Hollywood Is Like High School with Money Read online

  over with a crash. I turned to look and saw a surprisingly cute guy, dressed up as an astronaut,

  sprawled on the dance floor a few feet away.

  "I love you," he called from his prone position. "Will you marry me?"

  "Sure," I laughed and kept dancing, tossing my hair in what I hoped was a sexy-nurse kind of

  way and trying not to topple over on my hooker heels. I was at a fabulous party with my

  fabulous gay boyfriend wearing a fabulously slutty costume. Did life get any better than this?

  Just then my eyes were drawn, almost instinctually, up toward the VIP banquettes. They

  landed on a familiar figure. She was wearing a green velvet medieval-style dress with an

  empire waist and a low-cut neck that revealed ample golden cleavage, a tiny gold crown nestled

  in her blond waves. Kylie. Dressed as a princess or a queen. She looked gorgeous in her

  costume, classy and chic, whereas I looked like someone you could rent by the hour.

  Beside her was Troy Vaughn, a funnyman actor whose opening weekends always grossed in

  the forty-million range and who reportedly wanted to make the transition to directing--as did

  every actor in this town, regardless of his or her talent. He whispered something in Kylie's ear,

  and she threw her head back, laughing. I instantly felt jealous. No matter where I went, who I

  was with, or what I wore, was Kylie always going to one-up me?

  But then a very strange thing happened: Kylie glanced down, spotted me, and smiled. She gave

  me what could only be described as a friendly wave.

  Next to me Brett gasped. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is the ice queen melting?"

  The new Britney song came on, the one Brett had IMed me about yesterday. ( I don't care what

  people say about Britney's new single, it makes me want to limbo!) The dance beat was loud

  and insistent and thumped wildly through my now-buzzed frame.

  I shrugged, shaking my pleather-clad hips. It had taken weeks of mean-girl lessons, some

  outright trickery, and even a few deathstares. But whether or not Kylie Arthur genuinely liked

  me, Brett was right--the ice was starting to thaw.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dear Michael,

  Everything is going really well here in L.A.--I'm getting the hang of my job, looking for good

  projects, you know--and...

  Here I paused, looking up from Magnolia's lumpy brown sofa toward the water stain on the

  ceiling (it was shaped like Florida). Oddly enough, I didn't really know what else to say. I

  hadn't written Michael Deming since things had gotten so busy at work, and I was starting to

  think it was kind of a stupid idea in the first place. I was contemplating chucking the letter

  entirely when Magnolia burst into the living room, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.

  "Guess who I saw at Buddha Ball?"

  Buddha Ball was the latest L.A. fitness obsession. It involved a sword, a medicine ball, and

  some yoga poses, and proponents swore it burned a thousand calories an hour. It also cost

  thirty dollars a class, but Magnolia didn't have to pay because she waxed the instructor.

  Magnolia's parents had actually been early adopters of Buddha Ball when it first hit the scene in

  the late 1990s--along with that awful wave of Tae Bo--and even though it had become

  sickeningly trendy, Mags was sticking with it for its health benefits.

  "Who?"

  She flopped down on the couch next to me, and immediately Cabbage and Lucius--a new mutt,

  who looked like a spaniel of some sort--came and jumped on her lap, bringing with them their

  powerful doggy breath and a small cloud of flying fur.

  "Well, if that's how you feel about it, I won't tell you," she said, burying her sweaty face into

  Lucius's brown and white-spotted head. When she looked up again, there was a small clump of

  his fur sticking to her cheek.

  "No really, come on," I said in a slightly more animated voice. I actually was sort of curious.

  "Oh look, they're kissing," she said, pointing to the two dogs, who were indeed now licking

  each other's faces. Then she turned to me. "I'm totally not going to tell you until you stop lying

  around on the couch. Go into your room, put on some real clothes, and meet me back here in

  half an hour. It's Sunday evening, and you haven't been out of the house all weekend, which is

  completely and totally pathetic. As Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, says, all dogs need

  walks!" She clapped her hands together and said, "Go on, girl! Go fetch a decent outfit!"

  "I'm not a dog," I mumbled, but I got up off the couch and did what she told me to anyway.

  We went to a little bar called Valentines because a) it was close to our apartment and b)

  Magnolia got free drinks because she waxed one of the bartenders. (Seriously, who didn't she

  wax? Was there anyone in all of L.A. with a little, um, hair left?) It was a cute place, though,

  with cozy little red vinyl booths and lots of black-and-white photographs of old Hollywood on

  the walls. It was the kind of bar where the arty kids hung out and traded zines or compared

  tattoos or did whatever it is that arty kids do. It occurred to me that if I'd wanted to, I could

  have become an arty kid. I had the film degree to prove it. But then I'd hate the me that wanted

  to work her way up at a Hollywood studio, the me that put together her outfits the night before

  and was actually starting to enjoy it.

  As usual, the bartender was checking out Magnolia, but she mainly had eyes for her bloody

  bishop. ("My Sunday drink," she called it.)

  "All right," she said after she'd had a few nourishing sips. "Are you feeling perky yet? Do you

  deserve to know who I saw?"

  Magnolia usually took a long time to get to her point, but this was ridiculous. By now I'd been

  waiting an hour to hear the news. "I'm totally perky," I insisted, raising my gimlet.

  "Okay then," she said. She leaned in close to my face and whispered, "Holden MacIntee!"

  Well, color me impressed--that was some real star power.

  "You cannot believe how hot he is. I mean, the Vanity Fair cover does him no justice at all. His

  eyes are this amazing sea green, you know, like the ocean off Hawaii or something. And his

  arms are like these beautiful golden sculptures and he can hold tree pose for ages. And I swear

  he gives off these pheromones that like, make you woozy. I could have licked him."

  I think Magnolia would have gone on for another fifteen minutes, but she stopped to eat a bite

  of celery and noticed that my eyes had totally glazed over.

  "Oh, am I boring you?" she said, only slightly indignantly. "Ms. Second Assistant to Iris

  Whitaker? Well, I do have a point. But you have to be nice to me to hear it."

  I sighed theatrically. "I'll buy this round."

  "But it's free!" she cried.

  I smiled and shrugged. "Well, I guess you're just going to have to tell me then."

  Luckily Magnolia was too excitable--and too good-natured--to keep her secret any longer.

  She put an olive on the end of her finger, just like a little kid, and pointed it at me. "The best

  part is that he and you have the same taste."

  "How so?"

  "His favorite movie is Journal Girl!"

  I laughed out loud. "You're joking."

  "No, he's totally obsessed with it. At the beginning of each class, the teacher makes us do a

  'confessional' of what's on everyone's mind, so we can purify ourselves before class starts. We

  all go around in a circle, letting go of
our worries and what's keeping us stressed. Like, I said

  that I just didn't know how to help this Great Dane I'm walking who's terrified of my tennis

  shoes."

  "And?" I demanded, poking her.

  "And then Holden said that he had this movie Journal Girl on his mind because he'd been

  watching it that afternoon when his DVD player broke. He said it was his favorite movie, and

  now it was stuck inside his Sony. And I just thought, Oh my God, isn't that weird? Like, what

  are the odds? He's watched it like twenty times or something." She ate the olive off the tip of

  her finger and dove into her drink for another one.

  I sipped my drink, not exactly sure what to do with this information--it wasn't like I could just

  call him up and tell him how much we had in common. But somehow, it felt nice to know

  someone out there had the same blind devotion to Michael Deming I did.

  "Wow, Mags," I said, patting her on the shoulder. "Good detective work!"

  "It was nothing," she said, but she looked proud.

  Just then my iPhone buzzed. (I'd finally put it on vibrate, because that Timbaland song had

  started to drive me crazy.) It was an e-mail from Kylie.

  Hey! Hope you had fun at the party this weekend--you looked hot! So, sorry for the late notice,

  but Iris needs you to go up to her Malibu house tomorrow to let in some couch that's being

  delivered. 7:30. So early, I know! Good luck and I'll see you in the morning.

  The address was typed neatly below and, I was amazed and pleased to discover, there was no

  smiley face to mock me. So maybe the wave at the Halloween party wasn't just a fluke. Kylie

  had dropped the fake act and was acting like a normal human being, albeit one whose job was

  to order me around.

  I downed the rest of my drink in a single gulp. "I have to go, Mags," I said. "I just found out

  how early I have to get up."

  Magnolia frowned. "Kylie?" she asked.

  I nodded and stood up. "But not like that. She was actually nice about it."

  Magnolia twisted her long legs around on her stool. "Sit," she commanded me, just like I was

  one of her mutts. "Tonight I'm in charge," she said. "And I'm going to make you have some

  stinking fun for a change." And with that she signaled the bartender for another round.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Move! Move! " I yelled through my windshield, but the white Celica in front of me didn't

  budge.

  Of course I could yell all I wanted, but I'd still be stuck on the I-10 Freeway with the rest of the

  city, at a complete standstill, while two uniformed deliverymen stood in front of Iris's empty

  house, a couch resting on the sidewalk behind them, ringing the doorbell and finding no one to

  let them in.

  It was 8:15. I had overslept, and it was Magnolia's fault.

  It's ugly out there this morning, the DJ on 97.5 FM said . Backup on 101, and a three-car

  fender-bender on the 10 making everyone just a little bit late this morning.

  "Oh really?" I hissed. I punched the tape button (my car was too old to have a CD player, thank

  you very much), and the DJ was replaced by the mellow, depressive voice of Leonard Cohen.

  Here's what had happened. I was awakened by a scratching sound on my door. I could have

  ignored it and gone back to sleep, but then came the whining. And finally, the yelping. The

  dogs.

  I sat up and rubbed my slightly sore and fuzzy head. (It was the gimlets.) Where was

  Magnolia? The dogs would never expect me to pay attention to them if she were home--I mean,

  they were ugly, but they weren't completely stupid. Gingerly I eased myself out of bed and

  opened the door, and the dogs fell over themselves in excitement. Or perhaps desperation: poor

  Lucius was practically crossing his legs in an "I really have to pee" posture.

  I looked at the clock and then I about fell over myself. 7:40. 7:40!! I'd set my alarm for 6:00, so

  I'd have time to shower, grab a coffee at the hippie café around the corner, and make my way

  leisurely to Malibu. I reached for the clock: yes, I'd set it for 6:00... p.m. Oh my God, I was

  dumber than a bag of hammers.

  So that's why I was currently freaking out, stuck behind the granny in the Celica, not being at

  all calmed by Leonard Cohen. It was a beautiful clear morning, and I could see the tiny planes

  flying over the Hollywood range out of the Burbank airport. I wished I were on one of them. I

  didn't know who I was more mad at, myself or Magnolia. If she hadn't made me drink all those

  gimlets last night I might have been sober enough to tell the difference between a.m. and p.m.

  "Move!" I shrieked again.

  The Celica inched forward--hey, maybe granny could hear me!--and then my BlackBerry

  buzzed with an e-mail.

  Taylor--please see me when you get in. Iris.

  My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel.

  Needless to say, when I got to Iris's, neither the deliverymen nor the couch were anywhere to

  be found. A crow called derisively from a jacaranda near the garage, and I could have sworn it

  was laughing at me. By this point, I was probably going to be late for work too. In desperation,

  I grabbed my phone and texted Quinn. The crow continued his nasty chatter as I backed out of

  the driveway.

  Quinn's response came when I was inching my way to the office, this time stuck behind a little

  Mazda with flames painted on its sides and a dude with a mullet behind the wheel. (I'd checked

  his plates, thinking he must be from Alabama or something, but no, he was a Californian.

  Some people are just impervious to L.A. style, I guess.)

  Lesson #7: No matter what, it's *never* your fault.

  Easy for you to say, I thought. I was pretty sure Quinn was good at bending the truth, but I'd

  always been honest, sometimes painfully so. Like when my fifth-grade teacher asked the class

  who'd barfed in the garbage can after the Salisbury steak lunch--you'd think I would have been

  able to keep my hand down. But no. I raised it right up there.

  When I finally got to work, I dumped my bag on my Aeron chair with a sigh. Kylie sat at her

  desk, composedly typing an e-mail. Her wavy hair was pulled gracefully back off her face, and

  she looked as fresh and rested as if she'd just come back from the spa at Canyon Ranch. "I

  think Iris wants to see you," she said evenly.

  "Taylor?" Iris called from her desk. "Could you come in here please?"

  I shuffled through the doorway, brushing against one of Iris's miniature orange trees. An

  orange no bigger than a clementine fell off its branch and rolled away. I was about to duck into

  the midst of all that plant matter to find it, but Iris said quietly, "Leave it. And close the door

  behind you."

  Those were words you never really wanted to hear, but I did as I was asked. I was already

  preparing my apology, which was going to be as genuine and eloquent as I could make it. It

  would also involve an element of self-defense, though. I wasn't going to deny that I'd screwed

  up, but I'd only overslept; it's not like I dropped a call from Steven Spielberg or told Harvey

  Weinstein he could stand to put in a few hours on the treadmill. I mean really, who hasn't

  overslept something or another? My father was late to his own wedding, thanks to an ill-timed

  nap.

  Iris's newly brightened hair fell in reddish gold waves to her shoulders; she pushed it back and

  then crossed her ha
nds on her black lacquer desk. I lowered myself into the leather chair by her

  desk, the one I'd sat in my very first day and that kept me at eye level with her chest. I sat up as

  straight as I could, wishing Iris would just get rid of this stupid thing. Sure it was a Mies van

  der Rohe-inspired design, but it made everyone who sat in it feel like a munchkin.

  Iris cleared her throat.

  "Iris, I'm so--" I began.

  "When I ask one of you," she said, leaning toward me, "to be at my home for a delivery, you

  must know that I am asking because it is important. I don't relish sending my assistants on

  pointless errands. You have better things to do with your time." Her voice was calm. "But

  sometimes I am forced to ask you to perform what seems like a menial or trivial task, and I

  expect you to do it. When it doesn't get done, it is a definite problem." She blinked her ocean

  blue eyes at me. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

  If I'd felt three feet tall before, I felt about one foot tall now. The worst part of it was, I hated to

  let Iris down. Her disappointment in me was way worse than her anger. I felt like a little kid,

  chastised by my favorite teacher.

  "Taylor?" Iris prodded.

  I nodded mutely. I could feel the apology building in me, and maybe even a tear or two. We'd

  been getting along so well--it wasn't fair! I wanted to reach across the desk and grab her hand

  and promise to never disappoint her again.

  "I... I...," I stammered. Iris raised her eyebrows, waiting somewhat impatiently. And then it hit

  me: It's never your fault. Iris had two houses in Malibu, didn't she? There was the one she was

  selling and the new one she'd just bought. I'd gone to the one she was selling. "Actually, I did

  get to the house on time," I said. "But I went to the wrong one. And for that I am truly sorry."

  Iris sat up straighter in her chair. "The wrong house?"

  I nodded very earnestly. "I went to the one in Colony, not the one on Carbon Beach." I held my

  breath.

  "I see." Understanding dawned on Iris's pretty features. "Kylie?" Iris called, peering through

  the plants that separated her from her assistants. "Can you come in here please?"

  Kylie opened the door with a pleasantly vacant expression, as if she had no idea what was