by Clare Naylor
“It’s George’s birthday. I want to give him the best party he’s ever had. In fact, I tell you what. Let’s make a statement here about how much we value George as a client and friend. Let’s tell the world how much we love George.” Daniel slapped Scott on the back. “Let’s do it at my house.”
“Genius. Fucking genius.” Scott slapped him back. Lara went a deathly shade of white.
“If I do say so myself.” Daniel nodded and strode back to the fourth floor with the seal of self-approval. I had been spared. For now at least. I would never transfer Todd Lyons to the mailroom again.
Later I caught Lara splashing cold water on her face in the bathroom, her lips practically blue.
“Have you any idea?” she hyperventilated. “Organizing a party in Daniel’s house. With his Picassos and his Warhols and his precious Schnabels. Not to mention his floorboards that were reclaimed from a French railway station. And his bonsai collection that people will pour their margaritas into. And his pool they’ll contaminate when they vomit in it. Or, heaven forbid, swim in it. It’s like I’ve volunteered myself for lethal injection.”
“It can’t be that bad.” I handed her a paper towel.
“The guy is an anally retentive control freak the likes of which even Dr. Freud could never have envisaged. Somebody once burned popcorn in a kitchen three floors below his office, and he had them fired because the smell upset him. Nobody on his floor is allowed to wear fragrance. Only unscented wash products. The labels on the soft drinks in the fridge have to face out. His girlfriend even has to ask him what she is allowed to wear when she visits Whole Foods.”
“Jeez.”
“On top of which, I have to organize this with Ryan, Daniel’s sycophantic, slimeball assistant. I swear, Elizabeth, his head is so far up Daniel’s ass that the guy doesn’t need to get his colon checked twice a year like most men his age.”
“That’s really rough,” I sympathized.
“That’s not the rough part. Ryan and I have a blood feud. We hate one another’s guts, and he’s out to trip me up in any way he can possibly think of.”
“How come?”
“I had a date with him once. I wouldn’t sleep with him, so he came in the next day and told everyone that I was really a guy and I’d had a sex-change operation.”
“He did not?” I laughed. Apart from her perfect, pretty face, Lara also had tits that had so patently not been inserted through a hole under her armpits.
“People believed him because they wanted to.” Lara’s eyes were narrow slits. “I tell you, Elizabeth, somebody is going to die over this party.”
I walked back to my desk, trying to feel sorry for Lara and empathize with her pain, but I didn’t really succeed. I was way too thrilled that I was going to get to go to a Hollywood party. Anything could happen. Jack could take me for a concubine. George could invite me to join him and a few girls in the master bathroom. Nicole could become my best friend.
“There’s a message for you,” Talitha said as I sat down. Courtney was looking at me out of the corner of her eye.
“Thanks.” I pulled the sticky off my screen and read it.
Jake Hudson Called. 1-310-555-2121
“Perfect.” I smiled to myself. I put the sticky in my purse, thinking I’d call him when I had some privacy.
“Are you planning to return that call?” Courtney asked.
“Oh, sure, when I get home.”
“Why?” They both looked at me as if I’d gone mad.
“I didn’t realize we were allowed to make personal calls from the office.”
“Personal?” Talitha snickered.
“Jake was the guy I met this weekend.”
“Shut up,” Courtney said incredulously. “Jake Hudson?”
“Yeah, the Malibu guy. I suppose that must have been his last name. I gave him my work number. And to be honest, I’m as surprised as you. I imagined I wouldn’t hear from him until at least Thursday.”
“You made out with Jake Hudson?” Courtney asked.
“Yeah.” I shrugged. “Do you know him?” At which point they evaporated into a puddle of mirth.
“You did what?” Lara had appeared from nowhere and was now standing beside my desk. Her hair was still damp where she’d splashed her face, but her lips were no longer blue.
“I fooled around with a guy called Jake Hudson,” I said, a little more quietly. There was clearly some problem here. “I’m not quite sure why everyone’s so shocked. Who is he? Should I know him?” I was bemused.
“Jake Hudson?” Lara almost spit back at me.
“He was cute,” I said sheepishly. But I wasn’t going to be too apologetic—he was the best-looking man I’d kissed in my whole life, after all. Lara took in the scene, smug me surrounded by the wildly amused assistants, and rolled her eyes heavenward.
“Yeah, well, in which case, Elizabeth, you’re on your own. You obviously didn’t listen to a word I said on Friday night, and so I see no point in helping you any further. Good luck.”
And with that she marched into Scott’s office and slammed the door shut behind her. Leaving me in the doghouse and the dark as to who, even slightly, Jake Hudson was.
“Oh, and by the way”—she stuck her head out again—“you can organize the party with Ryan. Since you’re clearly so fucking tight with the Hollywood Power 100.”
4
How extravagant you are throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce.
—Claude Rains as Captain Louis Renault
Casablanca
Jake Hudson, as it turned out, was the president of Motion Pictures at a studio. And not simply any studio. A major motion-picture studio with the highest-performing box office of the year. Six number-one movies. With more Academy Award nominations than you can shake a stick at. He had also dated every single (and married) actress who’d ever graced the pages of GQ and rarely went out with a woman whose legs were shorter than forty-four inches. I ought to have been flattered to have kissed his lips, which it now seemed were statistically proven to be the most desirable in Hollywood. Instead I merely felt nauseous.
“Now, let’s see,” Talitha said thoughtfully as she pulled out a copy of The Agency’s client list—a top secret cluster of pastel pink pages stapled together and in alphabetical order that detailed all our female clients. She ran her finger down the page and stopped every so often by the names of almost every major star in town to exclaim, “Oh, yes, he slept with her before she got her trout pout. Oh, and he was engaged to her. And he claimed to be just friends with her, but when the Enquirer said that Jake was dating her”—Talitha tapped her finger on the name of another insanely famous, gorgeous, albeit married actress—“then she came in the next day and blubbered on Scott’s sofa so I think they were definitely fucking. Oh, and he’s slept with supermodels galore. Though usually only the ones with major cosmetics contracts.” Talitha put the list back in her drawer.
“Does he ever date normal women?” I asked, wondering if I’d misled Jake Hudson. I was sure that if he had any idea who I was—or, more precisely, who I wasn’t—he wouldn’t have added me to his tally. Which, as it stood, read like the contents page of the bumper summer issue of InStyle magazine. Had I perhaps erroneously led him to believe that my grandfather was Walt Disney? That my dad was president of the United States? That in some way, unfamous though I clearly was, I might actually have mattered in the grand, Vanity Fair scheme of things?
Talitha scrunched up her lips and nose and eyes in a way that someone had obviously once told her was cute, and finally proclaimed, “I don’t think he’s ever done normal. No.”
“I see.” I decided to let the subject drop.
It was lunchtime, and all the other assistants were in the kitchen down the hallway. Doubtless discussing how I could have fallen for such a libidinous love rat. Or, more likely, how he could have fallen for me. Whose purse nobody could source to the big five: Jacobs, Gucci, Balenciaga, Dior, or Prada in a pinch. Lara had popped out
to Saks, and Scott was at lunch.
Talitha, who’d been dying to tell me all about Jake Hudson since my bombshell the previous day, took a spoonful of her soy dessert and continued. “But those are just the women he takes out in public. I guess there’s a whole bunch that he only entertains at home. You know, the strippers and . . . well . . . girls like you.”
“The ones he picks up off the sidewalk?” I asked grimly.
“Exactly, honey.” She smiled sweetly. Obliviously.
“Thanks, Talitha.”
I decided not to return Jake Hudson’s call just yet. I sort of knew that he had only called to make sure that I was still alive and hadn’t enlisted a lawyer to sue his frat-boy hockey team and prevent them from playing down at Venice ever again. And that particular reminder of my distinctly unexceptional status in life could wait. For now I had work to do, as back at my desk I found an e-mail from Ryan entitled “Tasks”:
Your tasks for George’s party will be as follows. Please alert me as to the completion of each.
Security. At least 25 personnel. Dress code: black, no navy. Suits but no bow ties. Armed but with discretion. I suggest nothing above a KP512. No bull dykes. In fact, no women packing heat. This disturbs Daniel.
Beverages. Attempt to get sponsorship. Fax Piper-Heidsieck a guest list and tell them it’s going to be covered by People magazine.
No press.
Food. Sushi. But only in The Zone.
Music. Norah. Robbie. Christina. Any client who will perform for free.
Flowers. White. Unscented. No pollen.
Oxygen to be pumped into party. And garden.
Cages with live birds. If endangered species are more colorful, then find a way.
Dancers from Crazy Girls on La Brea. Though only small-nippled girls. Daniel won’t have large nipples in his home.
Invitations hand-delivered.
I couldn’t imagine exactly what Ryan was doing to help me organize this party, as pretty much everything that constituted hard work was on my list. I also had fifteen scripts to Xerox before the end of the day. But I didn’t care. It took my mind off the fact that I was persona non grata with Lara and the laughingstock of The Agency in general after my brush with the notorious Jake Hudson. I decided to begin with the dancers. I pulled out the phone book and found Crazy Girls on La Brea. A man answered.
“Hi, I wonder if you can help me. I’d like to order some dancers, please.”
“Sure. For when and how many?”
“Well, it’s a week from Saturday. The twenty-seventh. And as to how many? I guess you’d be the expert on that. There are about five hundred guests, so I think maybe . . . oh, I don’t know, would you think twelve dancers? Or twenty-four? Do they come by the dozen?”
“They’re girls. Not eggs.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” This wasn’t as easy as I had imagined.
“Will they be required to give personal performances?” he asked as he passed his chewing gum noisily from one cheek to the other.
“Well, I don’t know. What does that entail?”
“Will you want them to get naked and grind their ass in anyone’s face?”
“I don’t think so. No.” Though I’d never been to a Hollywood party. I couldn’t be sure such things weren’t going to happen. “But if they do, we’ll happily pay the difference afterward, of course.”
“Sure. Well, I’d say you need fifty girls. Enough to be visible but not to get in everyone’s face. If you’ll pardon the expression.”
“Perfect,” I said, grateful for the pointers. Now for the awkward part. I wasn’t sure exactly how to phrase this, but I went for it.
“And could you make that fifty girls with smallish nipples, if you don’t mind?”
“Excuse me?” He sounded as though he’d swallowed his gum. I may just have achieved the unthinkable and actually shocked the manager of Crazy Girls.
“It’s just that . . . well, my boss is a huge fan of girls with small nipples, and if you could manage it that’s what we’d prefer.”
“Did you have a diameter in mind?”
“Oh, I think just not large. Nothing that constitutes large. That would work perfectly.”
“You’re fucking joking, right?”
“Is that a problem?” I asked tentatively. Hoping not. I didn’t want to upset Daniel.
“Well, if you wanna come down here and check them out, you’re welcome to. Otherwise you’re just gonna have to trust that my girls are the hottest in town, regardless of nipple size. Okay?” He sounded slightly aggressive. I decided to back down at this point.
“I’m sure all your girls are fabulous, and if you could just try to remain within a certain small-nipple ballpark, then I’d be super grateful,” I concluded. When I looked up, Lara was walking by my desk. She smirked as she overheard the tail end of my conversation.
“Lara,” I called after her.
She stopped and turned around.
“Do you think I could talk to you for a second?”
“Sorry, I don’t know anything about nipples.” She shrugged and headed back to her desk.
My eyes smarted, and I wished that I had stayed in D.C. I wished I didn’t have to show reverence to people who judged women on their nipple size. I wished that Lara were still my friend and that she would tell me how all the men in this town were just high-school losers who abused their power as a way of acting out their issues with the cheerleaders who wouldn’t sleep with them back then. But she wasn’t my friend anymore. She tucked a large Saks Fifth Avenue bag under her desk and settled down on the phone.
“I need a latte the size of a skyscraper.” Scott flew by my desk.
“I see.” I stood up and followed him into his office. “Er, Scott. I was just wondering where I might find a latte around here.”
“How the fuck should I know?” He was glued to his call sheet.
“Okay. Thanks.” I backed out of his office and made my way toward Lara’s desk. But she was gazing obdurately ahead at her screen, so I ducked by and whispered to Talitha, “Is there a Starbucks or something around here?”
“There’s Coffee Bean across the street.” She pointed behind her. “Oh, and hey, if you’re going, can you get a soy chai latte for me?”
“Great, you can fetch Mike a double espresso, too,” Courtney said. “Please.”
“Sure. Soy chai latte and double espresso,” I repeated. Mike was Courtney’s boss who rarely came out of his office as he was apparently waiting for his course of Rogaine to kick in. When he ventured out, it was usually in a trilby.
“Anybody else want anything from the Coffee Bean?” Talitha called out as I shrugged my jacket on and grabbed my wallet.
“Oh, yeah, grande coffee no sugar,” said an agent from an office across the hall who was passing by.
“Decaf green tea and one of those fat-free biscotti,” someone else called out. The list, by the time I had written it down on my hand, was long. In fact, it ran to two palms long.
I had to navigate six lanes of oncoming traffic to get across the street to the Coffee Bean, so by the time I arrived, my palms were sweating so much that it was a struggle to read my shopping list. As I stepped into the cool shade of the shop, I tried to remember who wanted what. Green tea was Courtney, right? When I looked up, I saw a group of six people—two guys and four girls—all about my age, in identical clothing to mine, in the corner, sipping lattes in silence, until a cell phone began to vibrate on the table in front of them. They all looked at it for a second or two, and finally one of them, a guy, picked it up.
“Hello?” he inquired nervously. Then what sounded like a muffled explosion issued from the earpiece of the phone. He moved it away from his ear with a look of pain on his face. “Okay. We’re coming,” he told the person on the other end of the phone. And with that the group rose to their feet in silence and one by one filed past me, leaving a table strewn with shredded napkins, half-full coffee cups, and a one-dollar tip.
When the door had
closed behind them, I looked around and saw that the coffee shop was empty. Except for a cute guy behind the counter who was looking at me in anticipation.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
“Oh, er . . . well, I’d like . . .” And I reeled off my list of requests. Positive that most of them were wrong but suddenly much more concerned as to how much this little haul was going to cost me.
“That’ll be twenty-eight dollars,” he said. I blinked at the guy and began to count the dollars out of my wallet. Shit.
“Do you accept credit cards?” I asked hopefully.
“Sure.” He took my AmEx, which I figured might just prove flexible enough for eight hot drinks.
“You work at The Agency?” he asked as he ran my card.
“Yeah.” I nodded, nervously watching the till for hissing or spitting noises as it choked out my card.
“New, then, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Figured.” He nodded intelligently.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you looked at those guys who were in here a minute ago like they were Martians. But really they’re just like you.” He opened his eyes wide as though narrating a horror movie.
“They’re new, too?” I asked.
“They’re poor abused assistants.” He handed me the slip to sign. “They come in here once or twice a week. They work for Mad Max.”
“Mad Max?” I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
“Max Fischer. Head of Fischer Films. Huge production company. Their building’s next door to The Agency. He has six assistants, and sometimes, when he’s done throwing things at them, after the last Rolodex leaves his desk and there’s nothing left to hurl, he’ll fire them all.”
“You’re kidding?” I watched as he expertly packed my entire food budget for the next week into a cardboard egg box–type thing.
“No. It happens about once or twice a week, like I said. They’ll come in here, and sometimes a couple of them will by crying. Or bruised. Once one of them was bleeding from her right temple, so we had to mop her up.” He didn’t look as though he were lying, so I decided to sip my own latte and hear him out. “And they’ll sit there for about forty minutes until the phone rings and Max says ‘Get the fuck back in here.’ Usually with a few more ‘fucks’ thrown in for good measure. And the rest . . . well, you saw for yourself.”