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 n
ext 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.
I watched Donna and Susan in particular with jealousy, but tried to get past it. Time would be my ally, I told myself. My day would come. I caught Donna looking at me sometimes, and I tried to ignore her, but sometimes I couldn’t help holding her stare with a cold stare of my own. She always looked away first—one of my small victories.
I quickly developed a routine. At three, I headed back home. I tried to nap until six, which sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. In either case, I was chronically sleep deprived. Then I would get up, shower, have some dinner in or out, flip through the trades looking for auditions, circle anything promising, then go out to the clubs.
Most often I went with Brooke. We would go to bars or go dancing, and she was always trying to find me the perfect guy. She also advised me on the L.A. dating scene. For instance, she told me to watch out for what she called “trick guys.”
“They look pretty plain,” she warned me, “like they wouldn’t be an obvious catch. But that’s the trick. They tend to be short, maybe balding, maybe Jewish or maybe not, but clever and articulate. They have a lot of money and power, and they’re charming, but because they aren’t flashy or obviously handsome, you think you’ve found a diamond in the rough, someone that no other girl has noticed. You think you’ve got the secret winner, disguised as a guy without any flash.”
“How is that a trick?” I was thinking about a guy I’d met the night before who almost perfectly fit her description. His name was Joshua Levin. He was about five foot seven, had a receding hairline, and a great sense of humor. I’d talked to him all night, thinking I was doing him a favor, and I was surprised at how charming he turned out to be. When he’d asked for my number, he’d been so embarrassed that I gave it to him, and had actually been hoping he’d call me.
“Because the whole ugly duckling thing is a lie. All the girls are after him for the same reason you are, and he knows it. He lets you think that he’s this great undiscovered guy, that he so appreciates that you’ve lowered yourself to date him when you’re so beautiful, but he’s secretly a player, ready to screw you and dump you for the next oblivious girl who comes along. He’s the guy who was a nerd in high school, and who now resents all the women who will have sex with him now but wouldn’t then. He hates women and he doesn’t respect them because he thinks they are only after his wallet.”
“Wow,” I said. “Duly noted.”
Occasionally, I went out with the irrepressible and mysterious Sandra and Babette and some of their friends, the gorgeous women from the party with all the expensive jewelry. They apparently continued to find me amusing and often introduced me to some of the richest men I’d ever met. I had high hopes of becoming a gold digger, especially of Sandra’s caliber, but I just couldn’t ever quite get myself to flirt seriously with the paunchy, balding, misogynist men, many of them foreign, whom they introduced me to, no matter how rich. I envied the girls’ Versace dresses and Gucci bags and Bulgari jewelry, but not enough to go to the lengths I suspected they went to get that stuff. I never asked the specifics, and they never offered.
I also kept auditioning, although not as often as I probably should have. It was so frustrating because I was always just one of hundreds of hopefuls trying for some small part in a television commercial or indie film. I never seemed to be able to crack the code. Nobody ever called, and I never quite felt like I knew what I was doing. Still, I kept trying. I wanted it so badly … even though I still wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Fame? Money? Recognition? Validation?
Once I had my first paycheck, I got the required actress headshots taken. Everybody told me that a headshot is your business card in L.A., so I spent $500 on a big stack of 8x10s of me with my hair and makeup done, smiling like I thought an actress was supposed to smile. I sent them out with a carefully constructed cover letter to a list of a hundred agents. Nothing. No response at all.
“This was a huge waste of money,” I complained to Brooke one day, after checking the mail.
“Just get your face out there,” Brooke told me. But what did she know? Her life was at the racetrack, not trying to get in front of the camera. I wasn’t comfortable being alone and was always looking for Mr. Right … or at least Mr. Right Now. Although living with my father kept me from ever bringing any of my dates home, I occasionally went home with them. Older married men seemed to be particularly attracted to me, and they always wanted to talk, talk, talk about their problems, dumping them all on me, maybe because I didn’t look or act like the typical Hollywood bimbo. Maybe my opinionated attitude was off-putting, so t
hey didn’t know what else to do with me but talk. I wasn’t “wife” material. That was obvious.
There was one older guy whose mother had produced a popular series of spy movies from the 1960s, so he’d had early success as a director, specializing in cheesy sci-fi movies. I met him at a VIP reception for the network executives. We struck up a conversation. It turned out he knew my father, so we talked about the racetrack all evening. Then I went back to his place and we made out, but it never went further than that. I found out later he was married. Typical.
Then there was Ian McGinnis. Ian was the editor of one of the largest entertainment magazines in the country. After meeting him at the gym where I liked to work out, I’d hung out with him a few times. He was that uniquely L.A. personality: an over-fifty bachelor who drank excessively, was addicted to fitness, and was also completely unable to fathom the meaning of the word intimacy. But Ian was a sweet man and I enjoyed his company. He liked to buy me things, and he sometimes invited me to sleep over in his guest room and use his home gym in the morning. He loved to talk to me, but beyond a fatherly peck, nothing ever happened. He was nice, although I’d been relieved when he eventually stopped calling. He was much too old for me, and his proximity in age to my father made me uncomfortable.
Sometimes I went out with casting directors I liked, telling myself that this would be a good way to find out about the really great acting jobs, but then I could never get myself to admit to them that I was an actress. It just sounded so cliché. The few times I did mention it were to the wrong people—the lecherous ones whose eyes lit up the second they heard the word actress. One of them was even blatant enough to tell me he could get me a starring role in his new film if I would be his girlfriend. I admit, I gave it a few seconds of thought, but I just couldn’t get past the big fleshy mole wedged between his nose and upper lip.
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