The Second Assistant (25 page)

“Lara. That’s too far. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Don’t be such a pussy, Elizabeth. You have to live dangerously. Anyway, I’ve done it before.”

“Not from here, you haven’t. Can you just come inside for a second? Please. I really want to talk to you about something.”

She laughed again recklessly and took a step closer to the mossy slate edge of the roof. I looked frantically into the attic for inspiration. I’d been hoping for a safety net or something polelike that I could reach out and guide her in with. Or even a stray partygoer, perhaps. Naturally, there was no such thing. All that was in the attic were old boxes, books, and furniture. They’d obviously cleaned out the house but never discovered the attic.

“He doesn’t care if I live or die anyway.”

My attention was drawn back to the roof, where Lara was now peering down intently toward the minuscule rectangle of water.

“Who, Lara?” I needed to get her back in the house before (a) she jumped or (b) someone realized she was serious and called the police. Then it would hit the newspapers and become an absolute fiasco. No one would ever believe that it wasn’t sheer misery from working at The Agency.

“My boyfriend. You’re so good and moral you’ll think I’m evil, Elizabeth, but he’s married.” She started to cry.

“Lara, why don’t you come over here, and we can talk about it?”

Lara laughed scornfully behind her tears. “I don’t want to die, Elizabeth. I just wanted to have fun. Forget for a while.”

“Well, whether you’re planning it or not, if you put so much as a foot wrong out there, you’re history,” I warned.

She turned sharply to me. “I’m history anyway. See, I’m dressed as Marie Antoinette.”

“Okay, time for jokes is up, Lara. Now, please just come in, and we’ll talk about your married man.”

“I still might do it,” she warned with a defiant toss of her head. The wig went tumbling down the slope of the roof, dropping into the pool. A shocked groan drifted up on the chilly evening breeze from the crowd below. And, terrifyingly, at that moment I believed she
might
really do it.

What I needed was a distraction, something to take her mind off whatever she was trying so hard to forget. I glanced into the attic and noticed the books again. They looked like old classics. I swung my legs back inside and went to check out the volumes. I picked one up and brought it closer to the window.

“Wow, Lara! Look at this. It’s an old copy of
Anna Karenina
. Oh, my God! Check out the binding. It’s so beautiful.” I pretended to be entranced and flipped carefully through its delicate, yellowing pages. It was a shot in the dark, but, miraculously, Lara was by my side a moment later.

“Let me see.” She sat down on the outside of the window next to me and took the book from me. “It is beautiful,” she said as she opened it and read out loud, “ ‘Vengeance is mine, and I will repay,’ ” from the title page. I breathed a sigh of relief as Lara melted into a veritable swimming pool of tears. I glanced out the window, and, after a moment of vertigo, I saw that the crowd was already dispersing. Thank God for short attention spans. No one would remember it in the morning. Or the ones who did would assume it was just a struggling actress trying to get attention in order to land herself representation or a part in a movie.

Now that she was peaceful again, I reached into the room and dragged out a couple of fur coats that were tumbling from a wooden chest. I wondered whether the real Marilyn might have left one of these behind after a party so many moons ago. I draped one around Lara’s shoulders and one around my own.

“So, sweetie, what’s really the matter?” I asked Lara.

“Well, I’ve been going out with this married guy for the last two years. Then I broke up with him yesterday. He’s always cheated, even on me, and it hasn’t always bothered me, but now I think he might
really be into someone else who he works with.” She looked distraught. I put my arm around her and led her inside. “Anyway, it just wasn’t happening, and it’s not who I am. I want more for myself.” She collapsed on the dusty wooden floor clutching her book.

Amid hiccupping sobs, Lara explained how she’d met her married man at a nightclub when she was still in graduate school at UCLA. She’d been bartending to make ends meet, and he’d come in and made her laugh. He was a freak, but a charming one, and their affair didn’t start for another year.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m up and down, colliding between joy and despair. It’s miserable. I can barely have fun because I’m so confused.”

I untied my maid’s apron and handed it to her to use as a Kleenex. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Lara. You’re just in a difficult situation.”

“It’s just that whenever I think about living my life without him, I lose all interest in life itself. I know it sounds so stupid and absurdly romantic. I know he’s bringing me down. But every time he promises to swear off other women, he stumbles. I just wish life could be different. I wish I could learn to follow my own advice.” Then she fixated on her nails and said, “I’m a hypocrite, Elizabeth. He’s in the industry.”

“He is?” I had a moment of nausea. “His name isn’t Luke Lloyd, is it?” I asked.

Lara looked at me quizzically. “The producer of
Wedding Massacre
?”

Shit, I’d seriously blown my cover, but she couldn’t be mad at me anymore, not after that revelation. “Yeah. I just met him and . . .”

“He’s not married, Lizzie, so even if you did break all the rules and sleep with him, you’d be way ahead of me, babes.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that. I just keep seeing him. And he’s nice to me and remembers my name. But he’s way out of my league.”

Lara delivered a swift kick to my shin. Which really hurt. “No one is out of your league, you stupid girl. Elizabeth, you stop traffic. He’d be lucky to so much as stalk a girl as intelligent and sane as you.”

“Thanks, Lara.” I’d pore over that thought later. “But what are we going to do about your situation? Is there anything I can do to help?”

She shook her head miserably. “I wish. But I guess I’ll just keep writing my book. I can put all my pain and heartache into the pages, and maybe this entire mess will have had a purpose.”

“Your book’s going to be great.”

“If I ever finish it. Time to get serious and stop being so damn self-indulgent. I just thought I could come here tonight and have fun, meet another guy who would make me forget him. But every guy that makes a pass at me, I want to kick in the teeth or knee in the balls. They all seem so trivial.”

Lara stood up and dusted off her skirt. Her mascara had run down her cheeks and left her with enormous raccoon eyes. I put my hand on her shoulder and stopped her.

“Come here, you’ve got mascara everywhere.” I licked my finger and tried to rub it away but only succeeded at pressing the inky smudges more deeply into her pale skin.

“Oh, it’s okay. Just leave it. It’ll add to the ghostly effect. Anyway, I think I’m ready to go home. Enough fun for one night.” She clutched tightly to her
Anna Karenina
. “Do you think anyone would notice if I took this one?”

“To be honest, I don’t think anyone knows this stuff even exists. I’m sure there’s a heap more undiscovered treasure up here. Like old love letters from Rudolph Valentino or Greta Garbo.” I stuck a hand into a box and was certain something moved. I snatched it back quickly. “Maybe we’d better just go. I’m kind of tired, too.”

We stood up and linked arms as we made our way down the stairs and back to the party.

“Yeah, best to stay out of boxes on Halloween in case all the evils of the world fly out,” Lara said melodramatically.

“But we’d still have hope,” I reminded her. “That was what was left at the bottom of Pandora’s box, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah, we have to have hope,” Lara said as we reached the bottom of the staircase. “Hope is definitely the way forward.”

The only way you’ll ever get me to follow another of your suggestions is to hold a bright object in front of my eyes and twirl it.

—Cary Grant as David Huxley
Bringing Up Baby

E
ven if Jason Blum hadn’t been talented, I would have been fooled into thinking that he was when I entered his apartment for the first time. All the way up the staircase were framed stills from Roger Corman movies. Apparently Corman was a cult B-movie horror director whose credits went on for days and whose eye for talent had ensured that the likes of Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, James Cameron, and Jonathan Demme, to name but a few, had all worked for him early in their careers. So as Jason waited for me on his landing in his shapeless gray sweatpants, an even more so Peruvian sweater, and on his feet a pair of woolen slipper-socks, I had to pass by gruesome scenes from
Swamp Women, Bucket of Blood,
and
Attack of the Crab Monsters
.

“Hi, Lizzie,” he greeted me, then led me through to his living room, which was similarly a shrine to cinema. There were DVDs, books on Visconti, reels, and piles of obscure moviemaking magazines, and I could be wrong, but I swear the place smelled of popcorn.

“Wow, anyone would think you liked the movies!” I laughed as I dropped my bag on the floor and eased back into one of his red velvet—no surprise there—chairs.

“I guess I’m a geek,” Jason said. “Can I fetch you a Coke?”

“Perfect,” I said, and pulled some new pens and my copy of the script out of my bag, “This is like doing homework, isn’t it?”

Jason reappeared from the kitchen and handed me a can. No such luxuries as a glass around here. Jason was suddenly not the smiley, happy-to-help coffee-shop hand but rather an auteur in the making. His hair was unwashed, and I was just an observer of genius, here for the ride.

“I guess,” he said as he sat down on the floor in front of me and began laying out fifty or so index cards, all marked up with the scenes from the script. Clearly it
wasn’t
like homework, then. It was far more serious. The expression on Jason’s face suggested that we’d just created the H-bomb and now had to think hard as to whether we shared our secret with the world or burned the plans. “So I thought we’d begin by plotting the character arc of his mother. I think her back story is vital to the major expositions in the first act.”

“I agree,” I said. And I did. I just might have put it a little differently myself.

Several hours later Jason and I collapsed with aching backs, fingers bruised from scribbling, and blurry eyes. I took out my ponytail, which was making me feel like I was being slowly and deliberately scalped. Jason clicked his knuckles one by one and turned on a table lamp beside him. We had been working so intently that we hadn’t even noticed that it had grown dark outside.

“I feel like my ass died at about the time of the dinosaurs,” I said as I shook out my hair and rubbed my lower back.

“It was great, though. We really nailed some of the major scenes, I think. We cut all those superfluous interstitial moments, and it’s much, much tighter. Thanks, Lizzie.”

“Not a problem,” I said as I stood up to stretch out my legs. “I think we should definitely give the new draft to a few more people. Some new agents. And I’m going to look into financiers. What do you think?”

“That’d be great. Though you’re the producer—those decisions are in your hands. I couldn’t do any of this without you, Lizzie. You know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, I’m just the grunt worker, don’t mind me,” I said. “The only thing I have been thinking is whether we’re a bit heavy-handed with the intensity in the story. There isn’t much laughter in here, is there?”
I said, motioning to where the script sat, discarded on the floor. It was something that had been worrying me for a while. Because Jason’s work really was an exercise in unrelieved seriousness. Levity was not his forte.

“Why would I want it to be humorous?” he asked, bewildered.

“Because life can be funny.”

“It can also be terrible.”

“Think of Mike Leigh,” I suggested.

“I’m Jason Blum,” he said. And I think I knew at that moment that Jason was going to make it. Big. Huge. Enormous success.

I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. The tone’s perfect.”

Later, as we ate pizza and talked about the movie and planned our assault on the major talent agencies and purse holders in town, I caught Jason looking for a moment too long at my face. I was tugging a piece of wayward, stretchy cheese off my finger and trying to coax it into my mouth. I didn’t let him know that I’d noticed his lingering gaze, but I did wonder whether I would have liked him to kiss me. Or something. It had been so long since I’d had any romantic contact with a man. Well, one that I liked anyway, and Jason was so unlike the usual horrors about town, the Jake Hudsons and Bob Davieses and Scott Wagners, that he made them seem like living, breathing Roger Corman movies all on their own. Definitely he was a little earnest for me, but he was so dedicated and passionate about what he loved that it would have been quite something to have Jason Blum in love with you. Quite a production, I imagined fondly.

“What you were saying about humor, Lizzie.” He interrupted my train of thought. “I think it’s overrated. Too many real emotions are debased by humor. Too much is lost in the name of enjoyment.” He was picking the olives off his pizza and placing them in a tidy little mountain on his plate. It was then that I knew that Jason and I were never going to be. I might be able to get around the gray attire and the hallway strewn with pictures of bloody intestines, but his saturnine streak was too much for me. A total deal breaker.

I was on my way to pledge pretend allegiance to Ryan when I was joined in the elevator by Daniel Rosen. Although he was a slight man and was only in his mid-forties, his demeanor was so redolent of power
that I almost dropped to my knees and gave thanks. His airbrushed perfection—the creaseless pink shirt, the weightless drape of his deep navy suit, and his smooth, lightly tanned face—made me think that I could have been looking at him through a Vaselined lens. He was as slick as his house, vintage Rolex, and Aston Martin put together; he smelled elite, if that’s possible. He looked at me vaguely and smiled. Foolishly thinking that the nod of the head was recognition, I decided to acknowledge him—big fat mistake. And if I’d had a split second longer to mull it over, I’d have done the sensible thing and gazed down at my shoes until I went cross-eyed and Daniel left me alone in the elevator once more. But I didn’t have time to think, and I came from a world where I said hello to fellow dog walkers and old ladies in the street. This was a habit that Hollywood had yet to divest me of entirely.

“Hi, Daniel.”

He looked puzzled as he tried to place my face. I was really hoping what sprang to mind wasn’t me topless in his pool.

“It’s Elizabeth Miller. We met when I worked for Congressman Hutchens in D.C., and you got me my job here at The Agency.” Why on earth I’d felt the need to draw attention to myself I had no idea. But it certainly cranked open a can of worms that I could happily have lived without for some time to come.

“Elizabeth. Yes, of course I know you. You work for Scott Wagner, right? How’s it going?” He voice was rich and melodious and perfectly pitched to make money and friends.

“Really well. I’m learning a lot. And really enjoying the business.” His eyes bored into me as I struggled to remember if I’d spritzed on any perfume this morning that might cause him to go into anaphylactic shock or fire me again. I hadn’t forgotten the firing incident—I was just hoping that he had.

“So do you want to be an agent, or are you thinking of heading back into politics? I hear Scott’s pretty tough to work for.” Well, he was misinformed there. In comparison to the stories I’d heard about Daniel, Scott was a walk in the park.

“Scott’s great,” I said, not really wanting to get involved in that conversation. Then I had a moment of pure inspiration. I should mention Jason’s script to him. Maybe he’d have some advice or even want to help out. After all, I was his protégé in some vague sense of the word,
and I wasn’t having much luck getting it read by any of the other agents. I deliberately hadn’t given it to Scott because he quite simply didn’t read, so where was the harm in asking Daniel’s advice?

“Very loyal to Scott, are you? That’s interesting, if a little misguided.” Daniel raised his eyebrow and chuckled.

“Daniel, would it be fair to say that even though you’re president of The Agency, you’re always on the lookout for promising newcomers?” I asked as the doors slid open on an empty floor. They closed again, and we resumed our climb.

“Of course. The day I stop being interested in talent is the day I retire.”

“Well, the thing is, I’m passionate about this script that a friend of mine has written, and I’m trying to help him get it made into a movie. He’s also a great director,” I added. Though if I were being truthful, Jason’s directorial talent had passed me by. I’d seen a couple of his reels, but they’d been very blurry, very incomprehensible, and would have served as a substitute for Ambien in one of my rare bouts of insomnia. But what did I know?

“Sounds great.” Daniel nodded with interest. The door to the elevator was opening on his floor, and I had a ten-second window to define how I’d approach my new challenge. If I chickened out, I knew full well that I’d remain a lackey for the rest of my days. Daniel glanced at his watch and put a hand out, gesturing for me to step out before him. I stayed where I was.

“Would you mind taking a look at it? I mean, if you have a spare moment, which I’m sure you don’t . . . On second thought, just forget I asked,” I backtracked clumsily. Now it was Daniel’s cue to swiftly reject me. At least I’d tried to move forward with our film, and I could tell Jason that I’d given it my best shot. What I wasn’t prepared for, though, was success—perhaps because I’d seen so little of it thus far in my new career.

Daniel motioned me onto the landing a little more vociferously this time. I stepped out, and he followed me.

“I’d love to. I’ll have one of my assistants call to set up a meeting with you, and we can discuss what help you might need. I’m impressed by your determination, Elizabeth.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Maybe helping his underlings up the
ladder was the key to Daniel’s incredible success. Career karma, perhaps. He was proving to be a much greater man than I’d ever imagined. He walked down the hallway toward his office, and before I could get my wits together, the door had closed and I was riding back down the way I’d come—wondering how the headline would read in
Variety
when we got the deal set up. Having completely forgotten about Ryan.

Lara was an unpredictable girl, to say the least, and it was very possible that in the sober light of day she’d regret the new intimacy we’d forged at the Halloween party. I’d left her a message on Sunday checking on her wounded heart but hadn’t heard back. I just hoped she hadn’t had any other brilliant urges for fun, like swimming in the Pacific after a little MDMA. But pretty soon my traditional Monday-morning funk had given way to a whole new means of having fun—I could worry about Daniel. So as I leafed through the trades, I began to wonder why Daniel had been so swift to set up our meeting in the first place? I stared at the telephone like it might be sprinkled with anthrax. Our meeting was scheduled for today at noon and I was waiting for Ryan or one of Daniel’s numerous other assistants to call and confirm our appointment. I started to think how I’d much prefer to be pouring coffee, photocopying, or shopping for Barbie’s prom dress rather than risking humiliation in Daniel’s office. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this producer thing after all. I was just a delusional dilettante.

“Are you going to answer the phone or not?” Courtney walked by my desk and glared at me.

I picked it up reluctantly and gave her a filthy look—once she’d passed by. “Scott Wagner’s office.”

“Is this Elizabeth Miller, assistant to Scott Wagner?” The voice was deep and male. Usually clients didn’t know my name. And if they did, I knew who they were. Still, it wasn’t Ryan. He had a thin, reedy whine.

“Speaking.”

“You’re sounding good enough to eat this morning. Interested?” Gross. The sheer weight of flashback was heavy enough to practically knock me right off my ergonomic swivel chair onto the carpet. “It’s Bob.”

“I hadn’t guessed.”

“I bet you’re blushing right now.”

“I’m actually in the middle of typing a memo, Bob. Do you need Scott?”

“No. I need you.”

With that I hung up. An enormous feeling of liberation flooded my being, but before I could really revel in the unusual sensation, the phone rang again, and, as assistants do, unless they have something better to gossip about, I picked it up. “Scott Wagner’s office.”

“The beauty of dating assistants is that you always know you can get them on the phone, even when they hang up on you. Why haven’t I seen you in the last few months?”

It was Bob again. I decided silence was the most effective defense. Little did I know.

“God, you turn me on. Just thinking of you sitting with those fabulous tits in that office full of people, you’re making me har—”

I hung up again. The phone rang again. Where the fuck was Lara? She hadn’t called in sick, and beside the obvious irritation at having to fend off Bob alone, I was starting to worry about her. The phone continued to ring. “Scott Wagner’s office.”