Picture Perfect (11 page)

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. It’s your word against mine. And so far, you’re not looking like a credible witness. Yesterday morning’s blowout, your meltdown at Spago, your boyfriend’s arrest, and now this. You know everyone on the other side of that door is speculating just how long it’ll be before your ass hits the pavement outside.”

I should have known trying to appeal to Alan’s sensible side was useless. He lost any sense he had when he threw away our marriage for that tramp, Jennifer.

I plant my hands on my hips. “Fine. What do you want?”

“All I want is for you to sign those divorce papers.”

“And give up my rights? We have an ironclad pre-nup. Two million dollars.”

“Unless you cheat.”

“
You’re
the cheat.”

“It all comes down to what you can prove, sweetheart. And I don’t think you have anything. I, on the other hand, have bed linens and a police report.”

“A false police report.”

“That hardly matters, though, does it? Not when I’ve got your DNA. Jack’s DNA. I don’t know any other way to explain that than good, old-fashioned adultery.”

My ears burn hot as his slanderous words hit them. Without thinking, I grab the tie from around his neck and yank his head toward me.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender.

“Lauren!” The silvery voice turns my stomach to ice.

Rebecca
.

I drop the accessory-come-weapon and Alan slams back into his chair. I twist to see a growing crowd of Timeless Television employees surrounding the company’s matriarch at the now open doorway. She taps her bejeweled fingers along the sleeve of her Chanel suit. My rage slides into a hot shame faster than a pop princess checking into rehab.

“Rebecca,” I plead.

“My office.”

I can almost see icicles hanging off her words as she spins on her heels and heads down the hallway. I follow behind as she moves through the sea of onlookers parting for her like she’s Charleton Heston in Cecil B. DeMille’s biblical masterpiece,
Moses
. Except this is no miracle, and I’m not being rescued from the clutches of an evil pharaoh. No. This scene is more akin to Ann Boleyn being led to the block. Or Marie Antoinette to the guillotine. 

We finally make it to her office, and she closes the door behind us. Taking a seat at her Louis IV desk, she motions for me to sit in her guest chair. I manage to plant my butt on it without my legs buckling, but not without my stomach plummeting. Her office smells of cigarettes and air freshener, and I fight back the urge to vomit.

Hanging on the wall behind my superior is a giant portrait of the woman on an antique settee with her white Maltese, Muffin, resting on her lap. The painting was commissioned in honor of her twenty-fifth anniversary with Timeless a few months ago, and it occurs to me that I haven’t seen it since it was presented to her.

I take a deep breath, dragging in a lungful of stale, perfume-drenched air. Rebecca eyes me over her desk, clearly displeased.

“Lauren,” she begins, steepling her fingers, “we’ve known each other a while. I like you. I respect your work. But you’re not yourself these days. And I don’t think you can possibly helm
A True Heart
in your…
condition
.”

“Rebecca,” I beg, “please don’t take me off it.” She may not realize it, but having that movie to complete is practically the only thing keeping me from entirely losing grip on my life. Honestly, if I were a celebrity,
TMZ
would right now be planning an exposé on my rise to success and shattering fall from grace.

She shakes her head. “My mind is made up. Take a couple weeks vacation to sort yourself out, and when you come back, we can see about you resuming your position as executive producer on this project.”

“But—”

“This is not up for discussion.”

Rebecca rises from her chair and moves to the window. She looks out over the LA basin and rests her elbow in her hand. I can imagine her smoking her cigarettes there and wonder where she hides her ashtray. Being on the twelfth floor, the windows are sealed shut, but I can’t fathom her going out to the smoking area on the roof to calm her nicotine fits. And judging from the smell in the room, clearly she can’t either.

“I’ve been in this business a long time,” she says, still gazing into the distance. “I started out as a secretary.”

“Did you?” I ask, somewhat thrown by her sudden jaunt down memory lane.

“Before Timeless even existed, I was typing copy for primetime shows, getting coffee for network executives, reconciling three-martini-lunches on expense reports…” She turns her eyes on me. “A woman has it hard enough in this business.”

I nod obediently.

Her focus shifts once again to the view. “I never married. Never raised any children. My job was my whole world. I sacrificed everything for my career. That’s what a woman had to do back then. If she wanted to be successful.”

I find myself staring at the tops of my Jimmy Choos. At a minimum, Giles would be pleased to know that I managed to leave the house looking like I still got my shit together. At least he’s one person I haven’t chagrined yet. Obviously, though, I haven’t been living up to Rebecca’s expectations. In trying to have a life as well as a career, I’ve managed to fuck up both.   

“We each know the road,” she says, returning to her desk. “But you must look out for those unexpected twists and turns. You can’t let them throw you off course.”

“You’re absolutely right,” I mutter, dragging my gaze from my shoes to my mentor. 

 “Finish out the day. Turn everything over to Jennifer.”

“Jennifer! She’s not capable of running a production.”

“She’s the only one who knows it as well as you.”

“But she’s—” I stop just short of divulging her affair with Alan. It would look petty, and I need to walk out of this room with some dignity still in tact.

“She’s what?”

I hesitate, searching. “Inexperienced,” I finally utter.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job educating her. And I’ll be looking over her shoulder. Just like I did for you on your first film.”

Those words wash over me like a slow moving magma.
Jennifer is the new me
. I can hardly breathe as she continues to speak.

“Clear up this mess with Alan, and when you return, we’ll talk about your future at Timeless.”

I stare at her mouth, barely able to make sense of the words that just came out of it.

My future.

Whatever hope I have of keeping my job is predicated on Jennifer’s ability to pull through in my absence. And my ability to keep her in check. If I’ve schooled her properly, this picture won’t go up in flames. But if I’ve taught her too well, I’ll prove myself expendable.

I struggle to meet Rebecca’s eyes. But instead of finding a cold glare, I see kindness, caring, concern. It’s so unexpected I nearly burst into tears. 

“I refuse to give up on you, Lauren,” she says with what is almost a motherly tone. “Have I ever told you that you remind me of myself?”

“Yes, you have,” I answer demurely, tears pricking at my lashes. “I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you.”

She furrows her brow. “It isn’t you I’m disappointed with. It’s Alan.”

“Alan?” I am stunned by the sudden dark tone her voice takes.

“It’s so tiring, isn’t it? Men. They are such disappointments. That’s why women have to be tougher.”

And with that she ushers me out of her office and I wander aimlessly down the stairs back to my own.

Knowing that Rebecca sees through Alan’s veil of bullshit is little consolation when my career is very nearly on the skids. But the fact that she didn’t outright fire me should be of some comfort. Except that just because my head isn’t on the chopping block today, doesn’t mean it won’t be after Jennifer’s been on the job for two weeks.

As I approach my office, I see an unfamiliar face seated at Jennifer’s old desk. It isn’t until I’m standing before her that I realize the sleekly coiffed, stylishly dressed woman is Sally.

“Oh, good morning, Ms. Tate,” she beams. “I have your reduced-fat lemon blueberry muffin for you, and your daily call sheet.”

She rises from her chair and leads me into my office. I shuffle after her, struck dumb with her remarkable transformation. Giles is no slouch. Yesterday, the girl was a candidate for an extreme makeover. Today her image could be gracing the side of a building. 

It rends my heart to have to tell her that her new job may not last longer than a fortnight. At least she’s got a new wardrobe for all those interviews she’ll be going on once I get canned.  

She takes a seat in my guest chair, and I slide into mine. Her eager face, bright and perfectly polished, is heartbreaking. I give her a weak smile.

She places a small Starbucks bag on my desk. The muffin, I presume. Damn. Her first day, and she already knows about my food list.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I called Jennifer last night to get the lowdown on being your assistant.” She looks at me expectantly, probably judging whether or not I’m going to come unhinged at the mere sound of the trollop’s name. Feeling her way, Sally continues. “She was very helpful, actually, and even came in early to help me get organized.”

“I’m glad,” I say more sorry for her than for myself. “Unfortunately, I have some news that may affect your job here.”

“News?” she questions, anxiety quickly filling her eyes.

“Jennifer is going to take over producing
A True Heart
for the next two weeks, while I take some…time off.”

“So,” she begins hesitantly, “I’ll be assisting Jennifer?”

And then it hits me. Just because I might get the boot, that doesn’t mean Sally would. She’s already ingratiated herself to Jennifer by helping her and Alan conduct their illicit affair in hopes of furthering her career. What would keep her from sacrificing me to continue climbing the ladder?

I need to make sure she’s on my side.

I lean forward. “Sally, this is just for two weeks. I’ll be back after I’ve taken care of some personal issues.” Even if I don’t completely believe it, I need to make certain that she does.

“In the meantime, I expect you to give Jennifer your best work, and to keep me in the loop. Your
loyalty
will be rewarded.” I give her a grim stare just to make certain she understands that any breach of trust would come whipping around to bite her in her pert little ass. “You have an opportunity here, Sally. I hope you know how best to use it.”

“I understand completely, Ms. Tate,” she says with a firm nod. “You can count on me.”

She brings her attention to the sheet on her lap and rattles off a list of calls that need to be returned and messages detailing the progress made on the production while I was engaged in lascivious activities with Jack. The location manager has found the perfect spots for filming all the exteriors, the director has requested script changes, the production manager has hired the LA crew, the casting for secondary characters is completed, and so on. It always amazes me how much can get done in a Hollywood day.

I spend the next couple of hours attending to the business of the show and making sure that every aspect of the shoot is accounted for so Jennifer can’t screw it up. Every once in a while a panic rips through me as I imagine the worst. Such as Jennifer’s inexperience causing the whole production to come to a halt. Like on my first picture when the teamsters went on strike and effectively shut down my film for two days before I figured out how to work around the union by taking my shoot to Canada. What if she doesn’t know what to do when the director walks off the show because the lead actress won’t come out of her trailer after gaining half an ounce? Or worse, what if Jennifer manages the whole production with the skill of a seasoned pro? Would Rebecca just hand the reigns permanently over to her and send me packing?

I suck in a deep breath and peer through my open doorway at Sally. She seems chipper enough sitting behind her desk making phone calls and typing away. Of course, she doesn’t have an ax waiting to drop on her neck. I’m sure she’s got it all figured out. She’ll play the dutiful assistant, attending to Jennifer’s every need while keeping me informed of every move she makes. Then no matter which way the ax falls, she’ll be sure to have her head clear of the executioner’s swing.

I can’t blame her. It’s exactly what I would do.

I drop my chin onto my hand and rest my elbow on my desk, the crest of a serious tidal wave of self-pity heading toward me. I decide to keep that tsunami at bay by calling Justine.

She picks up on the first ring.

“Girl, you give new meaning to the term dramatic irony,” she claims after I fill her in on all the sordid details of my life since our last phone call less than twenty-four hours ago. “All those months keeping up appearances just to go and get yourself involved in a tabloid-worthy adultery scandal. You could have bedded fifty Hollywood hunks in that time.”

“Well, I did actually think that Alan and I would work things out.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“I’m a hopeless something.”

“What you need is a break from all that Hollywood bullshit. Come to New York while you’re on hiatus.”

“No, I can’t run away from my problems.”

“You’re not running away. You’re taking a break. Believe me, they’ll still be there when you return.”

I sigh into the phone. I know a few days in Justine’s company would lift my spirits. Even when my father died suddenly of a heart attack two years ago, she was able to bring a smile to my face. Alan’s awkward pats on the back and concerned furrowing of the brows did nothing to console me. He was wholly uncomfortable with my crying jags and soon shipped me off to NYC for some TLC of the Justine variety. Generally involving massive quantities of gin and frequent stops at Lombardi’s pizzeria in the East Village.

But leaving now could put me at even greater risk. I need to be sure I have a job to come back to in two weeks. I’m not some silicone-stuffed trophy wife who can jaunt off to New York and drown her sorrows in the Upper East Side’s shopping district while a team of high-priced lawyers sorts out the wreckage of her failed marriage. No. My marriage may be beyond saving, but I’m not ready to abandon my career.