Skinnydipping (9 page)

He looked at me for a minute, then said, in a lower, more frightening voice, “Destroying my cars and my relationships isn’t going to work for you.” Then he closed my door.

“I’ll be out of here as soon as I can, so don’t worry about having to put up with me too much longer!” I’d shrieked at my closed door, hating myself for losing my temper when he’d stayed so cool. I felt like a rebellious teenager. I needed to learn to keep my emotions on ice like he did.

So here I was, on the cusp of a whole new stage of my life—and I couldn’t figure out what to wear! I had bought some inexpensive clothes at Rampage that seemed appropriate for the California weather, figuring I could make them look good with the right accessories, but I just wasn’t sure what Mia meant by “comfortable.” Being from New York, I couldn’t quite imagine showing up on my first day of work at a new job wearing a T-shirt and shorts. It just seemed so … disrespectful. Still, I didn’t want to look stodgy and overdressed.

Finally, I decided on a fitted, light cotton sundress and wedge sandals. I looked at the clock. Four-thirty. Kill me now. I had thirty
minutes to get there. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about traffic. The set where they wanted me was literally just down the street, in a vacated beach club. I could have walked—but I’d already learned that the rumors were true—nobody walks in L.A.

On the way out the door, I grabbed a light sweater. I’d imagined L.A. would be hot, but it was June Gloom—the time of year when mornings are clammy and chilly and the haze doesn’t burn off until about one p.m. In the morning, it feels like it could snow. By the late afternoon, it’s blazing hot.

I went out to the driveway and got in my car. After the accident, my father said he would get me my own car, so I wouldn’t wreck any more of his. He took me to a used car lot and bought me a blue Ford Escort. I tried to be grateful, but I kept thinking,
An Escort? You’re rich, and you’re going to buy your only daughter a used Ford Escort?
I dreaded pulling into the beach club parking lot in that thing, but what choice did I have?

As I got out of the car, I could see craft services unloading the daily spread, and I panicked. Big tubs of candy, cookies, pretzels … I knew I wasn’t going to be able to resist that stuff. Of course, I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. I could see it now: I’d start shoving pretzels and Red Vines into my mouth at five a.m., I’d be ready for lunch by midmorning, and by the end of the day, I’d have managed to fit in seven meals. I couldn’t start eating this early. I just
couldn
’
t
! On that fateful day when they suddenly needed an extra for a beach scene because someone didn’t show up, they’d point at me, and hand me a bikini, and I wouldn’t be able to fit into it. Then they’d say, “Sorry, Faith, we thought you wanted this,” and they’d choose someone else—someone thinner, with more willpower.

Pull yourself together, Faith. Get your mind on business.
I took a deep breath and headed toward the building. I could see Mia through a window talking with a tall bearded man.

“Faith! I’m glad you’re here,” she said as I came in the door. “I need you to run these scripts over to the Burbank office. Make six copies of this one, five copies of this one, and six copies of this one,” she
said, piling scripts into my arms. Each script had a Post-it note with a number on it. “Then get this form signed by a man named Vince Beck. He’s one of our associate producers. The receptionist will tell you where to find him. Don’t leave it for him; actually watch him sign it. Fax it to this number, and also to me at this number, and then bring it back here with the photocopies of the script.” She paused. “Are you writing this down?” Obviously I wasn’t.

“I’ll remember,” I said with confidence, repeating the items to myself, and thinking about what she had told me about doing everything to the best of my ability.

“There’s more. Take this card so you can get onto the lot.
Don’t
lose it, it’s your pass. Otherwise, you won’t get in. Take
this
card and bring me back a blended nonfat mocha from the Bean. Got it?”

“The what?”

“The Bean. On Sunset Boulevard.”

“Oh. OK, absolutely!” A company credit card! I’d never been given one of those before. I could do this. I was great at this kind of high-speed multitasking. I turned to go.

“Oh, and Faith?” Mia called after me. “Get yourself a coffee, too.”

I found the NBC studio lot and parked my car, then gathered the scripts and papers and cards into my arms and headed for the gate. I loved the thrill of showing my card and being admitted. I might have been a grunt, but I
belonged here.

I took the pile of scripts to the
Hollywood & Highland
office, just down the hall from the main set, and asked the receptionist where the copy machine was. “And I need to speak to Vince Beck.”

“He’s occupied right now, can I take a message,” she said, as if it wasn’t even a question. She was a bored, enviably skinny brunette. Are they all frickin’ clones out here? Are there
any
chubby girls, or do they detain them at the city limits?

“Mia said I had to speak with him personally.”

She sighed and picked up the phone.

“It’ll be just a minute,” she said with a yawn.

I took the scripts to the massive industrial copy machine, lifted
the Post-it note off the first stack, and put the script facedown in the slot on the lid. After I pressed a series of buttons—six, collate, copy—I turned and the receptionist said, “You can go back there now.”

“Can I leave my copies running?”

“Sure.”

She pointed at a door down a hallway. I picked up the folder with the form in it and nervously approached the door. I peeked in and saw him reading a script at his desk. Shit. He was really hot.

I instantly regretted my outfit. I backed up and quickly pulled my hair out of its ponytail and ran my fingers through it. I fumbled for the lip gloss in my pocket and slicked it on. Note to self:
When getting dressed
, never
assume you’re not going to meet a hot guy.
Let’s try this again.

I stepped back into the doorway.

“Excuse me,” I said, trying to appear both sexy and businesslike.

Vince Beck looked up at me. He had shaggy, swept-back gold hair, deep green eyes, the tan of a surfer, and a smile that made me go weak in the knees. This was an associate producer? I hadn’t yet seen any producers that looked like this guy. He looked more like a musician. Or a major mistake waiting to happen.

“Hey there, darling. What can I do for you?” he said, his eyes twinkling. He had an Australian accent. Just show me to his bedroom, right now.

I cleared my throat and steadied myself. Why was everyone in California so goddamned hot? “Mia asked me to get you to sign this,” I said, holding out the folder. I did my standard check: no wedding ring.

“Well then, why don’t you come on inside?” he said. I put the folder on his desk, but he didn’t look at it. He just kept looking at me. “Are you the new production assistant?”

“The one and only. Or… not the one and only, if they hired more than one …” I stuttered. So much for being at ease.

“Relax, darling, you
are
the one and only!” He gazed at me for a long moment, winked, then looked down at the folder and opened it. “Ah, yes. Well.” He reached for a gold pen and signed, then held the
folder out to me. When I leaned in to take it, he pulled it away, just out of reach.

“Not so fast. First, why don’t you tell me a bit about you?”

I smiled. I knew this game.

“What do you want to know?” I said coyly, subtly tossing my hair back behind my shoulder.

“For one thing, what’s a pretty New Yorker like you doing in a place like this?”

“How do you know I’m from New York?”

He shrugged. “Accents don’t lie, sweetheart.”

I blushed, in spite of myself. I did
not
want to seem taken in by someone so obvious. “Then I have to ask what an Aussie is doing in a place like this?”

He laughed. “Touché. So let me guess. We’re an
actress
, are we?” He enunciated the word
actress
in a tone I was sure was condescending. I hated the sound of it, but decided I could play along.

“I don’t know about
you …
but
I’m
trying to be an actress.”

He laughed. “And a bit of a smart ass, eh?”

“That I can cop to,” I said.

“Well then, here’s your form, Miss Brightstone. You can tell Mia I approve.” Holy shit, did he mean he approved of me?

“How do you know my name?” I asked, flattered. He really was cute. A player, obviously, but definitely cute. And obviously doing well financially. I made a mental note
never
to ask him what he drives. If I was lucky, I’d see for myself.

“I make it my business,” he said, inscrutably.

“Hmm,” I said flirtatiously. “What will you find out next?” I turned and walked out the door, conscious of my posture. Proud of myself for handling the interaction without coming off like a complete idiot, I strutted to the copy machine. The receptionist watched me.

“Careful with that one,” she said.

“Yeah, I can spot them,” I said conspiratorially. She gave me a second look, like maybe I wasn’t clueless. “Can I fax this?” I asked.

She held out her hand. “I can do it for you.”

The beach club was a
much different place than it had been at five a.m. Inside and out back, it was crowded with cameras, lights, big boxes of equipment, cords running everywhere, dollies loaded with props, and people—tech guys and directors and producers and actors, beautiful actors.

Linda Heath, who played Brighton, the powerful business-savvy blonde who ran the hotel, lounged in a wicker loveseat next to Chris Thomas, the dark, devil-may-care actor who played Jayden, the philandering husband of Isabel, aka Donna Shannon. A leggy teenager with long blonde hair who played Bliss, Brighton’s illegitimate teenage daughter, sat on the floor with her legs crossed, wearing a bikini. A woman who looked like her mother hovered nearby on the periphery.

I looked around for Donna Shannon—there she was, standing by the wide French doors that opened onto the beach, staring out at the water. Too good to talk to anyone.

“There you are!” Mia startled me, coming up from behind. “Thanks for the coffee. And the scripts. And the fax.” She took things out of my arms, one at a time. “Ogling the cast? Who wouldn’t? Such pretty people.”

She winked at me, and somehow I didn’t think she was all that impressed with any of them.

But I was. I soaked it all in. I watched plain-looking people go into the makeup trailer and come out looking fabulous. I watched the set go from dark and shadowy to perfectly lit, the cameras sliding by on their dollies, and most of all, I watched the actors.

They were living the dream. Sexy, exciting, beautiful, rich. And here I was—making photocopies and getting coffee. I had to catch up; I felt a sense of urgency, my career clock ticking. I turned to Mia. “What now? What would you like me to do next?”

“I need you to call craft services and confirm the vegetarian order, which we didn’t receive yesterday. Here’s the number. Ask for Martha.
Use the phone over in that room. I’ll meet you in there in fifteen minutes. I’ve got some more errands for you to run.”

“OK, I’m on it.”

“What did you think of Vince Beck?” Mia asked, while looking over one of the scripts.

“He’s a man,” I said lightly.

“Yes he is.” She laughed. “I’m sure he was quite interested in you.”

“No more than any other twenty-something girl who walks by his office, I imagine,” I said, although I couldn’t help being flattered yet again.

“He’ll probably hound you for a while, just so you know. It’s his pattern.”

“I’ll consider myself warned,” I said.

But I couldn’t help looking forward to it. I was getting to know all about L.A. power guys from Brooke. They never commit … until they do. It was mogul roulette. When they stop spinning, if the ball goes into your number, you’re the one they marry. They don’t go out looking for gorgeous, amazing women. They have plenty to choose from, and they marry the one who happens to be there when the time is right. When they’re ready, and it’s good for their careers, they get themselves trophy wives. If you happen to be the number it stops on, there you are. It usually isn’t the best-looking girl. It’s rarely the hot model they’ve been dating for years. It could be an assistant, another producer, someone totally unexpected. Maybe it was going to be Vince Beck’s time, and I would be there. Brooke once told me, “You might have a shot if you’re the girl who’s slept with the fewest of their friends.” Well, Vince Beck … here I am. New in town. I don’t even
know
your friends.

The next few weeks flew by quickly, and it didn’t take me long to realize that I wouldn’t be interacting with the cast members, like I had imagined. I was too busy running errands for the crew. At the main studio, I was more often in the office making photocopies or in the commissary getting coffee or food than anywhere near the
set, although I often peeked in and watched for a few minutes when I passed by and they happened to be filming.