Picture Perfect (2 page)

I trod down the stairs to the eleventh floor where the creative suites are located and shuffle down the hallway toward my office. A group of young girls standing at my assistant’s desk catch sight of me and scurry away like rats on a sinking ship. I’m sure they know every single word that Alan and I exchanged only three minutes ago.

“Did you see the numbers?” I ask of Jennifer, my blond, Prada-clad (courtesy of Daddy’s Platinum Visa) and perpetually perky assistant as I whiz by her desk, grabbing the Nielson ratings off the corner.

“Yeah, they were great!” she beams, obviously trying to conceal her knowledge of my now infamous tantrum in Alan’s office. “We blew away the competition.”

“Did we beat the bikini special on Fox?” I ask her as she follows me into my office.

“Uh, no.”

“Then we didn’t exactly blow them away.”

“Yeah, but that isn’t our target audience. I thought it only mattered how we did compared to relevant programming.”

“You’re starting to sound like an executive. Be careful. You might just end up becoming one.”

“Actually—”

“What the hell is that?” I say, indicating a cinnamon-raisin bagel sitting on my desk. “That does not look like a reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffin.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that. They were out.”

“So, you thought this would be a sufficient replacement?” I pick up the bagel and toss it into the trash bin. “I hate raisins.”

“Oh, I forgot! Raisins and egglplant.”

“And cherry tomatoes. And celery. Don’t you have a list somewhere?”

“Yes, I’m so sorry, Lauren. It won’t happen again.”

“I certainly hope not. You should know this by now.”

“You’re absolutely right,” she says, none of the twinkle leaving her eyes. I must admit that I somewhat enjoy terrorizing her. I think it’s the fact that her perkiness is so utterly disingenuous. All the assistants here are like that. It’s as if they have to go through some ass-kissing orientation before they can clock in.

I ease into my cushy leather chair, feeling my tummy rumble. Damn it, I really want that reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffin. Jennifer sits down in one of the suede designer guest chairs in front of my enormous mahogany desk.

I hired a foppish man in leather pants a couple of years ago to design my office, and what I ended up with was a lush Balinese-style sanctuary equipped with requisite palm trees and trickling water fountains. Everyone hated it. I couldn’t be more pleased. Why should I have to work in an environment so filled with glass and steel that even Superman’s ass would get tired? 

“The casting agency called and asked if they should continue casting for
A True Heart
, or wait until the contract issues are worked out with Jack Ford,” she informs me, her pen at the ready.

“Call them and tell them to continue casting the secondary roles,” I reply barely audibly over the grumbling in my stomach.

Jennifer leans forward, as if to say something in confidence. “Are we close to sealing that deal with Jack Ford?”

“Very close. Reserve a table for two at Spago for lunch. Call his agent to make sure he’s available for a sit down. I’ll sign him over Wolfgang’s roast chicken.”

I believe my stomach has now collapsed in upon itself and is beginning to devour my intestines. If I don’t get some food fast I’m likely to eat my own shoes.

“Jack is so hot right now. Are you sure you can get him to commit to TV?”

Jack Ford is the new “it” boy in Hollywood. He played a gay porn star dying of AIDS in an indie flick (which no one outside of Hollywood and New York would ever pay a nickel to sit through) with such sensitivity that even linebackers were weeping by the end of the movie. And he’s hot. Thick, wavy dark hair, deep brown eyes, full lips and rock hard abs. And he’s straight. An increasingly rare occurrence in this town. Basically, in LA, if the boy is pretty, he’s probably gay—openly or not.

“I always get my man,” I wink at her.

“I guess two Emmys and a Golden Globe are testament to that.”

Oh, she’s kissing up again. How lovely. I think I will strangle her with that Pucci scarf she’s so deftly wrapped around her neck.

“Awards are not the only measure of a film’s quality. They don’t mean jack if you don’t have the ratings to back them up. In television, it’s all about the numbers. You have to know what your audience wants.”

“Absolutely!”

“What else?”

“You got an invitation to the Women in Pictures luncheon being held at The Beverly Hills Hotel next Wednesday. Rebecca Walters is the guest speaker. How should I RSVP?”

“Yes, obviously. Rebecca is my boss, and one of the most respected female producers in Television. Of course, I’m going to attend.”

“Of course. And is there a plus one?”

She’s wrangling for an invitation of her own now. I hesitate for a millisecond and then say, “No.”

“Fine.” Jennifer makes a note on her pad, and I can tell she’s stung. I didn’t start getting invitations to industry functions until I was a fully vetted player. Why should she be any different?

“What else?”

She peruses the phone log in her lap. “The ad campaign for
A True Heart
has been awarded to a boutique company called Big Hat.”

“Big Hat?”

“Yeah, Big Hat.”

“Okay, set up a meeting with them, Alan Tate in Marketing, and myself for later this week. Anything else?”

“Yeah, um, Alan offered me a position in his department.”

“Alan who? Alan, my husband, Alan?”

“Y-yes,” she stammers.

“Well, what did you say?”

“I, uh, I accepted?”

“Is that a question? Did you or did you not accept a position with my husband?” I demand.

“I did,” she admits, hanging her head in shame. “I’m so sorry, Lauren, but Christie Davis left to go to Paramount and he needs a new Marketing Manager to lead the in-house marketing campaign for—”

“Marketing Manager!” I screech as the acids in my empty stomach start gurgling even more aggressively. “You didn’t even know that a one-sheet was a poster until I told you three months ago. You thought it was a sign-in roster! How the hell are you going to lead a marketing campaign?”

“I know what a one-sheet is now. I know a lot of things now. And Alan happens to believe in me,” she says smugly. “And you know I’ve always wanted to get into theatrical. This is just a stepping stone.”

“You promised me a year when I hired you.”

“I know I did, but this is just an opportunity I can’t pass up.”

So, not only did that fucking bastard ditch me, now he’s stealing my assistant! I could kill him!

“So, you’re leaving me, too?”

“Well, I am leaving, but I’ve called a temp agency, and you’ll have a new assistant in the morning.”

“A temp? Jennifer, a temp cannot do this job.”

“I was a temp when I first came here.”

“Yeah, six months ago, and you’re just now up to speed,” I huff. “This is the worst timing. How am I supposed to train someone new right before we go into production?”

“I’m sure your new assistant will be great. I’ll leave a ton of instructions for her.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” I whine.

“I’m not doing it to
you
, Lauren. I’m just, you know, following my dreams.

Oh, Jesus! Does she think that if I had followed my dreams this is where I’d be? VP of long-form at a cable network no one gives a shit about?

“Look, don’t worry. I’ll always be right upstairs if you need me.”

Well, at least that’s more than Alan offered when he packed up and moved into our Malibu home six months ago.

My stomach lets out a hellacious groan, and with only one day left to torture Jennifer, I decide to shift it into high gear.

“Fine. First duty of the day is to find me a reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffin. Go to every Starbucks within a five-mile radius if you have to, but get me that damn muffin. And I want it before my meeting with the Executive Team.”

This is particularly petty of me because there are sure to be loads of refreshments there, and possibly even a reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffin. And the meeting starts at ten o’clock on the dot. In twenty-three minutes.

“I’m on it!” she cheers as she bolts for the door.

“And don’t send an intern! They’ll screw it up,” I yell after her, thoroughly enjoying the cheap thrill of oppressing one of Hollywood’s erstwhile young wannabes while I still can. 

***

Just as I expected, the Executive Team Meeting (every Monday morning all the higher ups gather to boast over their projects and report on ratings coups) is stocked with every flavor muffin Starbucks carries, as well as a wide assortment of equally ass-expanding goodies. For some reason, we can’t seem to accomplish anything around here if there isn’t a buffet involved.

I was terrified that someone in the meeting would mention my outburst in Alan’s office, but of course they haven’t said anything—to my face. Some of the women stare pitifully at me, while many of the men try very hard not to even look at me. I spend most of the meeting stuffing food into my mouth every other second so as not to have to speak, but when it comes time for me to gloat about the success of my film,
Forever Starts Here
, I have no trouble talking with my mouth full.

“Preliminary Nielsen’s reports show that
Forever Starts Here
came in number three among women aged eighteen to forty-nine and number one among women aged eighteen to twenty-four. Ad sales during this film were our highest ever,” I laude. “There isn’t a feminine product or diet soft drink that didn’t advertise on our network during the show.”

“In short, we made bank,” Alan interjects, sending the rest of the team into a fit of fake laughter. He is always doing that to me. I’d be in the middle of a speech and Alan would decide to chime in with his own brand of humorless wit, effectively shutting me up for the rest of the event (even at our own wedding).  

“As I was saying,” I screech all too shrilly, bringing the room to a dead silence, “Saturday was one of our best nights financially, but also critically.
Forever Starts Here
received stellar reviews and there is a lot of Emmy buzz for both the lead actor and actress, as well as the overall picture.”

“You should just title your next film,
For Your Consideration
,” Alan mocks. Laughter once again fills the room, and I shove an entire strawberry in my mouth.

“I think we can all agree that Lauren’s film definitely helped put us over the top during sweeps week,” Rebecca Walters, the
grande dame
and president of Timeless Television offers when the chuckles finally cease. “I think you’ll be seeing bigger production budgets for next year’s films, Lauren.”

That shut everyone the hell up. My love life might be a fucking mess, but at least I am still the “golden girl” in Rebecca’s wise and perhaps slightly compassionate eyes.

As the meeting concludes, I feel reassured. That is, until Rebecca pulls me aside as everyone pours out of the conference room.

“Lauren, I hope that your personal problems won’t interfere with your professional duties here.”

“Of course not,” I bleat. “I’m totally committed to my work.”

Rebecca’s bright, blue eyes stare hard into mine, and I feel my knees begin to tremble. She places a bejeweled, veined hand on my shoulder, “I’d hate to see a young woman with such talent allow her career to falter because of a man.”

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can get anything out, she turns on her heels and heads back to her office, her pale blue Chanel suit disappearing down the hallway while my spine slowly crumbles.

Chapter 2

Rebecca’s words twirl around my head as I shuffle back to my office, feeling as lonely and wretched (not to mention bloated) as an overweight teenager in pink taffeta who’s been abandoned by her prom date. After stuffing myself with not one, but two reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffins, a plate of fresh fruit, a one-pump mocha latte, and half a bagel with cream cheese, I now have lunch at Spago and cramming some sort of roast bird down my throat to look forward to, all the while convincing Jack Ford that he’s nothing without Timeless Television. Luckily, my stomach is about as hollow as a Playboy Bunny’s head.

Honestly, though, the thought of trying to charm Jack Ford into playing the leading man in my next picture almost makes we want to vomit. The last thing I want to do now is chat up Hollywood’s hottest hunk. But, as Rebecca pointed out, I can’t afford not to. Luckily, I’m exceptionally good at schmoozing. So, you can imagine how easily a smile creeps onto my face at the sight of my six-foot-two, blond, brown-eyed style guru waiting for me outside my office.

“Dahhhling!” Giles coos at me. “Oh, I just heard the news! You poor thing!” he exclaims, wrapping his overly tanned, muscular arms around me. “I’m taking you out for a martini and a mani-pedi.”

“I can’t. I have to have lunch with Jack Ford.”

“You’d rather dine with that hack than with your dearest friend?” he pouts.  

“It’s a work thing. You know I’d never turn down martinis with you unless it was really, really important,” I say dragging him into my office and kicking the door closed behind us.

Giles slides into one of my guest chairs and props his feet up on my desk. “You’re not wearing that, are you?” he flicks his wrist at me.

“And what’s wrong with my suit?” I demand, planting my hands on my hips. “You bought it for me.”

“Are you trying to woo this guy, or bury him? You look like you’re dressed for a funeral.”

“Oh, maybe I am,” I say collapsing into my chair. “Everyone thinks I’m done for just because I’m getting divorced.”

“Fuck them. Come on, we’ll go pick out something new to wow this guy of yours.”

“I don’t feel like shopping now.”

Giles grabs at his chest and feigns heart failure. “Blasphemer!” he shouts at me. “Let’s just hope the design gods and goddesses will forgive you for such heresy!”

“Don’t make me laugh. I’ll throw up!”

“Hey, a little bulimia now and then isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Shut up! I mean it. I really will throw up. You don’t know how much crap I’ve eaten in the past hour.”