainly Quinn wouldn't approve--but it was the best one I had. And after I made

  nice with Kylie, I would simply settle down into doing my job. I would be the best first

  assistant Iris had ever had.

  But when I walked into the little area outside Iris's junglelike office, someone already sat at

  Kylie's desk, answering the phones. I cleared my throat, and the chair swiveled around.

  "Taylor?" Julissa cried, standing up.

  "Julissa!"

  I ran over to give her a hug. With her hair back in a chic knot and kohl smudged around her

  eyes, Julissa looked ten years older than she did the last time I'd seen her. "Wow, you look

  great." I took in her cute little smock dress and suede ankle boots. "Very Metronome."

  "Thanks." She blushed and sat back down, suddenly almost shy. "Welcome back."

  "It's good to be back." I glanced down at Kylie's desk. Dime-store photo strips of Julissa and

  her friends joking around had replaced the jeweled frames, and a giant bobblehead of Dwight

  Schrute replaced the aromatherapy candle. Stacks of scripts were everywhere. "Wait a sec. Are

  you--"

  "Yep." Julissa grinned. "As of last week."

  "Oh my God, Julissa, that's great!" I did a little hop of joy, which made her giggle.

  "Congratulations!"

  "Believe me, I was totally surprised," Julissa confided, reaching up to play with her hair and

  then stopping herself. "But when Kylie got promoted, and you were gone..." Her voice trailed

  off.

  "Well, you deserve it." I picked up my four-year-old navy J.Crew coat and turned to look at my

  old desk, bare once again. "I guess I'll call IT to get me booted up here."

  Julissa furrowed her brow at me. If the look on her face hadn't been so good-natured and so

  bewildered, I'd have said she reminded me of Kylie in that moment. "What?" she said.

  "To get me situated here."

  "Wait, didn't Iris tell you?"

  "Tell me what?" I felt a rising tide of panic--had Iris changed her mind? Had I just walked

  down that ridiculous screen-saver hallway with my head held high only to be told that I had to

  turn right around again?

  "You're not sitting in here."

  As if on cue, Iris breezed into the office, Burberry coat on her arm, venti mocha in hand, Louis

  Vuitton doctor's bag swinging. "Good morning, Taylor."

  "Iris." I shook Iris's hand, not sure what else to do. "I guess I was just about to sit down here."

  Iris smiled her warm, crinkly-eyed grin. "Well, I'd love to have you, but this is not where

  you're sitting. You're over there," she said, pointing in the direction of Melinda's office.

  "But what about--"

  Iris turned to go into her office. "Julissa, would you please escort Taylor to her new digs?"

  Julissa sprang out of her chair. "Come on, Henning. Follow me."

  As we walked down the hall, past the nap room, past Cici doodling at her desk (who also

  looked at me with a strange, un-readable expression), past the copy room and the kitchen, I

  leaned down and whispered, "What happened to Kylie?"

  Julissa smiled a slightly nasty smile. "Let's just say Kylie didn't pan out."

  I stopped in my tracks. Wyman breezed past us in a cloud of Axe body spray. "What do you

  mean?"

  " Creative differences was the term they used. Translation: she effed up. Thought she had a

  commitment from Ingenuity when they never intended for Troy Vaughn to do the project. They

  talked him into doing another film with Owen Wilson." She tugged impatiently on my arm.

  "Come on, let's get you t
o your office."

  As I followed Julissa to the office I had so briefly occupied once before, I thoughtfully sipped

  on my coffee. It wasn't so hard to figure out what had happened: as payback for the Chateau

  fiasco, Mark Lyder and his cronies had screwed Kylie over in the end. I contemplated this for a

  moment and decided that yes, I almost felt sorry for her.

  As we came upon the office I'd soon be occupying, a girl looked up from her desk.

  "Sheila," Julissa said, "this is Taylor, your CE. Taylor, meet Sheila, your new assistant. She's

  fresh out of Grinnell, and of course she loves movies."

  Sheila had short dark hair and enormous brown eyes. Long gold earrings brushed against her

  shoulders as she stood up and shook my hand. "It's great to meet you."

  "You too," I said. To Julissa I whispered, "What happened to Amanda?"

  Julissa hissed back that Amanda had requested a change of assignment and now would be

  assisting Lisa Amorosi. This was very good news. I wanted, as Quinn had suggested, a

  faithful assistant, not one capable of sabotage.

  Sheila opened a drawer to her desk and took out a key and handed it to me. "For your office,"

  she said, smiling.

  I took it from her like it was nothing--like it wasn't the culmination of months of blood and

  sweat and tears. I squeezed it in my hand. If I ever moved to another office, I was going to

  have this key bronzed.

  "There's a ten o'clock staff meeting," Sheila said, reading off a notepad, "and then you have a

  lunch meeting with Bob Glazer and Holden MacIntee. Is the Ivy all right?"

  "Sure," I said, trying to sound blasé, as if I ate lunch every day at a place where the Caesar

  salad is to die for and everyone who is anyone sips Pellegrino and trades Hollywood dish.

  Then I opened up my office. The Lucite desk and Herman Miller chair were still there, and

  someone had put a vase of brilliant pink gladiolas on the bookshelf. There was the beautiful

  Macintosh computer, and there was my very own view of a parking lot lined with palm trees.

  "We just had it painted for you. And I'll be bringing some catalogs for more furniture later.

  Your budget's three thousand, but I'll see if I can get more."

  Three thousand?? "Um, that's fine."

  Sheila went back out, and I plopped my bag on the desk and turned on my computer. It

  gracefully blinked awake. Then I sank down into my chair and contemplated putting my feet on

  my desk but decided it was too cliché, like the final scene of Working Girl.

  Sheila popped her head back in. "Do you want anything to drink?"

  I smiled at her eagerness--I remembered just what that was like. "It's okay, Sheila. I can get it

  myself."

  She smiled back and vanished. From the other side of the room, I heard Julissa sigh.

  "Taylor, you've got to use your power," she said, pretending to be exasperated. "Make the girl

  get you a smoothie. One of those muddy-looking ones Tom Scheffer likes so much." Then she

  giggled. "Or not."

  I threw open my arms, as if I could hug my beautiful new office. I thought about kissing the

  desk, but wasn't sure that would look right. "I really don't know what to say," I said. "Look at

  this place!"

  "Oh, Taylor." Sheila walked back into the office holding something large and rectangular,

  covered in brown wrapping paper. "Someone sent you some décor for the office."

  "Who?"

  She propped it against the wall. "Don't know. But it's already framed and everything." She

  slipped out.

  Julissa raised her eyebrows. "Presents already! But hey, I better get back to the desk. Congrats

  again." Julissa gave me another hug. "And feel free to lord it over me, since you're now a CE."

  "As if."

  When Julissa closed the door, I crouched down in front of the package. When I took off the

  paper, I sat back on my heels and felt tears come to my eyes.

  It was the original movie poster for Journal Girl. And at the bottom was an inscription. To

  Taylor, My favorite writer. Best, Michael Deming.

  I stood and looked out the plate-glass window. "Thank you," I said softly to the Hollywood

  Hills in the distance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  C ut! "

  Michael Deming took off his headphones and popped another stick of Doublemint gum into

  his mouth.

  "Dana?" Michael craned his head toward the cluster of director's chairs behind him. "Dana? I

  need you."

  "I'm here!" she squeaked. Sitting beside me in a director's chair that was three times her size,

  Dana McCafferty slid to the floor on her Keds. "Taylor, can you hold these for me?" she

  asked, handing over her headphones.

  "No problem." I took the headphones, hung them about my neck, and took another sip of

  coffee.

  Dana rolled her eyes. "He's so needy," she said, but she was smiling as she padded off toward

  Deming, who was pacing behind the cameras, hands thrust in the back pockets of his jeans.

  It was my third day on the set of The Evolution of Evan, and I was still a little unsure what was

  expected of me as the supervising studio exec. As far as I could tell, everything was going

  well--they were still on schedule, under budget, and aside from perhaps maybe one too many

  huddled conferences with Dana McCafferty, all seemed to be moving along. I shaded my eyes

  against the setting sun and pulled my Old Navy faux-sheepskin jacket closer around my

  shoulders. It was almost May, but up here, north of San Francisco in bucolic Marin County, it

  still felt like winter. Below me I heard a little yelp.

  "Jerry, shh," I said, reaching down to pick up my new puppy. The shelter had said that he was

  a shepherd mix, which basically meant they had no idea. I got him to replace Lucius, Cabbage,

  and Woodstock, all of whom had been miraculously adopted. He squirmed a little bit--we were

  still getting to know each other--but I patted him down the back like I'd seen Magnolia do a

  million times. "Jerry Maguire, I want you to be a good boy," I cooed, talking into his ear.

  Jerry stared at me with his imploring brown eyes and whined.

  "Yes, I know it's hard being a doggy," I said, lapsing into the baby talk that I couldn't control. I

  hadn't pegged myself for a cooing baby-talker, but I'd stopped trying to fight it. And Jerry

  seemed to like it, though it was hard to tell what was going on in that pea-sized brain of his. As

  soon as I got back down to L.A., I was going to watch The Dog Whisperer with Magnolia and

  enroll him in some obedience training. The other night he had an accident all over my shoes.

  Thank God they were only old ones.

  "Taylor!" Michael Deming gestured for me to come over. He stood with Dana and Holden, a

  few steps from the cameras. Behind him was a little park that we'd populated with assorted

  extras--a man walking an Italian greyhound in a little sweater, a woman reading a newspaper-and illuminated with lights. In the center of the scene was the park bench where Holden and his

  love interest, played by a young unknown with naturally golden hair and bee-stung lips, had to

  break each other's hearts on camera. I'd been paying attention to the filming, but watching take

  after take got a little monotonous, and I'd turned my attentions to the crafts service table, which

  was laid out with an array of delectable sandwiches and cookies for the cast and crew. I was

  debating about helping myself, but it was only eleven--too soon, r
eally, to start pigging out on

  lunch.

  I carried Jerry over to the trio. "What's up, guys?"

  "I think Evan would be crying in this scene, you know?" said Holden, looking extremely

  handsome in a cashmere sweater and two-day-old stubble. "It's a breakup. And he's a sensitive

  guy."

  "No, no, no," Michael said, shaking his head. "No tears. Absolutely not."

  I had told Michael he could make the movie he wanted, and I meant it, but I thought we should

  have a third opinion. "What do you think, Dana?"

  Dana grimaced. "No crying," she said. "I don't think that's the character."

  I turned to Holden, who looked a bit miffed. "Let's try it without the tears," I said. "Sometimes

  subtlety is the most powerful weapon in the actor's arsenal." I smiled. It almost sounded like I

  knew what I was talking about.

  Holden kicked at the ground and nodded his head; he could be gracious in defeat (sometimes).

  "Well, okay," he said, brushing his hair back. "I guess that's okay."

  As we walked back to the chairs, Dana whispered, "He's kind of a prima donna."

  "At least he listens to reason," I said as Dana clambered back up into her chair.

  She picked up her notebook--she was already working on another script--and looked over at

  me. "And Deming loves you," Dana said. "I mean, you don't have to be here every day, but

  whenever you aren't, he looks lost."

  I looked back at him pacing with the cinematographer, discussing a shot. It was weird, but I

  actually felt proud of him. During preproduction, as we cast the film and worked on locations

  and a budget, Deming was patient, modest, and even instructive, though it was patently clear I

  didn't know what I was doing. We'd gone out to dinner numerous times, laughing, bullshitting,

  comparing notes on new releases--he admitted, with some embarrassment, that he loved the

  latest Will Smith vehicle--and had become, I thought, genuine friends. Once he'd had me over

  to the apartment he'd rented across the street from the filming and made me a tuna fish

  sandwich "for old time's sake." He even wanted to set me up with a writer he knew in Oregon.

  On that count, I had demurred. I couldn't help still thinking about Luke, even though I'd never

  heard from him, not even after I sent the long and hopefully not too pleading letter explaining