satisfied.
I was reading through the phone log, making sure it didn't have any typos, when the phone
rang, and Kylie interrupted one of her regular whisper-giggle sessions with yet another
assistant (tall, coltish Cici, in this case, whom Kylie had barely managed to introduce me to)
and said, "Oh God, don't answer it."
"Who is it?"
Kylie waved a dismissive hand and locked her arm through Cici's. "Back in five," she said, and
then the two of them vanished around the corner, Cici's kitten heels clicking along the shiny
floor. I told myself that Kylie must be a really efficient worker when she put her mind to it,
because she certainly spent a lot of time socializing.
The phone continued to ring, and I was sure that I saw one of the ferns pushed aside and a dark
eye gazing out at me. I couldn't let Iris see me sitting there like an idiot, failing to do one of the
most basic duties of my job, so I put on the headset and pressed the button that said Talk.
"Iris Whitaker's office," I said, imitating Kylie's answer-purr. I loved the way it felt to say that.
I'd even practiced in the bathroom: Iris Whitaker's office, may I help you? I could say it all
day--which was convenient, since it was a big part of my job. The fern in Iris's office shifted
back to its place.
"Hi, this is Dana McCafferty." The girl sounded like she was in junior high, except that I could
sense a very unchildlike confidence from just her introduction. "I'm calling about my script. I
sent it to Iris a few weeks ago. The Evolution of Evan? Can you tell me if it's been read?"
"I'm not really sure," I said. "I just started working here."
"The last girl I spoke to said she'd get back to me soon," Dana said. "And that was a week ago.
So I'm just following up."
"Just a minute," I said. I glanced at the shelf of scripts. It could be anywhere. "I should
probably take your number and call you back."
"Actually, it would be really great if you could just take a look and see if it's been read, or if it's
in the script log. You do have one of those, don't you?"
Yes, we did, but I couldn't remember where it was on my computer. I wasn't sure if I thought
Dana's pushiness was annoying or admirable. If I could just find the script in one of these
piles, though, I could tell her that much. "Hang on," I said. I felt proud of myself for my
initiative.
I took off my headset and walked over to a pile of scripts on the floor. If Kylie wasn't
interested in talking to Dana, she probably hadn't been all that interested in her script either. In
general, studios looked down on scripts from unrepresented writers. But everyone had to start
somewhere, I reasoned. Maybe Dana's screenplay was the next Casablanca. I dug down
among the pages, each ignored screenplay the product of someone's best and dearest dreams. It
was sad, but also a little funny: PyschoKiller Pigs was the title of one script, and Alien Gunfight
was another. (But hey, not every movie could be a sensitive indie comedy.) I was just about to
give up when I saw it: The Evolution of Evan, tucked between the story of two ninja warriors
who don't know they're brothers and what seemed like a Sideways rip-off. Like the others, it
didn't look touched.
I went back to the phone. "I found it," I declared. "I don't think anyone's gotten to it yet."
"Okay," Dana said, taking this information in stride. "So can you read it?"
I hesitated. My first thought was to say a polite no and hang up. But there was something
desperate in this girl's voice, and it was a desperation I recognized. It was how I might have
sounded had I ever been able to get Michael Deming on the phone. And I did want to start
reading screenplays--wasn't that part of the job? Prospecting for gold?
"Please," Dana said. "I think you might like it."
"All right," I heard myself say. "I guess."
"So you'll give me notes?" Dana asked. "I can come to your office next week. Monday? How's
Monday?"
Now this was something else entirely. "I'm going to have to check--" I began.
"I'm sorry, I'm just trying to move this along. You have to understand."
Just then I looked up to see Kylie walk back into the office holding another bottle of Diet Coke.
"Fine, I'll see you then," I said and hung up the phone.
"Don't tell me," Kylie said. "Dana?"
I nodded.
"You've got a lot to learn," Kylie said. But instead of sounding annoyed, she sounded almost
pleased.
CHAPTER THREE
It's official," I said, pulling my new BlackBerry--which Kylie had given me at the end of the
day with an it's-no-big-deal shrug--and a stack of freshly cut business cards out of my purse.
"You are looking at Taylor Henning, card-carrying employee of Metronome and BlackBerrywielding second assistant to Iris Whitaker, vice president of production."
"Ooh." On the bar stool next to me, Magnolia grabbed one of my business cards and turned it
over in her hands. I'd spent the last ten minutes telling her about the office, Iris, and Kylie, but
I'd waited until now to break out the big guns. "You're special." She grinned. "So tell me
honestly--scale of one to ten?"
"My day? Six," I said, grabbing another fistful of wasabi peas from the dish on the bar.
"Would have been an eight if I weren't such an embarrassment to myself."
Magnolia put down the business card and contemplated her gimlet. "Six isn't bad," she said.
"As far as first days go. But that Kylie girl sounds a little alpha to me. Just stay calm and
assertive. Alphas can totally handle that."
"Mags, you make it sound like she's a dog I've got to train. If anything, it's the other way
around. She's not the one who walked into the men's bathroom."
Magnolia was obsessed with dogs, dog trivia, dog training, and The Dog Whisperer. She
could eat an entire pan of brownies in a single sitting, and she was happily oblivious to fashion,
celebrity, and her own sex appeal. We'd been assigned to be roommates freshman year, and
while I'd always been a little mystified why the housing committee thought we'd get along, they
wound up being right. In college, we each had our own group of friends, but we always
managed to keep up with each other. She grew up in L.A. with her hippie parents and moved
out here after graduation, getting her own place. She worked two jobs to pay for it: in the
mornings, she walked the dogs of the rich and famous in Sullivan Canyon, and in the
afternoons, she put on a pink smock and waxed starlets, porn stars, and the occasional hirsute
gentleman at a salon called Joylie. It was sort of a weird combination, but Magnolia was sort of
a weird girl. Brilliant, certainly, but weird.
"Kylie's been helpful, really. I think she didn't want to baby me too much. She wanted me to
learn the ropes on my own."
"Right." Magnolia rolled her blue eyes. "We had a girl like that at Joylie. She gave me one of
her customers my first day, and I thought she was being nice, but it was just because the guy
had more hair on his back than a yeti. I used a whole vat of wax on him. Oh, hi, two burgers,"
Magnolia said to the bartender, a Vincent Gallo look-alike who'd been giving her the eye ever
since we sat down. "Medium-rare, one salad, one fries. We're splitting, right? You're not going
to make me eat all the lettuce by myself?" she asked me.
I nodded.
I was glad to be living with someone like Magnolia--someone who wasn't afraid to
eat a hamburger or wear jeans and flip-flops to a bar. Even though she grew up here, L.A.
hadn't gotten to Magnolia, and I admired that. I didn't want L.A. to get to me either, the way it
had clearly claimed Kylie--though I wouldn't mind feeling a little more confident. I also
wouldn't mind a few new pairs of shoes and some nice highlights. Or a cute little Prius, but
let's not get greedy.
"I'll be right back," Magnolia said and smiled as she turned down the hall to the ladies' room.
"Don't hook up with anyone while I'm gone."
I watched Magnolia walk down the hall, and so did the bartender.
"Don't worry," said a voice on my left. "The first day's always the hardest."
I turned to see a startlingly cute guy in a pin-striped suit standing beside me. His eyes were a
warm dark brown and he wore his hair in that scruffy, slept-on style that I couldn't help liking,
even though it probably meant he spent half an hour in front of the mirror just to make it look
that way.
"Sorry, I couldn't help overhearing," he said. "I've been trying to get the bartender's attention,
but he's just been ogling your friend this whole time."
He smiled at me and leaned in a little closer, and suddenly I felt pretty sure he was flirting with
me. I blushed and ducked my head. I hadn't flirted with a guy since Brandon and could barely
even remember what it felt like.
"I'm sorry for eavesdropping, but it was only in the most discreet and polite way." He grinned
and held out his hand. "Mark Lyder. With Ingenuity. And congratulations. Iris Whitaker's
office is pretty impressive."
Ingenuity was one of the biggest talent agencies in L.A. It took me a moment to follow through
with a handshake.
"I'm Taylor Henning," I said. "But I guess you know everything else about me."
"I don't, really," he said, moving still closer. "But let me take a stab at it. You're from the
Midwest, but you went to college on the East Coast. You're new to L.A. It kind of freaks you
out, being here, but you're totally excited. You're an optimist by nature and a very nice person.
Your boyfriend back East misses you terribly." He smiled, watching my reaction. "Am I
close?"
"God, is it that obvious?" I brushed my bangs back from my forehead, alarmed at being spotted
so easily for a newbie. I decided I really ought to see about those highlights and contemplated
getting a spray-on tan too. Maybe I'd even get a new driver's license picture while I was at it.
Mark laughed. "It's one of my party tricks." He gestured around the bar, to the black leather
couches and the only marginally hip people sitting on them. "This place really shouldn't be one
of your first impressions of L.A. I'm only here because my friend lives around the corner, and I
can't get him to go anywhere else. We ought to get you to a cooler place." He turned to the
bartender, who had finally wandered over. "Two Maker's, one rocks, one neat."
"We?" I asked, trying to sound flirtatious.
"I meant me," he said. "Assuming the boyfriend won't have a problem with it."
"There's no boyfriend," I said quickly. He was so cute that I didn't mind admitting this.
The bartender placed his drinks on the bar, and Mark threw down a twenty. "How's Koi?"
"Um, Koi's great."
"Okay, then. Tomorrow night." He dug into his jacket pocket and produced a thick, embossed
business card. "Six-thirty. You eat sushi, right?"
Before I could answer, he pressed the card into my palm. "I can't wait to hear about the second
day," he said, walking away. "I hope it's a nine."
Magnolia, who had been lurking at the end of the bar, plopped down eagerly in her seat. "What
happened?" she asked.
I looked at her with wide, surprised eyes. "I think I just got asked out."
"By who?"
"He's over there in the corner. Don't look now!"
Magnolia ignored me, squinting prettily into the dim light.
"I think he's an agent," I said.
Magnolia wrinkled her nose. "He's good-looking," she said. "But if he's an agent, I'd be
careful. They're jackals, you know--or hyenas, actually. Hyenas are bigger. And you, Taylor
Henning, are a darling little Lhasa apso."
"Shut up," I said, pretending to be annoyed. But really I felt quite pleased with myself. My day
had just gone up at least one point.
CHAPTER FOUR
Good morning, everyone," Iris announced, slipping a pair of tortoiseshell glasses onto her
aquiline nose. "Let's get started, shall we?" It was ten o'clock on Tuesday morning, and the
creative department was gathered around the gleaming conference table for its weekly meeting.
I rubbed my eyes--I'd had a hard time sleeping the night before. Partly it was the excitement of
my second day on the job, and partly it was the lumpy mattress I'd bought on serious markdown at a discount furniture store. But I readied my pen and paper while the creative execs
stopped whispering and put away their BlackBerries.
Iris scanned the checklist I'd just printed out for her. "Where are we with Camus's Nightmare?
Does anyone want to direct this for us?"
From my seat along the wall, I eyed the other assistants, who also sat with notepads on their
laps, facing their bosses' backs. To my immediate right was Amanda, the raven-haired girl
Cici, whose uncle was a famous screen-writer who had given up movies for writing rumfueled diatribes for the Huffington Post. And past Cici was Wyman, who had traded
yesterday's skinny tie in for a pair of thick, purposefully nerdy-looking glasses. He was the
only one of the assistants with an actual graduate-school degree in film. He wouldn't let us
forget it, either; every sentence out of his mouth referenced his time at Tisch.
It had become clear to me that Kylie, who sat in a cloud of lily perfume on my right, was the
undisputed queen of the assistants. The others came by at least once a day and hovered in front
of her desk, gossiping, and if they didn't have any good dirt about which creative executive at
Columbia was sleeping with which junior executive at CAA, they'd just talk about Project
Runway or Rock of Love. To me it seemed like wasting time; Kylie said they were "monitoring
the shifts in contemporary popular culture."
" Camus's Nightmare has been a tough sell." This came from Tom Scheffer, a bald but
extremely fit man in his late thirties. He set down his sludge-colored smoothie on the
conference table with a thunk, as if to punctuate this speech. "Turns out an existential thriller set
in Algeria isn't exactly pulling in the A list. We've got feelers out for Brett Ratner, but he seems
pretty over-committed. And Ben Stiller might be interested."
Iris wrinkled her nose. "Ben Stiller?"
"But then he'd have to star," Tom said.
"Well, if he thinks he can play a twenty-three-year-old jujitsu champion, then more power to
him," Iris said dryly, and everyone chuckled. "But really, let's be serious. What about Holden?"
Iris continued, turning in the other direction. "Where are we with him? Lisa?"
Holden MacIntee was Vanity Fair's newest cover and Hollywood's latest obsession. After
starring in a small independent film that happily showcased his smoldering green-eyed gaze
and Olympian phy
sique--not to mention his not-inconsiderable talent--the twenty-three-yearold star was suddenly on everyone's short list for the next summer blockbuster.
"Spoke to Kevin yesterday," said Lisa Amorosi, a frizzy-haired executive vice president, in her
Brooklyn-inflected monotone. "He said Holden is so sorry for canceling lunch the other day--"
"As he should be," Iris said, raising her eyebrows.
"And he likes the script, but he has reservations."
Development people hated "reservations." They usually seemed to preface some outrageous
demand, like an entire script rewrite, or an additional trailer for the star's pet guinea pig.
Iris slid her glasses off her nose. "What kind of reservations?"
"He doesn't want to be typecast as, you know, a 'hunk,'" Lisa explained, applying a pair of air
quotes to the word.
Iris snorted. "Has he looked in the mirror lately?"
Lisa rolled her eyes. "You know these kids. They all want to be Daniel Day-Lewis when
they're really just Zac Efron."
Everyone laughed, but Iris's face had darkened.
"This isn't funny," Iris said sternly. "We need to figure out next summer now," she continued.
"We are not going to be part of another Variety think piece on why movies are dead or
mentioned in some snarky New York magazine story about how no one can make a decent film
anymore, let alone one that critics like and people actually pay to go to."
"Did you read that Manohla Dargis thing in the Times--," a young man in a linen blazer began,
but Iris silenced him with a glance.
"I'm not asking for miracles, people, I just want a decent god-damned movie. Actually, that's
not true. I want a great script and an A-list star, and I want them wrapped up in a package with
a big red bow."
On the pad on my lap, I scribbled Great Script/Star. It didn't really seem all that helpful.
Iris put her hands behind her head and sighed; everyone else in the room sat up straighter.
"What I do not want is this movie about a young boy growing up and coming to terms with his
sexuality in the Dark Ages, a project which for some baffling reason has been the talk of nearly
everyone I know and which Metronome is going to pass on with a sense of great satisfaction
and confidence," she said. "I don't care how talented a director James Foreman is, it'll never