Authors: Jean C. Joachim
“When
you finish, come into my office with your notebook,” he said, yanking at his tie.
Erica
balled up the empty tin foil from her sandwich, tossed it in the trash, and then
followed him in and shut the door. Again he paced, pulling his tie off and
draping it across his big desk chair as he spoke to her, dictating letters and
emails.
“Part
of your job is to make my life easier.”
She
nodded.
“That
means handling personal tasks, too, like my dry cleaning. Arranging for the barber
to come here. I get my hair styled every three weeks. Put that on the calendar.
His name is Mario. You’ll find him in the directory.”
“You
get your hair cut here in the office?”
“Saves
time.”
“Isn’t
that expensive?”
“A
necessary expense. Call him and make arrangements.”
“Yes,
sir.”
“Don’t
call me ‘sir.’ You’re not my servant.”
“Sorry.”
Gunther
made a face. He drew out his wallet and peeled off five hundred-dollar bills. Crossing
the room, he put them in her hand. “
Here.
Go get a
decent suit and shirt, or blouse, or whatever you call it. I can’t stand to
look at that one.”
She
blushed. Her eyes watered.
Idiot. I overdid it.
Dorrie
will kill me if I mess up with this girl, too.
“I don’t mean to be insulting, but Erica, come on. Did you look in the mirror?”
“Not
everyone can afford good clothes,
Mr
…Gunther,” she
said, her voice shaking. She rose from her seat and headed toward the door. In
his panther-like way, he moved quickly and cut her off.
“I
get being poor. I wasn’t always rich. But you need to look a certain way to
work here. And that’s not it. Gunther Quill Productions must look successful.
Everyone involved has to dress like it. That’s a loan. You can pay it back…whenever.
Consider it like giving you the money for a uniform.”
He
hoped his words would calm her down. She wiped a couple of tears from her
cheeks.
Oh, God, no! Don’t cry. I can’t
take the waterworks!
“Why
don’t you finish up and take the rest of the day off? Go shopping.”
She
folded the bills in half and met his gaze.
“That’s
a good girl. I’ve got a dinner date.” He left her standing up as he began to
unbutton his shirt. He chuckled at the startled look on her face. He took her
hand and led her toward the window, stopping at the other door. He opened it to
reveal a clothes rack on the left and another door on the right, which opened
into a huge bathroom, complete with a large stall shower.
“I
often wash up after a workday. Evening meetings, premieres, and parties mean a
tux. Thus, the shower and change of clothes. I wasn’t making a pass at you.”
The
look of relief on her face made him smile.
Not
all women would be relieved. Guess I’m not her type. Really? I’m every woman’s
type.
“Sorry,
Mr
…Gunther. I’m new.”
“I
can imagine what Amy told you.”
Again,
she colored.
“Don’t
worry. You’re not my type, anyway…no offense,” he said. She sucked in air,
drawing his gaze.
But if I popped those
buttons, would two perfect breasts spill out?
“No
offense taken. I think we’ll work fine together. That’s the point, right?”
Does she look disappointed? Or am I
dreaming?
She
nodded, making her way out. Gunther pulled off his shirt and threw it in the
hamper he kept in the closet. After hanging up his pants and jacket, he
stripped off his underwear and stepped into the shower.
The girl’s smart. Should be, with
her fancy, rich-bitch education.
Hardworking, so far.
She’s already left Amy in the dust. This babe remembers what to do, writes
everything down. She might be a good partner. She got me that date with
Webster. He hates my guts because of Grace Brewster. I’m gonna fix that. I have
plans for you, Max. And Gracie, too.
Pleased
with himself for hiring an efficient assistant and looking forward to seeing
Dorrie
, even if her spouse was going to be there, he
whistled a favorite tune as he dried off. When he was dressed and ready for dinner,
Erica was still hard at work at her desk.
“Is
it all right if I take a script home?”
“Sure.
As long as you don’t tell anyone about it, what you’re reading. Everything in
this office is strictly confidential. If I find out you’re blabbing about what
I’m doing, you’ll be fired. Understood?” He pointed at her as he spoke.
“Of
course. I understand. I’d never leak your business.”
“Good.
Can’t you finish that in the morning?”
“I
suppose.”
“Go
shopping. Buy yourself a decent dinner, too,” he said, dropping two twenty-dollar
bills on the table before he turned and was out the door.
* * * *
Gunther
wasn’t gone more than two minutes before Erica burst into tears. She tucked the
forty dollars into her purse and pulled out a tissue. Humiliation at his
criticism of her clothing burned in her chest. His offer to pay for a new
outfit and dinner because he could see how poor she was shamed her.
The
money she made modeling wasn’t bad, but the work wasn’t regular, and she had
been sending cash home. Her father had remarried after her mother had died. He
and his new wife had two kids and a rapidly expanding gambling habit. Erica
refused to give funds to her father or his wife, but she couldn’t refuse her half-brother,
Billy, and half-sister, who she called
Chickie
.
They
never asked, but she knew that new clothes were out of reach and sometimes food
was in short supply. So, Erica simply sent whatever she could after each job.
She’d tape twenty-dollar bills into a book and ship it to Billy so that her
father wouldn’t find it. Billy was thirteen,
Chickie
was only eleven.
As
she was packing up to leave, an email came in from
Whitmarsh
Eddy, the famous acting coach. She opened it.
Gunther –
I’m having tryouts tonight for a
scholarship to my acting studio. I’m offering 25 sessions free to someone of
great talent. Know anyone you want to send along? The more the merrier. 8 pm at
my studio on Hollywood Boulevard. Thanks.
Whit
Erica
sat back in her chair.
A scholarship! Maybe
I can win this. My first chance from working for Gunther.
Hope that hadn’t
existed in her heart in a long time blossomed, like a thirsty rose bush in a
soaking rain. She had five hundred dollars for clothes and forty bucks for dinner,
which could translate to eating fast food and buying gas for her ancient,
compact car. She turned off the computer and locked her desk, putting the key
in her purse.
Being
thrifty from habit, Erica stopped at a lower-priced store and bought two suits
and two low-cut blouses for the five hundred dollars, instead of one.
I can’t worry he’s going to make a pass at
me. He seems on the up-and-up so far.
Then,
she returned home to change for the tryout.
Amy
was sitting on the sofa, sipping a glass of wine. She smirked when Erica
entered.
“So,
did the dragon burn you to bits with his flaming tongue?”
“Nope.”
“How
many times did he insult you?”
“None,
really. Just wanted me to dress better.”
“I
knew it! See. Told
ya
,” Amy said, refreshing her
drink.
“He’s
right—this stuff doesn’t fit. But the new suits will.”
“New
clothes? I thought you were broke.”
“Gunther
gave me some money for clothes,” Erica said, then waved the two twenty-dollar
bills in front of Amy. “And forty bucks for a decent dinner.”
“What?
He never did anything like that for me.”
Erica
shrugged and peeled off the huge suit jacket.
“Did
you sleep with him?”
“How
can you ask that?”
“So,
did you?”
“No!”
Anger bubbled up inside Erica.
Just
because I did a better job than you. Some nerve. He was right to fire you. You
weren’t very good.
“Don’t
know why women are falling all over themselves for him. I don’t think he’s very
attractive. Must be he’s a big producer, and they think he’ll hire them or
something.”
Gunther Quill is the most
attractive man I’ve met in years. Maybe ever.
“He has a
certain…something.”
“Yeah,
bad disposition and a poison tongue.” Amy sulked and took a gulp of her wine.
Love to get closer to that poison
tongue.
Erica sensed heat in her cheeks at her own sexy
thoughts about Gunther.
Amy
narrowed her eyes as she stared at her friend. “You find him attractive, don’t
you?”
Erica
turned away to hide her embarrassment.
“You
do. And you’d sleep with him given half a chance, wouldn’t you?”
“I
didn’t say that.”
“You
don’t have to. I can see it all over your face. Stay away from him, Erica. He’s
a snake. He chews up sweet little girls like you.”
“I’m
not a sweet little girl, Amy. I’m a grown woman. I’m thirty. I’ve been on my
own for years. I can take care of myself.”
“Against
Gunther Quill? You’re joking. Trust me. He’s a spider.”
Erica
took her packages into her room and closed the door. She donned a pair of tight
jeans and a tank top. Pulling the band out of her hair, she let her
shoulder-length, golden locks fall free. Combing with her fingers would have to
suffice. She applied makeup to her eyes and a dab of perfume between her
breasts before leaving the apartment.
Whitmarsh
Eddy’s studio was one big room, with a small desk in the corner and about two
dozen folding chairs scattered around. Attractive young men and women milled
about. She overheard some refer to the master actor as “Whit” and assumed they
were already in his class.
Then,
she spied a few who looked as nervous as she was.
They must be trying out, too.
She
stood next to a young man of medium height with broad shoulders and hair and
eyes the same color as hers.
We could be
brother and sister.
The idea soothed her.
“Are
you trying out today?”
She
nodded. “Erica,” she said, extending her hand.
“Sam.
Sam Rawlings.”
A last name. Can’t call myself
Wheeler. Gunther might find out. I probably won’t get it, but it’s best to be
safe.
She glanced around, her eyes lighting on a large,
round rock acting as a paperweight on the desk. “Erica Stone.”
Sam
nodded at her, his eyes glancing down then up quickly before meeting hers.
Men practice that look so they can check out
our body parts. They think we don’t notice.
She chuckled to herself.
“What’s
so funny? I don’t know about you, but I’m scared to death.”
“I
don’t have a chance, so I’m not worried. Everyone here looks way more
experienced than I am. You might as well relax. Being too nervous can’t help.”
He
laced his fingers with hers. “Maybe if I held your hand, I’d calm down.”
“Nice
pick-up line, Sam.”
He
chuckled and cast his gaze to the floor. “I thought so.”
Before
Erica could reply,
Whitmarsh
Eddy, all five foot nine
inches, two hundred and fifty pounds of him, stood up and walked to the center
of the room. He held his hands high in the air and conversation stopped.
“I
see we have quite a turnout for the tryouts tonight. Will my students please
sit on the left and the ladies and gents trying out on the right?”
Sam
and Erica took seats together. A sudden flutter in her chest made her want to
run out the door.
I’m doing this. If he
only selects one, then I won’t be the only one who didn’t win tonight. There
will be at least fifteen more like me. Calm down!
The
drama coach explained that he had selected four passages, two for men and two
for women. He took the sign-up sheet and called names then gave them their
choice of passage to read and five minutes to prepare. Some of the performers
were pretty bad, showing their lack of understanding of the speeches from
classic American plays.
Sam
went before Erica. She squeezed his hand and wished him luck. He was the best
of the lot, in Erica’s opinion. She was impressed by his interpretation of a speech
by the main character in
Death of a
Salesman.
She
noticed Mr. Eddy staring at her a couple of times as she sat listening to each
actor. When Sam sat down, she leaned over to whisper to him, “You were the best.”
Suddenly, a large figure loomed in front of her, and she glanced up to see
Whitmarsh
Eddy standing before her with a piece of paper in
his hand.