“But why did she leave?”
“She didn’t know what she was doing. Bud is actually very kind if you do your job and cover any mistakes he might make. Nothing is ever his fault, all right? If clients call up, and he’s screwed up or forgotten a meeting, it’s your fault, you didn’t write it in his calendar.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“He’s very busy. Spends his life on a cell phone and can negotiate like Satan himself, so just know that going in. The only time he’ll pay attention to you is if you do something wrong.”
“Hey, sort of like my marriage.”
“Keep that out of it. He probably knows Jay, and it might be better if you don’t mention your marital status.”
I hold up my ring finger. “My diamond is paying my motel bill, so I’m good.”
We take the elevator to the top floor, and when the doors open, a view of the surrounding buildings comes into view. All glass. Every last wall. I look down at the travertine floor. All slippery, all the time. “I don’t stand a chance here.”
“What?”
“I don’t think I can focus on this job and walk at the same time.”
“You’re not even wearing heels.” Lily looks down at my shoes.
“These are heels. If I wear tall heels, I can’t talk either.”
“What skills do you have? What did you do before you got married? I told him you’d been your producer husband’s assistant, but if he asks you about your professional history—”
“I can fold a perfect shirt.”
Lily pulls her clipboard to her chest. “Let’s just not mention work experience, all right?”
“I was never late. Had perfect attendance. And I can size someone just by looking at her.”
“We’ll focus on the fact that you’re detail-oriented.” Lily walks ahead of me with a self-assured stride (in heels). She’s got that Vogue confidence most women only dream of. She raps quietly on the door, and inside there’s a man pacing while talking on his Bluetooth headset. He’s got TV preacher hair, dark and dyed, too full for his age. I can tell he’s not married. No self-respecting woman would let her husband go out in a toupee that bad. He’s a wadded-up ball of stress. You can see it in the bulging veins in his neck.
Stand back everyone…he’s gonna blow!
His lime green business shirt is open at the collar, to reveal rashy, bologna-colored skin. His tie lies loosely around his shoulders. He rubs his temples as he shouts into thin air, “I don’t care how you interpret the contract. You’re not a contract lawyer. I only care how the courts interpret the contract, and I’ll tell you exactly how they’re going to interpret it, because there are a thousand precedent cases that show you’ve got nothing here.”
He paces toward the window and back. Clearly, the windbag on the other end of the line is having his turn yelling. It’s no wonder these types hate women in the workplace. They employ absolutely no manners in business and don’t want to be reminded of that.
Of course, he might be perfectly amiable. I should wait five minutes before I hate him. Seeing Jay’s personality in a paunchy old man with a bad toupee makes me question just how vain I am. I heard Jay yell exactly like this, but I’m embarrassed to say I found it a little hot. How depressing.
I am a snob.
And I really do like to shop.
My best friends are still at the other end of a credit card transaction.
Hmmm. Maybe Jay was a trophy husband for me too?
“I told you the script isn’t ready. She’s not taking a role with substandard writing. You have two options, you can get a screenplay adapter in there to fix that mess, or you can say good-bye to my client!” He punches his ear button and stares at me, open-eyed and lizardlike. “What do you want?”
Lily steps forward. “This is the assistant I was telling you about. May I present Haley Cutler?”
He nods. “I know her. You’re Jay’s wife?”
“Ex wife.”
He snivels. “Well, no loss there. You type?”
I nod.
“Fast?”
“I do. I used to type people’s papers in college.” I have a skill! “And I worked briefly for a loan broker before I got married.”
“Did you hear that phone call?”
I nod. “Anaheim Stadium heard that phone call.”
The corner of his lip lifts into a grin. “You’re not afraid of me.”
“I was married to a producer for eight years. I’m not afraid of anything.”
He nods. “We’ll get along fine. You’re first job is to arrange it with Human Resources so that you have a job. I hate all that paperwork. Can’t be bothered with it. You figure out how to hire yourself, then get back to that desk and answer the phone. We got ourselves a partnership.”
“Right now, sir?”
“We’re not getting any younger.”
“Yes, Mr. Seligman.”
“Wait a minute,” he says as I start to walk out of the door.
“Yes?”
“You don’t want to be an actress, do you? She’s too pretty to want to be an assistant,” he says to Lily.
“My ex-husband is living with an actress. I have no use for them whatsoever. I’ll be nice to them if I have to.”
He snickers. “Lily, good job on this one. Now go,” Bud says to me. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“What’s my salary?”
“What are you worth?”
“Well, you can’t afford that,” I tell him.
“Start her at the top, Lily.” His eyes narrow at me. “You’re fired if you’re not worth it.”
“Got it, but I am.”
I have a job! Not the kind I have to marry for, but a legitimate, you-do-the-work, you-get-a-paycheck job. Haley Adams Cutler is back.
I have a job. I might have a place to live. I have the Jay Cutler Memorial Scholarship Fund for the next six months, and I think I might even have friends who would pick up the pedicure tab.
The world must be ending tomorrow.
“I have a job!” I squeal into the phone as I get into my sorry rental car, that I’m so getting rid of immediately. Do you have any idea what it’s like to drive a car that’s worth less than most people’s shoes in this town?
“Who is this?” a man’s voice answers.
“Oh sorry,” I nibble at my thumbnail. “This is Haley Cutler. I punched the button programmed ‘home’ and thought I’d get Lindsay. Does Lindsay live there? I’m on her cell phone.”
“Well, I’m pleased you acquired a job, Miss Haley Cutler. Lindsay has told me so much about you.”
“She has?” I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. “Who are you?”
“She’s so pleased you’re going to take the condo.”
“I never said–”
“Of course you’ll take it. Where else are you going to go?”
He has a point. “Who is this again?”
“This is Ron. Lindsay’s husband.”
“Right. Congratulations on your marriage?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but I’m not sure what the etiquette is for “not divorcing” status. I have yet to see a Hallmark card for the occasion.
“Yes, well my marriage is convenient for both of us, Haley. I get my wife back, and you get her lovely condo.”
“I got a job. I have more options now, so I don’t need to bum off Lindsay,” I say enthusiastically.
“Not many more options without established credit. I can help you with that if you like.”
“Why?” Do I sound like I need help? Because I’m thinking I’m the very air of confidence at the moment.
Ron laughs. “Why would I help? Because Lindsay can’t say enough nice things about you, and my wife is an excellent judge of character.”
Which is odd, since she doesn’t like his, in particular.
“I think pretty highly of her, too. She picked me up when I was down.” Of course, I don’t mention that a lot of strangers have done the same thing when
I walked into a wall, or the like. This was different. This was personal.
“She told me you were the reason she decided to come back home, so I have to tell you, I’m eternally grateful.”
“Me? Lindsay said that? I think you might have the wrong friend. Those gals have been together a long time.”
“No, it was definitely you. I may have forgotten anniversaries and birthdays, but I don’t forget the name of the woman that my wife says convinced her to come back. So if I can help you get a portfolio started, I’m more than happy to do so.”
“Ron, is Lindsay there?” Because you are too happy for words, and it’s sort of scaring me.
“I didn’t pay enough attention to her. I know that now. What an imbecile I was. I see it all so clearly now. It took a stroke or two to bring me back to my senses.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She’s my world, Haley. You have no idea. As Lindsay says, Lazarus got a second chance, and so have I.”
There are two sides to every story. I realize that. Example: I thought Jay was controlling and emotionally unavailable. He thought I was a doormat. Well, I was a doormat and yet, my assessment of him still holds true. I can’t make heads or tails of what Ron is trying to say, but I’m sure his side is in there somewhere, and he certainly sounds appreciative to have his wife back. I can’t imagine Jay ever uttering the words that I, or anyone else besides him, was his world. My muscles stiffen with envy for Lindsay’s ability to captivate Ron as I realize that I will never have this. Looking up at the fantastic building that houses my new job, I wonder if I can ever be grateful for what I do have.
“Would you have Lindsay call me when she gets in?”
“She’s at the condo cleaning it out for you. Why don’t you go over there? She’s really excited to introduce you around the complex.” He then proceeds to give me the address and, before I know it, my cheapo rental car is chugging toward Bel Air. I wonder if they have a neighborhood watch.
The Trophy Wives Club is too convenient. I’m still very leery. Women don’t usually like me. I think it’s because I’m tall. I enter a room, and people just stare, like a giraffe has walked in. I’ve gotten used to it, and maybe it’s because I’ve had more than my share of other women’s boyfriends rescue me from walking into something. But I meet these women, they buy me pedicures, and give me a job and a condo? I’m thinking they’ll be passing around the Kool-Aid at any moment and asking me to swig, long and deep.
Lindsay is taller than me. Lily, Helena, and Penny are all prettier. Bette is smarter than me. I daresay I could walk in next to any one of them and be completely ignored unless I knocked over a Tiffany lamp or family vase. I look down at the scrap of paper where I’d scribbled the address and up again at the address, which has the number in bronze on it. This can’t be it. If this is what she gets when she divorces a guy, I can’t imagine what happens when she’s married to him. She’s probably going to get her own island.
I’m still focused on the house number when I miss a step leading up the pathway’s gentle slope. I go down so fast, I don’t even realize it until I’m on the step, bum first. I look down to see my toenail bleeding. Darn it!
“You all right?” a deep voice asks me as he extends his arms to help me up.
The sun is blocking his face. “Is this 8030?” I ask, hoping whoever he is, he doesn’t notice my toenail. Ugh, is there anything grosser than a toenail issue? I have to turn the page when I see a magazine page advertising some fungal cure.
“Not sure. Looks like it might be. You took a hard fall, are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine. That wasn’t that hard.” I push myself up off the bricks. “I’ve done a lot worse. Ruined a pair of Donald Pliners just this morning. Well, they’ll dry out, hopefully.”
He looks at me oddly. Hey, he asked. Well, maybe he didn’t.
I look up toward the house, ignoring my throbbing foot. This collection of condos was clearly built in the late fifties and has that modern, retro look, with lots of glass and clean lines. This look is so sought-after, since Brad Pitt bought that ugly house and famously furnished it with uncomfortable sofas. Clean lines, Hollywood said, and formerly unpopular older buildings suddenly became coveted property like the rat pack had come to life again. The lawns leading up to the entrance are meticulously landscaped, the hedges from a bygone era are freshly trimmed.
I head up the next step, when I remember my rescuer. “Hey, thanks.”
In that instant, rather than a simple you’re welcome, he starts to belt out a show tune from Les Miserables. He stands, feet well apart, legs perfectly straight, and hits each note with a sweeping hand motion. I look around to see if there’s a camera hidden nearby, or if Lindsay is playing a great practical joke, but she doesn’t know I’m coming, and the guy just keeps belting it out.
After my initial shock, I’m able to see he’s good-looking, at least. Maybe Ashton Kutcher-like, with bigger teeth (if that’s possible) and a slighter frame. I’m still looking for the camera as I start to back away. After a tap dance that clicks his way up the steps following me, I’m in for a treat with a big finish that lands him on his knees, outstretched, his arms in fists over his head.
At this, he stands and waits for some sort of response. I’d really like to give him one, too, but my mother taught me if you can’t say something nice…“Javert.”
“Right!” He points at me. “You’re a fan?”
“I was. What the heck was that?”
“Javert’s lament before his suicide.”
“Sounded more like after.”
“That’s just cruel.”
“I don’t have any change,” I say, as I dig around in my purse. I sure hope this is Lindsay’s place! If not, I’m going to make myself right at home in whoever’s house it is.
He comes alongside me and reaches in his back pocket. I lace my single car key, through my fingers, but instead of some sort of weapon, he flips out a CD. “It’s my DVD.”
“Yes?”
“Get it to Bud Seligman for me, will you?” He pats me on the shoulder. What is it with people patting me? Am I suddenly wearing a collar? “If you enjoyed my performance in the slightest, please give Mr. Seligman my regards and let him know how hard I worked to get this to him.” Then he bows at the waist and clicks his heels together.
“This was a sales pitch? Are you psychotic?” I pull my key higher, and he backs up.
“Who doesn’t like a little Les Mis after a long day?”
“In the first place, I did not enjoy your performance! One is not normally looking for a show tune performance after a first day on the job with a boss like Bud Seligman.” I catch my breath. “Secondly, why would I do you any sort of favor when you scared the daylights out of me?” I shake my head.
“How could that possibly have scared you?”
“Really, you should warn a girl if you’re going to break into song—because I thought you were some new type of serial killer that only L.A. could create.”
“Serial killer? What kind of serial killer has both formal and classical training in the arts?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know any serial killers personally.” My eyes bore through him, as though I might need to remember details. “Do you?”
“Of course not. I’m a dancer. Dancers are happy. We don’t kill people.”
Now that I know why he’s here, he doesn’t look nearly so frightening, and I start to relax. “What else you got? Javert’s suicide lament is too big for the street.”
“I can juggle.”
“People hate jugglers. Almost as much as they hate mimes.”
“You’re really a buzzkill, you know that?”
“You introduced yourself as a dancer, so that’s how you see yourself. Lose the Broadway vocals, that’s my advice.” I walk around him again.
“You’re a secretary for an agent and not even for a full day. Why should I listen to you?”
“Exactly. So use your ingenuity
that you put into stalking me and think up a better brand. You can do it; you’re creative, or you wouldn’t have thought to follow me.”
“You certainly have a lot of opinions for an admin.”
“I do have a lot of opinions, it’s just that no one has ever actually listened to them. So why start now?”
“Because you work for one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, that makes your opinion count. Even if it sucks.”
“I’ll have you know, I’ve been assistant producing for close to a decade. It’s not enough to be as good as everyone else. That’s what you might think, huh? I’m better than Justin Timberlake or James Blunt, but most likely, you’re not. So you have to do something different, better. Be original. You have to look at what makes those men special and find that in yourself. What do you have that no one else can offer? I’m thinking it’s got to be something different.”
“You’re not a very likeable person.”
For some reason, I take this as a complete compliment and grin from ear to ear. “Thank you. That’s the first time anyone has ever said that to my face.”
“I’m sure it’s not the first time they said it behind your back.” He laughs. “But I appreciate the advice. I’ll work on it.”
“Do that, and I’ll look at it. If I like it, I’ll get the DVD to Bud. I promise. But don’t you dare stalk me again. You freaked me out, and women do crazy things when they freak out.”
“Deal.”
I look up at the doorway, and Lindsay is cracking up while wearing rubber gloves and holding a bottle of bleach.
“I’m so getting a gun,” I tell her as I pass her into the house.
“So, does this mean you are going to take the place?” Lindsay is donned in an apron with red chili peppers, and she’s got her hair tied back and a rag in her hand.
“It’s really good for my soul to see you look this bad.”
“Because I want you to have everything perfect. You’re moving in?”
“Believe it or not, I really want to shower again with a whole bar of soap. It’s the little things you miss. You didn’t clean this place yourself, did you?” I let my eyes run up and down her getup.
The Trophy Wives Club Page 16