Oh! You Pretty Things (5 page)

I
binge-read six gossip websites, then break down and call Donna. Not knowing if she's coming or not is almost worse than finding out she definitely is.

“Sugar beet!” she says when she answers the phone. “I'm in the middle of packing.”

“You're really coming?”

“Well, of course I'm coming, lamb chop. Didn't you get my texts?”

“I did,” I say. And I let it lie there like a coiled snake.

Apropos of nothing, she says, “Oh, I've been meaning to tell you. I've been putting acai in my smoothies lately and I lost five pounds without even trying.”

Which obviously means that I need a shit ton of acai berries and should immediately find someone who can supply me in bulk. One of my mother's major beefs with me is that I don't present myself the way she'd like. Whenever I see her, she invariably greets me with a comment about my appearance. Layers of sugar over ground glass:

You changed your hair. It's . . . different.

Wow, that's quite a dress you're wearing.

Are you taking something for your skin?

I don't know. Maybe acai berries are the answer. Acai smoothies, acai on my oatmeal, acai in my sunflower-sprout salads. I feel better already.

Then she says, “Is there a health-food store near you?”

Which is like asking if you can get saltwater taffy on the Atlantic City boardwalk. There's the granolafied hippie fest of the One Life, practically in the lobby of my building, and a giant Whole Foods on Lincoln and Rose. There's the indie Rainbow Acres near Venice Circle, and there's Rawvolution right up Main, which isn't a health-food store per se, but they'd have me hooked up to an acai berry IV if I walked in with a handful of twenties and the wrong kind of pallor. And that's just within walking distance.

There's a thrust and parry to my exchanges with my mother that's as nuanced as a fencing exhibition. No blood is drawn, it's just a show of skill designed to throw the other party off guard. I had a boyfriend once—well, not really a boyfriend, because he had an actual girlfriend who he took on dates and everything—who was on the high school fencing team. He loved to pepper conversations with fencing terms. He was all
en garde
and
riposte
and
pas de touché
, which, by the way, is different from
touché
. It's what the aggressor says when they've struck a glancing blow, to graciously acknowledge that the hit should not be counted.

Pas de touché
is not a concept my mother would understand.

“Where are you staying?” I say, then mentally kick myself for even going there.

“I haven't gotten that far, snickerdoodle,” she says. “I'll call you tomorrow. Big kiss.”

Then she's just gone and I'm holding the dead phone in my hand.

After my
derobement
from my mother—that's when you avoid your opponent's attempt to trap your blade—I pour myself a mug of wine from the Bota box on the counter and Google Tyler for hours. It's almost like meditating.

The Oscar, the Grammy, and the Emmy just scratch the surface. I listen to his stuff, and I'm a little blown away. And a little excited. Maybe this is it. I mean, nobody dreams of being the assistant, the gofer, the lackey, but maybe basking in a reflected glow isn't just the best I can do, maybe it's exactly what I need.

When Megan comes home, I spring from my room to tell her the good news. Got a job, he even offered an advance. I don't mention anything about Donna.

“Boof,” she says, nonplussed by my enthusiasm, “it's not a deal until the check clears.”

“I don't know, it seems like a thing.”

“You didn't close the deal with him directly?”

“Well, he has to run it up the flagpole with his people.”

“Ugh,” Megan says.

“Don't shit in my cornflakes. I'm optimistic about it.”

“Oh, honey, that is such a rookie mistake,” she says with a flash of concern in her eyes and a furrow in her smooth yet un-Botoxed brow.

Then she takes me to dinner to celebrate, because we're out of champagne.

M
y phone rings the next morning at the ungodly hour of 8:05. The caller ID reads
UNKNOWN
but I'm pretty sure that my job offer from Tyler is imminent, so I shake my head like a cartoon dog and grab it on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” I croak.

“Jess Dunne? Please hold for Cassidy Shaylan.” The phone clicks into a near-silent hiss that gives me a second to guzzle a mouthful of water from the bottle on my bedside table, then the disembodied voice clicks back. “I have Jess Dunne for you, Ms. Shaylan.”

A voice booms through my earpiece like the landing of
Air Force One
on a deserted tarmac. “Jennifer? It's Cassidy Shaylan, Tyler Montaigne's manager.”

She pauses, and while instinct tells me I should fill the space with my adoration, I was asleep until about forty-five seconds ago, and I'm still kind of astonished that it's not Tyler himself on the phone. Maybe I've underestimated his celebrity value.

“Hi,” I say. Slick.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No, no, of course not,” I say, and it sounds like I'm gargling marbles.

“Good,” she says. “I've been up since five, which is what Tyler will expect if you're going to be his new assistant.”

I'm not exactly a morning person, but what am I supposed to say? “Right. Good!”

“Let me get to the point. Tyler took quite a liking to you, and he'd like to offer you a month's trial to see if the two of you are a good fit.”

“That sounds like a smart way to move forward,” I say, thinking,
I'm working for an Oscar winner whose manager vets his new hires. Suck it, gluten-free croissants!

“He'll work out the schedule with you,” Cassidy continues. “He just finished a film and he's taking a break for a few weeks.”

“That's fine, um, sure, that's good,” I say.

“I'm going to give you the number for Tyler's business manager. He's expecting your call. One month. Twenty dollars an hour. I'm sure we'll be talking soon.”

She severs the connection while I'm still thanking her. And holy shit, I have a big-girl job. At least for a month. We'll deal with the fact that Kenner told me he made twenty-five an hour after they've fallen in love with me.

My first day working for Tyler is like a “meet-cute” montage in a romantic comedy. First of all, it turns out he doesn't want me until the luxuriously sensible hour of 10:30
A.M
.

“I'm not a morning person,” he said on the phone the night before.
Hallelujah.
“Come around ten. No, make it ten thirty. Let's not be too ambitious.”

Sounds good to me. I'm not sure what Kenner's problem was, because Tyler is a dreamboat, sweet and casual, adorably rumpled when he greets me at the front door in what looks like the same jeans from the other day and a tattered, vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

“Throw your shit anywhere,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his lit cigarette.

People smoke in L.A. It trickles down from the celebrities, who smoke so they can fit into their size-00 jeans, and to create a filter between themselves and the rest of the world. It's every actor's dilemma—pay attention to me but don't look at me.

I stow my backpack on the paisley-covered window seat in the sunroom, hesitating for a moment because the fabric is lush and spotless, unlike any of my belongings, which have been exposed to four miles of beach salt and road dirt as I pedaled over on my bike.

Every surface in the house is polished and sparkling: the bird's-eye maple Biedermeier dining table, the Louis XV rolltop desk in the sunroom with its gilt-edged green leather inlay; even the wrought iron of the antique campaign chairs on the deck gleams with a burnished sheen and the striped fabric cushions look crisp and clean, which strikes me as a little odd because it's been raining for three days and this is the first sunny day we've had all week. Yet everything feels comfortable and lived in, like a page from a Ralph Lauren catalogue or
Elle Décor
, not stuffy and formal like
Architectural Digest.
I've never seen anything quite like it, and I'm instantly house-smitten.

“I just want to get you used to the lay of the land. You know,
mi casa es su casa
and all that.”

“Great,” I say, because “I do” would be too forward at this juncture.

Tyler moves through the house as I trail behind him, pointing out things that slipped through the cracks after Kenner's departure. The French doors to the deck are swollen from the uncharacteristically damp weather and need to be planed. The climbing roses have a white fungus that the plant guys need to look at.

I jot notes in a notebook with a leather spine and a brown Kraft paper cover, and I'm inordinately pleased when I catch Tyler eyeing it approvingly because, seriously, his taste is beyond impeccable.

His cell phone rings nonstop, and after the first couple callers, he tosses it into the silverware drawer in the kitchen.

The kitchen is more amazing than my wettest kitchen dreams. A six-burner Viking range, a double-door SubZero, an oversize Bosch dishwasher—the works. This whole job thing is so fairy-tale ridiculous that I'm starting to panic. Fortunately, there's a La Marzocco GS/3—a seven-thousand-dollar espresso machine, all stainless steel and dry steam and manual preinfusion—just waiting there for a chance to show Tyler how awesome I am.

Except he won't let me fire it up.

“There's something weird with it,” he tells me. “I think we need to send it back.”

Which sucks. But I just smile and say, “Do you cook?”

“Not really,” Tyler says. “Do you?”

“I love cooking,” I say. “What do you like to eat?”

“I'm easy about food these days. I've been living on croissants from Starbucks and burgers and steak sandwiches from 17th Street Café.”

“Really?” I say. “You don't strike me as a burger guy.”

“I'm totally a burger guy. As a matter of fact, I'd like to be a burger guy right now. Why don't we take a run up there? I'll take you to lunch.”

“That sounds fantastic,” I say.

Free lunch, cute new boss. Better than Maui.

“Let me throw on a clean shirt,” he says, retrieving his phone from the drawer and disappearing into his bedroom.

I peek into the cupboards—Baccarat rocks glasses, Arte Italica white porcelain coffee mugs with pewter bases, simple Tiffany flatware—then hurriedly arrange myself in what I hope is a casual pose against the perfectly worn limestone countertop as he returns, having an animated phone conversation with a shrill voice on the other end that buzzes in the cozy kitchen.

“Cassidy, you're overreacting. I was just . . .” He looks over at me and shrugs apologetically. “You know what? Jess is here. Let me call you back in two minutes.” He disconnects the call from the button on the Bluetooth in his ear and turns to me. “Sorry, that was my manager.”

And I have a weird feeling like maybe he doesn't realize that Cassidy and I already spoke. There's a weird thing that happens in Hollywood sometimes where the talent gets protected by layers of agents and managers and assistants, and I'm not sure where I fall in this structure right now, so I'm just going to keep my mouth uncharacteristically shut.

“Listen,” he says, before I have time to second-guess myself. “Why don't you run up and get us lunch at 17th Street Café and I'll be done by the time you get back?”

“Sure,” I say. “But, uh, I'm on my bike.”

“Right, your bike.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, it's as good a time as any for you to get familiar with the cars. Do you drive stick?”

“Of course,” I say. “Since I was sixteen.”

“Great,” he says. “Take the Carrera. The keys are on the hook by the door.”

His phone bleats the opening bars of Wagner's “Ride of the Valkyries.”

He grimaces. “That's my agent. I have to take this.”

“Of course,” I say. “What do you want on your burger?”

“They know me,” he says. “Just make sure you talk to Kyle. There's a credit card in the silver box on the ottoman. I always tip thirty percent.”

“Perfect,” I say. All this, and a big tipper.