The Second Assistant

by Clare Naylor

  “This piece is very intricate. From 1925, the pendant is emerald with coral, onyx, natural pearl, and a diamond necklace,” the man said, his eyes alive with the scent of an imminent sale. Mia was a little restless by now, and this was a pretty staggering creation, if I did say so myself. “And I think it’s a very youthful piece. It has a vibrancy to it.” Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Sold on account of the reference to youth to the lady who spends four hundred dollars a month on eye cream even though she’s barely on the other side of thirty. It’s amazing how young the young start to worry about getting old these days.

  “I’ll take it,” Mia said. “I love it.” And that, I realized, was the only time she’d expressed approval the whole time we’d been in here. Was this a part of being rich? Seeming unhappy with everything? Even though I suspected that inside she was leaping up and down with the same glee that I would have been experiencing if I were about to buy myself a spectacularly beautiful piece of American history. Made in the twenties for an heiress who’d probably danced on a lawn at midnight with F. Scott Fitzgerald. How could she not be delighted?

  “I bet you’ll go home and put it on with your pajamas and just bounce around on the bed laughing,” I said, and the minute it flew out of my mouth, I realized how wildly unsophisticated it sounded. How even though it had never really crossed my mind to seek out a rich man, I was never likely to attract one anyway. Women like Mia didn’t get to be women like Mia by being excitable about things. That was their one great talent. That was the reason rich men were attracted to them. They seemed unimpressable. A challenge as lofty and icy as Everest. Sure, they might manage a thank-you if you bought them a small but perfectly formed Caribbean island for Christmas, but generally their faces were as hard as the diamonds that they mistook for affection.

  “Oh, I don’t think I’ll ever wear it,” Mia said as we got back into her car and headed for The Agency. “It’s actually kind of vulgar, I think. But I happen to know that there’s a ‘Jewelry of the Twentieth Century’ exhibit planned at MOMA later this year, so it’ll appreciate brilliantly.”

  And when I glanced at her from the corner of my eye, I noticed that she did look older than she was. Her lips were drawn meanly into her face, and she was scowling at the road ahead.

  “So if you’ll just get Scott’s credit card and call the store when you get back to the office, they can have it delivered to me by Friday,” she said, as if I were . . . well, her husband’s second assistant, I suppose.

  “Of course,” I promised. “I’ve had a really interesting afternoon, by the way. Thanks for bringing me along.”

  “What?” She checked her lipstick in her rearview mirror. “Oh, yeah, right. Sure.”

  “You can just drop me off by the front entrance if you prefer. It’ll save you having to make a right turn,” I said, indicating a place she could pull up outside The Agency.

  “Great. I’ll do that. Well, thanks, Elizabeth. And would you mind just giving me a call when you’ve paid for it? Just to let me know.”

  “Of course.” I nodded and opened the car door.

  “Oh, and, hey, why don’t you come over on Saturday?” She suddenly turned and smiled at me, and I felt flattered. Cool, Saturday with Mia and her friends. I could certainly think of less interesting things to do. Though it was going to require a little more maxing on the maxed cards, but who cared?

  “Saturday?” I said perkily. “That sounds fine. What time?”

  “About eleven.” She kept her engine running.

  “Right,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  “Great.” The traffic on the street was honking behind her, waiting for her to move off. “Bye, Elizabeth. See you Saturday. Oh, and try not to be late.”

  With which she gave the finger to the car behind her and pulled out into the middle lane without putting on her blinker. Well, I thought as I walked back toward the monolithic marble structure of The Agency, Mia Wagner may not have been the most natural choice of new friend for me, and certainly I wasn’t the most obvious pal for her. But that was the beautiful thing about friendships, wasn’t it? They were often so unexpected.

  12

  It’s the story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

  —Marilyn Monroe as Sugar Kane

  Some Like It Hot

  It was almost the weekend. Well, it was Wednesday. And one of our most prestigious actors had disappeared. “Get Tony on for me,” Scott called out from his office as I barreled into work a hair later than nine o’clock. I’d set off at seven-thirty feeling as daisylike as it’s possible to feel when your neighbor has kept you awake until two with what sounded like a very invigorating Ashtanga workout. Consisting of so many thumps and thuds that it would send domestic-violence sirens ringing in your brain if you didn’t know that your neighbor was in fact practicing nonviolence in a Zen Buddhist fashion. An unfortunate ten decibels louder than a plate-hurling couple.

  Then there had been the traffic. The traffic would in theory be the perfect moment of my day to insert that said Zen Buddhism that Alexa had told me about briefly on the landing when we collided with our garbage bags last week. But as hard as I tried to relax the muscles in my pelvic floor and think of the lotus flower of my Anaharta chakra, I simply wanted to pee and scream expletives at the bitch in the BMW with the personalized license plate who’d just cut me off on the inside lane. And as calm as I endeavored to be, “Fuck you, Tami 69, with your stupid hair!” flew out of my mouth with a damned sight more alacrity than “Om.” I was clearly going to have to take my foul mouth and my soul to Hollyway Cleaners the next time Victoria sent me out with a selection of her funereal garments.

  But then, who could blame me for the proliferation of “fucks” (miserably, only the verbal sort) in my life. It was all Scott’s fault.

  “Did you get Tony for me? I need to speak to him yesterday, for fuck’s sake.” Scott again. This time over the din of Linkin Park, which was his new favorite way to unwind.

  “I’m on it,” I said as I tapped out Tony’s number with one hand and tugged off my jacket with my teeth and the other hand. But Tony’s cell phone was going straight to voice mail. I raided my Rolodex and found his home number. I hated calling clients at home, especially actors, who were often very protective of their personal space. Sometimes to the point of lunacy.

  “Hi, I’m not here. Leave a message.” Tony was the most charmless man you’d ever want to sleep with in your entire life. But you did want to sleep with him. At least if you saw him at a multiplex near you. And particularly in an Academy Award–nominated role that involved the wearing of demonic leather. Possibly not, though, if you’d encountered him in the bathroom of a Dublin pub with his fist hovering above an intrepid paparazzo’s jaw. Though I’m sure there would have been plenty of takers for that, too. Tony was the dictionary definition of devastatingly attractive. With the emphasis on devastation.

  I noticed his mother’s phone number scrawled in red ink on the card—Tony’s Ma, it said and listed an Irish phone number. I wondered whether I’d be brave enough to call it. I wasn’t.

  “Scott, I’ve left messages at both his numbers, but no reply. All we can do is wait till he gets back to us.” I got up from my desk and put my head around Scott’s office door. Not having the lungs of Pavarotti, I would have gone unheard over the rap metal otherwise.

  “Have you tried his mother?” He was irritatingly on the ball for a man who routinely massacred sixteen billion, never-to-be-recovered brain cells.

  “His mother?” I acted as though I hadn’t laid eyes on the red scrawl fifty seconds ago. “Well, that’s an idea. I’ll see if I can find her number and give it a try.”

  “This is urgent, Lizzie!” he bellowed as his fist crashed to his desk and the vibrations rearranged his pencil pots and caused his mouse to leap defenselessly in the air. David Sklansky’s Theory of Poker crashed to the floor. Scott’s latest crush was Texas Hold ’Em. Based in Costa Rica. Played online. Anywhere. And his mood c
ould be made or broken depending on how he’d fared in the latest tournament.

  “Fuck you, faggot asshole from Indianapolis with your three homo kings!” he yelled.

  “Oh, hi there. I was wondering if I could speak to Tony please.” An Irish woman had answered the phone.

  “Who’s this?” she snapped. Tony’s ma, I was presuming.

  “This is Elizabeth Miller, I’m from The Agency in Los Angeles. We represent Tony, and his agent, Scott Wagner, would love to speak to him if possible. Is this Tony’s mother?” This in my best PR voice. Which always skyrockets through those octaves when I’m “doing polite.” As if I’m talking to a small animal.

  “Who I am is none of your business. And I know what The Agency is, you bloody fool,” she said and I could hear a chorus of approval in the background. Then Tony’s ma announced to the clacking company, who I imagined were similarly beady women lacing the edges of a kitchen table in Galway, nursing sugary cups of tea, “She thinks we don’t have a bloody clue because we don’t live in Los Angeles.” “Los Angeles” spoken in a singsong taunt of a way. More clacking and some hissing from the doily of women. I could see where Tony got his courteous nature.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you. And if Tony’s not there, well . . .”

  “Who said he’s not here?”

  “Oh, then, if he is, that’s great. If you could put him on. Or if he’s unavailable right now, ask him to call Scott Wagner.” The irritating thing was that I know that I would have gotten exactly what I wanted on the spot from Tony’s ma if I’d just spit, “Okay, listen here, you old cow. It’s in your fat-ass son’s interests if he speaks to his agent, because even though he’s one of the most talented actors who ever suffered to show his face on the silver screen, he’s also well on his way to the last-chance saloon in terms of being hired, because he has issues with aggression and bloating and women and doing as he’s asked by perfectly nice, reasonable people. And to tell you the truth, nobody in this town likes him. And if you’re in any doubt as to what I mean, look up Mickey Rourke in your Hello! magazine this week. Oh, he’s not there? Could that be because nobody gives a shit anymore? Well, Tony’s Ma. I rest my case.” Naturally, I resisted the urge.

  “He’s not here. Since you’re wondering,” she said belligerently. Well, yes, actually I was wondering, which is why I called you in the first place.

  “Okay, well, thanks for your trouble. Sorry to disturb you. Good-bye.” I was about to hang up.

  “But maybe I know where he is,” she taunted me, with a muffled bleat from the receiver.

  “I see.”

  “But I don’t know as I can say.”

  “Right.”

  “Although I could tell you if I were so inclined.” Somebody had obviously once told Tony’s ma that knowledge is power, and she’d taken it very much to heart.

  “I’d be incredibly grateful if you would tell me. As would Scott Wagner, who very much wants to speak with his client.” I was getting formal. In a bid to prevent myself from getting foul.

  “He’s on a diet.”

  “That’s great news,” I said, a little too readily. Tony had a Brando-esque love of junk food, and after finishing a sexy epic, he’d hit the squeeze-cheese and burgers with indecent gusto. So in between movies, the only thing that looked heroic about him was his jowls.

  “Watermelon diet,” she announced. “And you should see the state of my downstairs toilet.”

  “Is he there now?”

  “He left on Monday for somewhere hot. The watermelon, it was affecting his brain. As well as his bowels. But he wouldn’t stop. I begged him, ‘For the sake of your dead father, Tony, will you stop it with the watermelon?’ I said. But he wouldn’t stop. So he went somewhere hot where the melons were more readily available and fresher than you can get in the Co-op.”

  “And you don’t know where that was, by any chance.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say to the likes of you.”

  “Okay, well, thank you for your time. Good-bye.”

  I put my head in my hands and wanted to scream. I had failed. For all that huffing and puffing with Tony’s ma, I still didn’t have a clue where he was. I seemed to have Pol Pot’s talent for diplomacy. Thus I was about as likely to get Tony on the phone as I was to be adopted by his loving mother.

  “So?” Scott yelled in a pause between what I suppose could loosely be termed songs.

  “Right, well . . .” I said as I stood up and made my way to his office doorway. “It seems that Tony’s gone on a watermelon diet. Lost his mind, and now he’s on holiday somewhere hot.”

  “So put him through.” Scott kicked off from his place beside the window and propelled himself on his office chair over to his desk in one push. He was so fantastically adroit on that chair that he could have picked up a gold at the Paralympics. Had he been disabled. He went to pick up the phone.

  “Ah, no. You see, I didn’t actually speak to him.” I screwed up my face in anticipation of the onslaught.

  “Why the fuck not? He has the most expensive movie of the year starting Monday in Mexico, and I haven’t spoken to him in three weeks. Where the fuck is he?”

  “Maybe he’s in Mexico already,” I said with lightning optimism. “It’s hot there, right?”

  “Yes, Lizzie, it’s hot there.”

  “And they have watermelons. Plenty of them.”

  “What the fuck’s with the watermelons?” Scott couldn’t sustain his concentration on this topic of conversation any longer, and his eyes had flashed to the screen, where a new hand was being dealt in poker.

  Thank the Lord for ADD, I thought as I prepared to sneak away.

  “Don’t. Go. Anywhere.” Scott yelled, looking at his poker hand but talking to me.

  “Scott, I don’t see what more we can do. I’ve left messages with his mother, at his home, and on his cell phone. He’ll get in touch when he’s ready.”

  “Call Interpol.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “He’s a missing person. Right?”

  “Scott,” I said pleadingly.

  “Am I a fucking genius or what?” He lost his poker hand but was so thrilled with his brilliant idea that he didn’t care. “See? Rehab had to be good for something. They tell you to use all available resources. Well, what’s Interpol if it’s not an available resource?” He grinned and flashed his poster-child-for-Beverly-Hills-dentistry smile. “Go get ’em, Lizzie.”

  I did one more Scott-you-can’t-be-serious look, but it simply bounced off the glare of Brite-Smile whiteness like the sun off a mirror.

  “Er, yes, hello. Could I please speak to someone in Missing Persons?” I couldn’t bear it. I felt like seven kinds of idiot. On rye. But I had to do it. It was what I was paid for, apparently. Thank God they couldn’t see me, was all the consolation I had. Even now I can’t quite bear to reveal the full details of my embarrassment. Suffice it to say that what the girls in my office heard went something like this:

  “I’d like to report someone missing, please . . . No, I don’t think I need to speak to the human-trafficking department. This is more . . . well, do you have someone who deals with celebrities? Not specifically. I see. Well then, just plain old Missing Persons would be great. Thanks . . . Hello, I wonder if you can help me. An actor has gone missing, and we were hoping that you might be able to shed a little light on his whereabouts . . . No, I’m not next of kin, I’m actually the second assistant of his Hollywood agent . . . Highly unusual? I understand. He’s been missing for, oh, a few days . . . Kidnapped? Well, he’s very high profile, so it could be an option. But unlikely . . . No, there’s been no demand for a ransom. It’s just that he’s supposed to begin work on a movie called”—I reached for my grid, the list of every movie shooting in Hollywood at the moment and every one scheduled to shoot someday, finance permitting—“right, yes, well, it’s called Acts of God, and it’s due to start in Mexico on Monday and . . . well, he’s the lead, so a lot’s resting on him . . . Suspicious? Well,
I think if you factor in the watermelon diet that has allegedly made him a little mentally unbalanced, then we could be talking something definitely strange. You see, I spoke to his mother in Ireland and . . . terrorism? No, I don’t think so. Though, if your Terrorism Department has a good reputation for finding people, then it’d be great if they could just . . . well, you know, put out a few feelers . . . Yes, I fully understand that Interpol is a serious agency whose objective is to combat international crime. I’m terribly sorry. Yes. It won’t happen again . . . Time-wasting? Irresponsible? Yes. I’m aware of that. Yes. Sorry. Thank you.”

  Quite suddenly it had become only Wednesday. The weekend seemed like the hot shower waiting for me at the end of a very grueling army assault course on a freezing December day. But with someone firing a machine gun at me as I clambered over nets as high as a house, it was looking unlikely that I’d ever see the soap.

  “And are they gonna get onto it?” Scott came out of his office and leaned over my desk, still glowing from the victory of his great idea.

  “Scott, they’re Interpol. They support and assist all organizations, authorities, and services whose mission it is to prevent or combat international crime. They don’t deal with actors on watermelon diets.”

  “Millions of dollars are at stake. Did you tell them that?”

  “I don’t think they really cared too much about that,” I explained, still red-faced and dying from my telling-off by the man on the phone.

  “Then what in hell’s name do we pay our taxes for?” Scott got mad. “I mean, have you any idea how much the IRS skims off my salary? And if you multiply that by everyone in this building, then I think we have a fucking great case for getting back on the phone to Interpol and telling them that we have paid for the right to have them find our actor and they can suck my left nut if they think that—”

  “Scott, give it a break, huh?” Lara said, without looking up from her screen.