The Hollywood Setup
Page 1
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Isabella Louise Anderson
THE HOLLYWOOD SETUP
Isabella Louise Anderson
Chick Lit Goddess, LLC.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Isabella Louise Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Erin Cawood.
Formatting by Brea Brown.
The Hollywood Setup
Copyright © 2017 Isabella Louise Anderson/Chick Lit Goddess, LLC.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reported or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an informational storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
ISBN: 978-0-9914167-4-5
DEDICATION
For Evan...
I’ll always love you more!
CHAPTER ONE
Here I was, sitting in an entertainment office, anxiously waiting to be called back for my interview with one of the hottest actor and actress assistant match-up companies.
When I left Nebraska three years ago, with a cosmetology degree, I packed everything I could, threw it all into my white Volkswagen Beetle and headed west for Los Angeles to follow my dreams of fitting in the entertainment world. Where I would land or where that would be exactly, I didn’t know, but no matter what, I was confident that I would succeed, and that’s just what I hoped to do. After working more jobs than I could count; as a waitress in a trendy uptown Calabasas restaurant (where I spotted Kaley Cuoco, Kendra Wilkinson-Baskett, and numerous other celebrities I’d fantasized about meeting), a stage prop girl (where I was told up front that I was to not interact with the actors and actress, and while I followed the rules, I almost broke them when Ryan Reynolds walked into the room but continued to focus on my job). Well, sort of, because minutes after the well-known director yelled “Action” I was so star struck that sadly, it caused me to stumble over the fake suitcases and the director to say, yell, really, “Cut!” I lifted myself up, waved my hands apologetically at the handsome actor and the rest of the crew. My first day on that job turned into my last day. A week later, I started yet another job; this time at a department store, working as a makeup artist, which surprisingly lasted a lot longer than I expected. With that job, I made sure to tame my inner self when an occasional celebrity would come in—where they would pretend not to be one, of course. After all, movie stars were just ordinary people. Though, after six months, I was tired of standing on my feet all day making other people beautiful and not allowed to have any social interaction with anyone who sat in my chair, I quit. It’s time to move on again, I thought, as I got in my car and headed home, where I spent hours upon hours looking online and in the classified section of the local paper. With a sigh, my dreams of succeeding on the Hollywood scene were failing. I was almost broke, desperate, and was almost ready to call it quits and move back to Nebraska when I spotted an advertisement on a bulletin board in my grocery store. I snatched it up and called the number once I got home.
“Chelsey Rhodes,” a voice called out.
I looked up to see a well-dressed man standing in a doorway, holding a clipboard, and giving me a friendly smile. He was dressed in a white dress shirt, a pin-striped tie, and matching pants, along with blue socks and navy shoes.
Standing, I grabbed my purse and zipper folder that contained a spare resume, along with written letters of recommendations from my previous employers. “Hello,” I said to him when we were inches apart.
“Please call me Andy,” he replied, and then held out his hand. After we shook hands, he led us down a short hallway to an office. On the frosted door, and in gold script was the name, Theresa Slate, with the words Entertainment Matchmaker below. Before Andy opened the door, he chewed one side of his bottom lip, making me nervous.
“What-what is it?” I asked him, as I casually straightened my floral dress.
“Don’t worry, it’s not you,” he said, reading my mind. “Ms. Slate can be harsh, but deep down she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She loves what she does, which is why she has so many celebrity clients and is successful in doing so, but that’s also why she will test you and don’t be surprised if she questions you on things you’ve never been asked—especially in an interview.”
My eyes opened, and my heart began to race. “Like what?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t even answer these questions if my own mother asked them, and I’m as close to her as Carrie Fisher was with Debbie Reynolds.” As my mind flashed back to a recent documentary of one of the most up and down mother-daughter relationship in Hollywood, he opened the door and gave me a pat on my shoulder.
“Good luck,” Andy whispered as I entered the office, only to see a tall, slender woman standing behind her mahogany desk
“Hello, Chelsey, it’s nice to meet you.” She extended her hand and offered me a seat across from her, which I took.
“Likewise,” I told her, placing my purse and zipper folder next to my feet. I clasped my hands and looked at her, catching her sparkling green eyes watching me carefully.
Theresa sat back into her chair and spun around, lifted her legs onto the desk, crossing them, then reached for a piece of paper, which I could only assume was my resume. “So, you’ve been in Los Angeles for three years. How is that working for you?”
The question reminded me of a common one that would be asked on the Dr. Phil show. Why ask that if you already know what I’ve been through? “It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m proud of what I’ve learned so far.”
“What has being a waitress, a stage prop girl and a makeup artist taught you?”
Andy was right about these questions, I thought, which led me to begin to dive full force into give me this job mode. “Every job was quite different, as you might imagine, but as a waitress, I learned patience—not just with me, but with others, too; being a stage prop girl taught me direction, a lot about direction and how and how not to interact with actors and actresses; and, last, as a makeup artist, I learned how much I love using my cosmetology degree. Styling hair and applying makeup are my specialties, so I would love to combine that with the Hollywood life.” I let out a breath, noticing that I’d been babbling a mile a minute.
Theresa slowly formed a small smile on her face, as she took her feet off her desk and replaced them with her arms, giving me her full attention. “As you know I’m an entertainment matcher, which means I’m not only looking for a stylist or prop girl, I’m also looking for someone to take charge of the actor or actress that I might pair you up with. This means you might, let’s say, for instance, be their assistant. Is that perhaps something you would be interested in?”
Without thinking about it, I jumped in my chair. “Yes—absolutely!”
“No matter who the actor or actress is?”
I shook my head. “No, not at a
ll.” While I’ve read many celebrity biographies where one badmouths another, not to mention how bad they treated their assistants, how bad could it be? I was Chelsey Rhodes, and I was ready to make a name for myself in the celebrity world!
“Okay, good to know.” She reached for a piece of paper and began to ask questions, and by the end of it, Andy was right—there had been no holding back. Theresa had asked me everything from where and when I was born (Alliance, Nebraska); do I have any siblings (none); were my parents were still married (yes); are there high school or college boyfriends I keep in contact with (just one, Nick, who is one of my best friends); are we only friends (yes, he’s gay); do I have any children (no); can I be at anyone’s beck and call, no matter what time of day (yes, after all, I’m single and have no commitments). After what seemed like simple questions, as time went on, the questions got more in-depth, so much so that if I weren’t sure I was applying for a job at an entertainment office, I might be applying to work for the F.B.I. “I’m just trying to be thorough, and match you up with the best celebrity.”
“So, does this mean I have the job?”
Theresa nodded, with a smirk. “Yes, and you start immediately,” she said, and without a moment passing, she pressed the intercom button on her phone. “Andy, I think we've found someone who can handle her. Please send her in.”
CHAPTER TWO
The moment she walked into the room, I held my breath, not believing who I was standing in front of. I blinked to make sure it wasn’t a dream, and then I gave myself a discrete pinch—ouch! Yep, this was real life. I felt like I was a baby cub in the zoo, with prey staring me up and down, and I wondered if Theresa would protect me if I were to be attacked, but Theresa’s voice warmed the icy silence in the room. “Chelsey, I believe you’re familiar with Hattie Marten. Hattie, this is Chelsey Rhodes, your new assistant.”
Who wasn’t familiar with Hattie? From the first time I saw her on screen when I was a teenager, the beautiful actress caught my eye, and from her appearance now, nothing had changed, making it hard to believe she was in her mid-forties.
Hattie scanned me again, then circled me, with her arms crossed, and glaring green eyes. She looked over to Theresa, nodded, then turned back to me. “Okay, you’re my new assistant, so prove it.”
I clasped my hands together and bit my lower lip before asking the first thing I could think of. “What can I get you?”
“A lemon-raspberry tea, with five ice cubes—it must be five because of my sensitive teeth, a low-fat multigrain muffin from Wine & Bread on Mulberry Street. I need you to pick up my birth control pills—and this is important, they’re under the name Sheila Marx, not Hattie Marten, and can be picked up at the CVS on Main.” She paused, then tapped her chin with her perfectly manicured finger, painted with red nail polish. “Oh, and I would love the latest issues of People and US Weekly, too.” When she said the latter sentence, she smiled, and then added, “I always love to see if I’m in there—especially when they claim that I’m a normal person,” she said, using the word normal in finger quotes.
While I was sure it was some sort of test on how I could handle things, I was determined to come through with her requests—even if the damn muffin she wanted was from a small shop across town. “I’ll get right on it.” I took two steps back, grabbed my things, then turned to leave, but Hattie stopped me.
“Oh, and Chelsey, please bring everything to me at my home, say, within the hour,” she requested, then handed me a calling card. With a whisper, she said, “Under no circumstances, do not give anyone my address or phone number.”
“You can count on and trust me,” I told her, standing tall, giving her a nod, then with that, I hurried out of the building, ignoring Andy’s voice, when he said, “Knock ’em dead!”
*****
Minutes later, with no time to kill, I scanned my map app on my phone, decided on a route, along with what was most important. If it were me, birth control pills outweighed lemon-raspberry tea and a muffin. Seconds later, I pulled out of the parking lot and was on the way to complete my first task of being an assistant to Hattie Marten.
Once I made it to the pharmacy’s counter, I requested a prescription for Hattie, but the pharmacist informed me that they had nothing for anyone by that name. “Oh, okay. Thank you,” I said, thinking there must be some mistake, but I’d listened carefully, and I was sure that I was at the correct pharmacy. Hoping I was doing the right thing, I pulled out Hattie’s card and dialed the number on it.
“Yes, what is it?” she snapped.
“Hello, Hattie! Um, are you sure it’s the CVS on Main? I’m asking because they don’t have any prescriptions for—” That’s when it hit me, and I facepalmed my hand to my head. Shit! Sheila Marx, not Hattie Marten. “Never mind, I have to go…I will see you soon,” and with that, I hung up on her. Right as I did it, I knew it probably wasn’t the best move, but I had to be at her house when she requested—no matter what. I threw my phone in my purse and walked up to the counter again, telling the man that I had the name wrong, embarrassingly adding that I was on my period and was having a horrible day, and that I was totally out of it. “Anyway, I’m here for Sheila Marx.” After I paid for Hattie’s birth control, I made a mental note to bill her for using my credit card, then raced to the magazine rack and gathered the requested magazines, paid for them, then was out the door. I was thankful that the next tasks wouldn’t be such a big deal—at least that was my thinking until I saw the traffic in front of me. With thirty minutes to spare, I parked in the lot for the bakery and stood in a line, which zig-zagged from the front door to the register. Slowly, I made my way up to the front of the line, and when I did, I ordered a lemon-raspberry tea and a low-fat multigrain muffin. The employee handed me a cup, along with a small bag that contained the muffin, and then he pointed to the serve yourself drink section.
“That will be twenty-three dollars and seventeen cents.” I stared at the man, bug-eyed, not believing how a cup of tea and a muffin cost so much. “Come on, lady, there’s a long line—”
His voice shook me back to reality, and I did the only thing I could do—pay a ludicrous price for two things. After I practically threw him the money, I zoomed to the tea dispenser and filled the large Styrofoam cup almost to the brim, added five ice cubes to it, capped it with a lid, and then zoomed out the door, got in my car. Resuming my route, I pressed the “go” button and began to follow the course to Hattie’s mansion of a home.
*****
“Well, how nice of you to show up,” Hattie said, after opening her front door.
I swallowed my pride and smiled. “Here are your things,” I said, lifting my arms out to her. “Is there anything else you need?”
Instead of taking the items she asked for, Hattie turned around and walked away, mumbling for me to follow behind her, which I did, closing the large front door behind me. It felt as if I’d walked almost a quarter of a mile before she stopped and sat down on a white lounge sofa. “So, what’s your deal?” she asked me.
“My deal?” I placed her tea, muffin, birth control pills and magazines in front of her, but she didn’t make a move for them like I thought she would; instead, she continued talking.
“Yeah, you know, you’re my assistant for a reason, and Theresa must’ve seen something she liked about you…I want to know what it is.” She slowly positioned herself on the couch, similar to how a nine-month pregnant woman would, by sprawling out her body, and twisting on her side to face me.
I sat down and crossed one leg over the other, not quite sure how to respond. “I can’t speak for her, so I can’t answer that.” With dismay in her eyes and a pout from her bottom lip, I thought I disappointed her. I opened my mouth to continue, but she spoke first.
“Well, I guess that’s fair,” she said and instantly, she shot up, like she’d been suddenly awakened from a dream. Reaching for the lemon-raspberry tea, she took off the lid, counted the cubes of ice aloud, smiled, then closed it. “You’re a good one, Chels
ey. Almost every single assistant I’ve had couldn’t get anything right. Little did they know, my little ice cube test was to see how closely they were listening.” Placing her over-collagened lips over the straw, silence filled the room, and all I heard was her sucking down tea. Almost thirty seconds later, the large cup was empty, and she placed it back on the table between us. Reaching for her muffin, she took it out of its wrapper, then tore a small piece of it off and placed it delicately into her mouth.
The whole tearing of the muffin was a process that was so slow that I was about to grab it out of her hands and shove it down her throat. Seriously, it’s just a-freakin’ muffin! Calm down, Chelsey, it’s only your first day on the job! “Hattie, can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” she replied, still fiddling with her muffin with one hand, and with the other, she started flipping through the latest issue of People.
“What do you expect from me?”
Hattie slowly looked up at me and stared into my eyes, giving me her full attention. “As my assistant, you will abide by my rules, do what I say, help when I need it, and be at my beck and call when I need you.” She scoffed, adding, “Isn’t that what an assistant does, anyway?” she asked, closing the magazine, then stretching her arms alongside the sofa.
“I can do that.” Did it sound that simple? Yes, but whether or not it would be, was a different thought. “So, what can I do for you now?” I asked Hattie, ready to get moving onto the next task, which would hopefully send me home, so that I could veg out on the couch and continue binge-watching The Mindy Project.
“I need a man—for three nights only, though, in which he will accompany me to appearances.” She spoke with such preciseness that I knew she was serious.
“Okay, so you’re looking to date,” I commented, pulling out my phone, and before I could install the Match.com app on my phone, Hattie stood, shaking her head.