by Clare Naylor
“What you were saying about humor, Lizzie.” He interrupted my train of thought. “I think it’s overrated. Too many real emotions are debased by humor. Too much is lost in the name of enjoyment.” He was picking the olives off his pizza and placing them in a tidy little mountain on his plate. It was then that I knew that Jason and I were never going to be. I might be able to get around the gray attire and the hallway strewn with pictures of bloody intestines, but his saturnine streak was too much for me. A total deal breaker.
I was on my way to pledge pretend allegiance to Ryan when I was joined in the elevator by Daniel Rosen. Although he was a slight man and was only in his mid-forties, his demeanor was so redolent of power that I almost dropped to my knees and gave thanks. His airbrushed perfection—the creaseless pink shirt, the weightless drape of his deep navy suit, and his smooth, lightly tanned face—made me think that I could have been looking at him through a Vaselined lens. He was as slick as his house, vintage Rolex, and Aston Martin put together; he smelled elite, if that’s possible. He looked at me vaguely and smiled. Foolishly thinking that the nod of the head was recognition, I decided to acknowledge him—big fat mistake. And if I’d had a split second longer to mull it over, I’d have done the sensible thing and gazed down at my shoes until I went cross-eyed and Daniel left me alone in the elevator once more. But I didn’t have time to think, and I came from a world where I said hello to fellow dog walkers and old ladies in the street. This was a habit that Hollywood had yet to divest me of entirely.
“Hi, Daniel.”
He looked puzzled as he tried to place my face. I was really hoping what sprang to mind wasn’t me topless in his pool.
“It’s Elizabeth Miller. We met when I worked for Congressman Hutchens in D.C., and you got me my job here at The Agency.” Why on earth I’d felt the need to draw attention to myself I had no idea. But it certainly cranked open a can of worms that I could happily have lived without for some time to come.
“Elizabeth. Yes, of course I know you. You work for Scott Wagner, right? How’s it going?” He voice was rich and melodious and perfectly pitched to make money and friends.
“Really well. I’m learning a lot. And really enjoying the business.” His eyes bored into me as I struggled to remember if I’d spritzed on any perfume this morning that might cause him to go into anaphylactic shock or fire me again. I hadn’t forgotten the firing incident—I was just hoping that he had.
“So do you want to be an agent, or are you thinking of heading back into politics? I hear Scott’s pretty tough to work for.” Well, he was misinformed there. In comparison to the stories I’d heard about Daniel, Scott was a walk in the park.
“Scott’s great,” I said, not really wanting to get involved in that conversation. Then I had a moment of pure inspiration. I should mention Jason’s script to him. Maybe he’d have some advice or even want to help out. After all, I was his protégé in some vague sense of the word, and I wasn’t having much luck getting it read by any of the other agents. I deliberately hadn’t given it to Scott because he quite simply didn’t read, so where was the harm in asking Daniel’s advice?
“Very loyal to Scott, are you? That’s interesting, if a little misguided.” Daniel raised his eyebrow and chuckled.
“Daniel, would it be fair to say that even though you’re president of The Agency, you’re always on the lookout for promising newcomers?” I asked as the doors slid open on an empty floor. They closed again, and we resumed our climb.
“Of course. The day I stop being interested in talent is the day I retire.”
“Well, the thing is, I’m passionate about this script that a friend of mine has written, and I’m trying to help him get it made into a movie. He’s also a great director,” I added. Though if I were being truthful, Jason’s directorial talent had passed me by. I’d seen a couple of his reels, but they’d been very blurry, very incomprehensible, and would have served as a substitute for Ambien in one of my rare bouts of insomnia. But what did I know?
“Sounds great.” Daniel nodded with interest. The door to the elevator was opening on his floor, and I had a ten-second window to define how I’d approach my new challenge. If I chickened out, I knew full well that I’d remain a lackey for the rest of my days. Daniel glanced at his watch and put a hand out, gesturing for me to step out before him. I stayed where I was.
“Would you mind taking a look at it? I mean, if you have a spare moment, which I’m sure you don’t . . . On second thought, just forget I asked,” I backtracked clumsily. Now it was Daniel’s cue to swiftly reject me. At least I’d tried to move forward with our film, and I could tell Jason that I’d given it my best shot. What I wasn’t prepared for, though, was success—perhaps because I’d seen so little of it thus far in my new career.
Daniel motioned me onto the landing a little more vociferously this time. I stepped out, and he followed me.
“I’d love to. I’ll have one of my assistants call to set up a meeting with you, and we can discuss what help you might need. I’m impressed by your determination, Elizabeth.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Maybe helping his underlings up the ladder was the key to Daniel’s incredible success. Career karma, perhaps. He was proving to be a much greater man than I’d ever imagined. He walked down the hallway toward his office, and before I could get my wits together, the door had closed and I was riding back down the way I’d come—wondering how the headline would read in Variety when we got the deal set up. Having completely forgotten about Ryan.
Lara was an unpredictable girl, to say the least, and it was very possible that in the sober light of day she’d regret the new intimacy we’d forged at the Halloween party. I’d left her a message on Sunday checking on her wounded heart but hadn’t heard back. I just hoped she hadn’t had any other brilliant urges for fun, like swimming in the Pacific after a little MDMA. But pretty soon my traditional Monday-morning funk had given way to a whole new means of having fun—I could worry about Daniel. So as I leafed through the trades, I began to wonder why Daniel had been so swift to set up our meeting in the first place? I stared at the telephone like it might be sprinkled with anthrax. Our meeting was scheduled for today at noon and I was waiting for Ryan or one of Daniel’s numerous other assistants to call and confirm our appointment. I started to think how I’d much prefer to be pouring coffee, photocopying, or shopping for Barbie’s prom dress rather than risking humiliation in Daniel’s office. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this producer thing after all. I was just a delusional dilettante.
“Are you going to answer the phone or not?” Courtney walked by my desk and glared at me.
I picked it up reluctantly and gave her a filthy look—once she’d passed by. “Scott Wagner’s office.”
“Is this Elizabeth Miller, assistant to Scott Wagner?” The voice was deep and male. Usually clients didn’t know my name. And if they did, I knew who they were. Still, it wasn’t Ryan. He had a thin, reedy whine.
“Speaking.”
“You’re sounding good enough to eat this morning. Interested?” Gross. The sheer weight of flashback was heavy enough to practically knock me right off my ergonomic swivel chair onto the carpet. “It’s Bob.”
“I hadn’t guessed.”
“I bet you’re blushing right now.”
“I’m actually in the middle of typing a memo, Bob. Do you need Scott?”
“No. I need you.”
With that I hung up. An enormous feeling of liberation flooded my being, but before I could really revel in the unusual sensation, the phone rang again, and, as assistants do, unless they have something better to gossip about, I picked it up. “Scott Wagner’s office.”
“The beauty of dating assistants is that you always know you can get them on the phone, even when they hang up on you. Why haven’t I seen you in the last few months?”
It was Bob again. I decided silence was the most effective defense. Little did I know.
“God, you turn me on. Just thinking of you sitti
ng with those fabulous tits in that office full of people, you’re making me har—”
I hung up again. The phone rang again. Where the fuck was Lara? She hadn’t called in sick, and beside the obvious irritation at having to fend off Bob alone, I was starting to worry about her. The phone continued to ring. “Scott Wagner’s office.”
“If you hang up on me again, Elizabeth, I’ll call Daniel Rosen and tell him you’re a very rude assistant.”
“That’s blackmail.”
Talitha’s typing came to an abrupt halt. Apparently that was a word that garnered interest at The Agency. I lowered my voice.
“Bob, I am at work. If I never mentioned it months ago, although I’m certain I did, thank you for taking me to Spago. But it was unconscionable to slip narcotics into my drink and . . . the rest.” I could barely catch my breath.
He had absolutely no remorse. “You sound just like Mrs. Jenkins when you get mad. She was my third-grade homeroom teacher. Fuck, I’ve got a woody. Have dinner with me tonight.”
I hung up for the third and last time. I didn’t need this abuse. A disgusting pervert was stalking me, and he refused to take no for an answer. What was I supposed to do?
“I do hope that wasn’t Bob Davies you just hung up on. He gets one point two million a movie and has the highest net profit in terms of points of any of our other producers,” said Courtney with a smile as tight as her scrawny little ass.
“Well, he happens to be calling desiring phone sex, and last time I looked, Courtney, this wasn’t a 1-900 number.”
“Well, Elizabeth, maybe if you tried to keep your clothes on and not bend over backward to date clients, you and Bob wouldn’t be having this misunderstanding.”
Touché. I was about to come back with a real zinger, but the phone was ringing incessantly. I knew now that Courtney would clearly be of no help at all in the screening of beastly Bob, and Talitha was on the phone already. I picked up the receiver with a vengeance.
“Bob, leave me alone!” I shouted.
“Well, that’s a very professional way to answer the phone, isn’t it? I suspected that your limitations were numerous, but I thought you’d at least be able to do that correctly.”
“Hello, Ryan. How can I help you?” You little toad, bastard, fuckface.
“For no reason that I can understand, Katrina, Daniel’s third assistant, set up a meeting for you and Daniel. Apparently you ran into him in the elevator? Awfully well planned for someone like you. You have my admiration.” I had known that my meeting with Daniel was going to pique Ryan’s curiosity, but I didn’t think he’d be so ragingly obvious about it. “So why does Daniel want to see you?” Ryan asked shamelessly.
And I had to admit to myself that it was highly unlikely that he’d grant me a whole meeting simply because I wanted to be a producer. He hadn’t even read the material yet. Why, I wondered, was Daniel even remotely interested in a second assistant’s pet project? But I had no intention of divulging any of my uncertainty to weaselly Ryan. For once I had the cards, and I still hadn’t forgotten about the delivery of my bra via the mailroom.
“I know exactly why he wants to see me, Ryan. And that’s a matter between myself and Daniel. Would he still like me in his office at noon?” I could hear Ryan spitting, or perhaps he was breathing into a paper bag.
“Three o’clock, and be on time. He has a three-fifteen.” Click.
Oh, well. Even though I was scared to death of Daniel and I suspected that his motivations weren’t straight up, at that particular moment I’d have happily faced a pack of rabid dogs just to annoy Ryan.
“Lara, I have a meeting with Daniel Rosen. Can you cover?” I asked Lara when she finally turned up looking remarkably more cheerful than Saturday night, with nary an apology.
She knitted her brow. “Sure. What’s it about?”
“Remember that script I’m trying to produce? I rode the elevator with Daniel and asked him to give me some advice. But I never expected a whole meeting. I didn’t even pitch it to him.” I shrugged my shoulders cluelessly in response to her now deeply furrowed brow.
“That’s random. Watch your back.” Lara shifted her focus to her computer and booted it up. Per usual, she wasn’t working on anything that had to do with The Agency, or Scott Wagner for that matter. I hoped for her sake that she finished soon, because when Scott or, worse, Human Resources finally got wise to her dearth of work, she wasn’t going to be employed for long. I brushed the salt-and-vinegar chips from my skirt, did a quick swipe of my lip gloss, and headed up to meet the big medium-size man.
One was allowed access to Daniel’s penthouse only if granted permission. Kind of like a hall pass in high school. Apparently this was a requirement for insurance purposes, as each of the objets scattered around his floor was worth more than my yearly salary. When I stepped onto the other side and walked through the closed door, I was launched into the Los Angeles version of Versailles. Which, let me tell you, was possibly even more spectacular than the Sun King himself could have envisaged. Where the rest of the building was decorated in sleek, modern Eames, Daniel, as had been correctly rumored in the dungeons below, had gone for cornicing, intricately carved doors, mirrored walls, and tapestries, marble, chandeliers, and even statuettes.
“Stop ogling and get into his office. He’s a very busy man, and he’s waiting for you.” Ryan appeared from nowhere wearing a livery uniform of knickerbockers and . . . okay, he was wearing black pants and a collared shirt, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility when one was confronted with this ridiculous spectacle. I looked at my watch. I was one minute early.
I followed Ryan into Daniel’s den. I had been imagining a throne but was disappointed to find only a leather-topped, gilt-edged desk and an enormous roaring fire, which was odd, as it was ninety-two degrees outside. Apparently Daniel had his floor kept eight degrees cooler than the rest of the building so that he could have his fire burning all year round. On a trip to India, Sai Baba had told him that a fire was needed to burn off the negative energy of a very competitive business and hostile adversaries.
Ryan accompanied me into Daniel’s office. As was to be expected, Daniel was on the phone, with his Gucci loafers propped on his desk. Today he was wearing casual jeans and a white shirt, and he looked like my most harmless preppy college lecturer. Or rather like a $20 million actor playing the part of my most harmless preppy college lecturer. He smiled welcomingly and motioned for me to take a seat. I sat down in one of the enormous leather chairs and fell backward. Daniel hung up the phone and turned all his perfectly capped teeth to face me.
“Hi, Elizabeth. Thanks for coming up to see me.” He winked in an avuncular fashion.
“No problem, thanks for asking me.” I was an idiot already.
“Ryan, why doesn’t Elizabeth have a drink?”
“Well, I thought she was only staying for a few minutes, and—”
“I don’t pay you to think, Ryan. I pay you to do what I tell you to do and to never make judgments as to the importance of my guests. Ask her what she’d like to drink. Now.”
I was trying at that very moment to become the library chair.
“Elizabeth. Would you like a cold beverage?” Ryan was grinding his teeth while desperately attempting to smile. In order to follow through with my latest attempts at producorial assertiveness, I needed to think up a drink that would make Ryan perform back flips. Cocktail names from my college days whizzed through my head—Fuzzy Navel, Alabama Slammer, or, more appropriately, a Slow Screw. But I obviously didn’t have the vile edge required.
“A Diet Coke would be fine, Ryan.” I could see the wet bar from here. “I can get it myself.” I half stood up, but Daniel interrupted.
“Sit down, Elizabeth. That’s Ryan’s job, not yours. For however long you visit my office. So just relax.”
I was obviously a pawn in a rather twisted power play between boss and assistant. No wonder Ryan was such an evil warped toad.
“So, Elizabeth, we met in D.
C., right, at a fund-raiser, and you were wearing that very pretty floral dress?” I couldn’t believe he remembered. “God is in the details,” my mother used to say.
“What a great memory.” I smiled.
“A prerequisite in this business,” Daniel informed me. “So you can remember who fucked you over in order to screw them back twice as hard when you get the chance.” He laughed, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. He wasn’t seeming so fuzzy after all. “Are you happy in Los Angeles, Elizabeth? Was my advice to switch from politics to film correct?”
“Well, it’s certainly been an education. I thought politicians were hard to keep track of.” I was starting to feel more comfortable with Ryan gone from the room.
“Really?” Daniel’s face lit up. “I can imagine that Scott’s probably a handful. Is he in the office a lot?”
Oh, hell, I’d opened up that door by accident, and now I didn’t know how to close it without pissing Daniel off.
“He keeps regular office hours. Just like everyone else, I guess.”
“Then why did you say he was hard to keep track of?” Daniel laughed too loudly for it to be funny. He looked like a movie villain glinting with evil intent.
“I meant the business was hard to keep track of. It’s constantly changing, and there are so many people involved in every deal.” That seemed like an appropriately naïve answer and a good segue into my producing prospects. But Daniel wasn’t finished with me.
“I’ve been a little worried about Scott lately. I ran into his wife, Mia, at a City of Hope fund-raiser, and she seemed at the end of her tether, you know? She sat me down for about twenty minutes and told me how restless Scott was and how maybe he was doing too many drugs. Have you noticed anything, Lizzie? Don’t worry, by the way, you can speak freely. It’s all in Scott’s best interests.”