Hollywood Is Like High School with Money Page 8

  a writer's workshop we're running."

  I nodded. My heart did a swan dive into my stomach.

  "Though I have to say, I am impressed with your hustle." Iris gave me a small wink. "But let's

  not get ahead of ourselves. It's only your second week."

  "I understand."

  Iris retreated into her office again, leaving me with Kylie.

  "You're lucky she's in a good mood today," Kylie said. "That could have been ugly." She sat

  down delicately in her chair and crossed one tanned leg over the other. Then she lit her aromatherapy candle with her Chateau matches and closed her eyes and sniffed.

  Casually I stood up, allowing her the full view of my new ensemble, and just as she was about

  to open her mouth to say something, I pulled out my new iPhone and looked at the screen.

  "It's going to be hot today," I said, flashing her the weather page and smiling.

  Kylie clamped her mouth closed again, and for a moment it was as if we'd switched places.

  I didn't know much French, but I knew the word victoire.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Um, where exactly are you?"

  Even over the phone, Kylie's cool, imperious voice made my skin crawl.

  "When I said run to Whole Foods, I meant the one on Fairfax. Not Bundy, for God's sake."

  I balanced my iPhone between my ear and shoulder. "I'm pulling in now," I said as I made the

  turn into Metronome's black iron scrollwork gates. "I'll be in the office in two minutes."

  "And you remembered to get the Toujours Jeune spirulina from France, not the generic kind,

  right?"

  "How could I forget?" I asked, pouring sarcasm into my voice like sugar into coffee. Seriously,

  did she have to be so Shannen Doherty in Heathers? That morning at eight, a text had come in

  on my cell:

  Need to do a run for spirulina at WF before work! Sorry I spaced!!

  K

  That smiley face made me want to poke a hole in my new phone, even though I loved loved

  loved it.

  A few minutes later, I walked, sweaty and annoyed, into the overly air-conditioned lobby of the

  creative department, grateful for the Alaskan temperature. "Hey, Shara," I called out as I

  swiped my ID. "What's Britney up to now?"

  Shara chewed on the end of her pencil and looked even more confused than she had yesterday.

  But after a minute she smiled, which was encouraging; it was about as nice as anyone had ever

  been to me around here.

  "See ya," I offered as I pulled open the glass door.

  Wyman, the holier-than-thou Tisch nerd, came barreling out of his office with a stack of scripts

  in one hand and a supersized coffee in the other. He nearly ran into me, but even in my new red

  Weitzman wedges, I managed to duck out of the way.

  "Sorry," he said without looking up. But then he did, giving me the once-over. "Well," he said,

  eyeing my tailored little plaid Marc by Marc Jacobs top and charcoal skirt. "Very Vanessa Redgrave 1966. You know, in Blowup?" He didn't wait for an answer, of course, but brushed past

  me on his way.

  I took this as a compliment. I couldn't remember what anyone in Blowup wore, of course, but it

  was hard to imagine Vanessa Redgrave looking bad. After that I felt an extra spring in my step.

  I pranced down the hall, the Whole Foods bag swinging from my hand, practically dying for

  more assistants to run into. But not even Cici glanced up when I passed; she was too busy

  flirting with someone on the other end of the phone line.

  When I walked into our office area, Kylie was at her desk, hunched over a script, and quick as

  you can say Shu Uemura, my mood shifted.

  "We have an ideas meeting in ten," she said, her nose still buried in her script. "Put the

  spirulina in your desk this time. Also I hope you saved the receipt."

  Maybe it was the new clothes, or maybe it was the three shots of espresso I had them drop into

  my venti mocha, but I had a momentary desire to wrap Kylie's pretty little chains around her

  throat until she turned purple.

  When I didn't answer, Kylie looked up. And yes, she too looked bug-eyed at me. Apparently

  she'd thought yesterday's sartorial success was a fluke. Think again, Kylie, I said to myself.

  "What?" I asked, fighting the smile that threatened to spread across my entire face.

  "Nothing," Kylie said abruptly, turning back to her script.

  I picked up my own copy, purposefully jangling my gold Me&Ro bracelets. I could see Kylie

  fighting the urge to look up again--the girl did appreciate jewelry. She was like a crow, attracted

  to shiny things.

  A quick pound of familiar beats from a Timbaland song began to play in my purse. I plunged

  my hand into the loose wreckage of my bag, past iPod wires and Kleenex and my wallet. I

  pulled out my iPhone and was greeted with a snapshot of half of Quinn's face. Even blurry, her

  fierce, proud features commanded your attention. I turned my chair away from Kylie's curious

  eyes and clicked the green button on the screen to read the text from Quinn:

  Lesson #2: Speak up in class.

  When you're quiet, you're invisible!

  I was a little perplexed. I had a hard time imagining Quinn raising her hand in geometry, but

  then again, what did I know?

  "Girls, we ready?" Iris strode out of her office in a tailored cocoa-colored suit, clutching a legal

  pad and her BlackBerry. "Taylor, I'd like you to be in this meeting, so grab one of the interns to

  cover the phones." Iris didn't break her stride as she walked out the door.

  I slid the iPhone back into my purse, hoping Iris hadn't seen me texting. "Interns? We have

  interns here?"

  "Amanda's got one and so does Wyman," Kylie said exasperatedly, as if I'd just asked if

  Metronome had a roof or a floor. She punched an extension on the phone. "Hi, can you send

  Julissa in here right away? Thanks."

  "Have we always had interns?" I asked stupidly. Because I could have really used them in the

  copy room, I thought. That copy machine had it in for me.

  Kylie shot me a weary glance. "Of course we've always had them," she replied. "All you had

  to do was ask."

  A moment later a freckled girl with bright pink cheeks and big hazel eyes bounded into the

  room. I'd seen her before, bouncing up and down the hallways in her red Pumas, her shiny

  brown ponytail bobbing behind her. I'd always thought she was some VP's daughter or

  something.

  "Hi, I'm Taylor," I said.

  "I'm Julissa," she said, her big eyes shining. She thrust out a small, eager hand for me to shake.

  "Julissa, can you cover Iris's phone?" Kylie asked distractedly, pointing in the general direction

  of my desk.

  Julissa nodded. "I've been waiting for you guys to give me something to do," she said, walking

  around me to take a seat at my desk. "But I just thought it seemed like you had everything

  pretty well covered."

  "Yeah, pretty much," I lied, shooting an angry glance at Kylie. I couldn't believe she'd never

  told me that help was only a phone call away. From now on, I vowed, Julissa was going to

  make Iris's algae smoothies.

  We were in the conference room for our weekly staff meeting, listening to a pitch from Lisa

  Amorosi, the frizzy-haired executive VP from Brooklyn. She could have really used a visit

  from Ken Paves, I thought, or at least a lesson on how to use a flat-iron.

  "Zombie cheerleaders," Lisa said, twisting a hair elastic around her frizz. "A viru
s gets out in a

  suburban town. Everyone gets infected. Except for the high school cheerleading team. They

  fight back, and they also win the state championship. So it's 28 Days Later meets Bring It On."

  Iris jotted notes on a legal pad. I wrote too: Kirsten Dunst! Never too old to play a cheerleader.

  Casey Affleck as head zombie? What about Gary Busey?

  From my seat against the wall, I searched Iris's face for any signs that she knew of Quinn's and

  my collaboration. For instance, was there a chance she recognized my shirt? But Iris never

  looked my way. She, like everyone else, was bent over her notes.

  "So this is a comedy?" Iris asked, looking up with a somewhat dubious expression.

  "A black comedy," Lisa corrected. "You know how zombie movies are. They're always

  tongue-in-cheek."

  Tom Scheffer cleared his throat and seemed to flex his large muscles beneath his Thomas Pink

  shirt. "I don't remember there being anything funny about 28 Days Later," he said.

  "So the tone would be, what?" Iris asked, toying with her black fountain pen. " Buffy? Or Blair

  Witch?"

  Kylie, who as first assistant had the honor of sitting on Iris's right, leaned in close. "I don't

  think you want to do Buffy, " she cautioned. "I think this needs a more subtle irony."

  Iris absorbed this but still searched the room for more opinions. "Tom?" she asked. "What's

  your take?"

  "I would say that it isn't Metronome material," Kylie interrupted. "We're not known for blood

  and gore. Our catalog is much more sophisticated than that."

  Iris nodded, and Kylie looked around the room proudly, as if what she'd said was brilliant.

  And then Quinn's text came to me. Speak up in class.

  I sat up straighter in my seat and scooted forward so I was closer to the table.

  "Actually, it seems like there's a way to get around that," I said. "If we really like the project."

  Iris and the rest of the staff turned to me expectantly.

  "What if Metronome were to create a special division for genre films?" I asked, searching their

  faces for signs of interest. "Look at all the money movies like Saw and Hostel are making for

  Lionsgate. True, they're not Metronome, but Miramax did the same thing with Dimension

  Films. Dimension released the Scream films, which made over a hundred million dollars. And

  then they used that money to make their artier Oscar films under Miramax."

  There were close to twenty people in the room, and all of them were looking at me. Wyman, for

  one, was nodding, and I almost smiled gratefully at him. As far as the others went, who knew?

  I took a deep breath and kept going.

  "So if we want to create a franchise in this zombie-cheerleader idea, then having a separate,

  smaller genre division would be the way to do it. Or if we wanted to parlay it into a possible

  television idea, like Buffy--isn't Metronome starting its own TV production division? I thought I

  read that a few months ago in Variety."

  I stole a glance at Iris, who looked both surprised and pleased, as if I'd just completed an

  excellent tap-dance routine. She turned to Tom. "It's worth bringing this up again, don't you

  think?" Then she looked at me. "They've talked about it before, and it's not really revolutionary.

  That said, it's a good thing to keep in mind."

  My cheeks, which I could just tell were bright and red, began to cool, and I breathed a sigh of

  relief. Kylie, on the other hand, looked as if she'd just eaten an extremely sour candy.

  "So should we maybe call some agents for specs?" Lisa asked. Her voice sounded a lot more

  animated now that her project might stand a chance.

  Iris glanced back at me. "Sure, okay." She gave me a small nod of approval then and shook her

  copper curls away from her face like someone who'd just felt a fresh spring breeze.

  Okay, so maybe I didn't get an outright A, but I'd certainly caught the teacher's attention. As

  everyone else filed out of the room, I dug down into my purse to pull out a stick of Trident and

  my phone. Got it, I texted Quinn under the table.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  If you want to make a memorable entrance someplace, you can sweep down a spiral staircase

  like Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard, or you can basically fall out of your Civic, hands

  covering your mouth in horror, as you watch the valet you just hit with your car door cradle his

  wounded knee in his hands. Needless to say, I did the latter.

  "Oh my God, I'm sorry! Are you all right?" I cried, peering into the valet's agonized face. "Can

  I do something?"

  He took a hand off his knee and held it out. "Fifteen bucks."

  I unpeeled a ten and a twenty--extra for damages--from the paper-clipped bills inside my gold

  Anya Hindmarch clutch, another Quinn-me-down. He grabbed them and my keys and jumped

  into my car. I felt better, seeing his agile leap onto the fake leather bucket seat; clearly I didn't

  hurt him that badly, despite his dramatic reaction. Probably another aspiring actor.

  I rearranged my cleavage inside my low-cut jade Ella Moss halter top and pulled it down over

  my black A-line skirt. All right, I whispered to myself. Here goes nothing.

  A few yards to my right, the red carpet ran like a gauntlet from the front door of Social

  Hollywood all the way to the nightclub around the corner. The clicking camera lenses and the

  popping flashbulbs were even louder and brighter than I could have imagined, and there were

  so many photographers, cameramen, and reporters that I couldn't even see who it was they

  were after. It could have been JLo or Gwyneth, Tom Cruise or Daniel Craig. Hell, it could have

  been Carrot Top for all I knew. (Carrot Top? Was he still alive?) Above the fray, the art deco

  façade loomed like a fortress from a fairy tale.

  Despite my nerves, I was thrilled. It was my very first movie premiere. The closest I'd ever

  been to something like this before tonight was watching Billy Bush on TV.

  Around the corner from the red carpet was another entrance--for those of us who weren't

  worthy of the paparazzi, natch--and so that's where I took myself. I glanced down at my

  iPhone.

  Lesson #3: Make one cool friend.

  I'd had to ask Quinn for clarification on that, because really, if no one at Metronome would talk

  to me, how was I supposed to make friends with anyone? I could feel Quinn's impatience in

  her texted reply, my iPhone practically sighing in exasperation. Meet someone at a party, she'd

  typed. Not invited to any parties, I wrote back. Crash one then came her reply, and after that,

  there was nothing.

  As I walked up to the side door, a slim girl wearing a futuristic headset and holding a clipboard

  stepped in between me and the entrance. Her headset flashed in blues and pinks--very 2001: A

  Space Odyssey. "Name?" she asked coolly.

  "Henn--um, Arthur," I caught myself.

  Headset Girl glanced down at her clipboard. Fortunately, there was no possibility Kylie would

  actually show up. "Ugh, I'm so over James Bond," she'd said this afternoon when she'd come

  across the envelope. She'd tossed the invite into our communal trash can. Besides, tonight it

  was her boyfriend's birthday party at El Coyote, which I'd discovered by overhearing Kylie and

  Cici discussing what they were going to wear. Needless to say, I was not invited to that either.

  I waited as Futuristic Headset Girl scanned the second page of her list. What if she as
ked me

  for ID? She wouldn't do that, would she?

  "Oh, here you are," she finally said.

  She checked Kylie's name off with her red pen, and I breathed a sigh of relief as a hulking

  doorman with a bandage over his nose stepped forward to stamp my hand. He barely gave me

  a glance as I breezed past him into the club. I was in.

  I'd read enough In Style and watched enough E! to know that studios spared no expense when

  they threw a party for a movie, especially when that movie might win an Oscar or--even

  better--make unfathomable amounts of money. But still, as I stood at the top of the staircase

  looking down onto the festivities, I just about had to pick my jaw up off the floor. Social

  Hollywood, a gymnasium built in the 1920s and reincarnated as an overpriced Moroccan

  restaurant/nightclub, had been transformed into Hawaii, the setting of the latest Bond movie.

  White sand covered the sunken main floor, and coconut trees swayed in a manufactured breeze.

  A gigantic volcano carved out of dark chocolate erupted in the corner, spilling mouthwatering

  rivulets of milk chocolate lava. Lights in pinks and blues splashed over the crowd like a tropical

  sunset.

  Slowly I descended the stairs, aiming less for a memorable entrance than an invisible one. The

  dance floor was filled with gorgeous, confident people, all of whom seemed to know each

  other. I nervously snapped my clutch open and closed. Why had I thought it was a good idea to

  come here alone?

  "Mai tai?" A waitress wearing a grass skirt and two coconut shells over her gravity-defying

  breasts offered me an umbrella-decorated drink.

  When in Rome, I thought, and sucked half of it down in one gulp. Then I brought out my

  iPhone. I didn't want to be all Luke Skywalker, calling out for Obi-Wan every second or

  anything, but I really needed some advice.

  I'm in, I wrote. What's my target?

  A moment later the iPhone buzzed.

  The most important looking person in the room. At your level.

  I squinted at the message, as if, like Obi-Wan, it had secrets it hadn't yet revealed. What's my

  in? I typed.

  Go for the bar. Sidle up and say This party sucks. Works every time. I slipped the phone back