Pounding the Pavement (6 page)

“I’m guessing this is very, very recent. She acted all excited when she saw me, remembered my name and everything.”

“Yeah, she must be brand new.”

“She got off on the fifteenth floor.”

“What’s that? Marketing?”

“Uh-uh. That’s not even one of our own offices. We’re leasing the space to an independent film company that just lost their output deal with one of the studios. Miramax, maybe? I can’t remember. Anyway, Princess says she’s their new head of development.”

“No way! I want to work in development!”

“I know you do.”

We pause for a moment to acknowledge the presence of our waitress. Laurie places our standard order—two frozen strawberry margaritas and the burrito.

“Two plates for the burrito!” Laurie calls out to the retreating waitress. She turns back to me and smiles. “So, I think you need to ask Princess to get you a job.”

“Not in a million—”

“I’ll bet she’ll need an assistant soon.”

“Laurie, I can’t go asking my old boss for a job. That’s so degrading.”

“Well, what other options do you have?”

I think for a moment. Real hard.

“None,” I admit glumly.

“Thought so.”

The waitress returns with our margaritas. It is one of the few times in my life the sight of a plastic umbrella perched atop a frosted glass does nothing to lift my spirits.

I
return to my apartment a few hours later and struggle with the faulty lock on my door, silently begging it to spare me the grief. When it finally allows me inside, I freeze. The door slams closed behind me.

The sudden, and rather loud, announcement of my entrance startles Amanda.

“Jesus Christ!” she yelps, bouncing off the lap of her gentleman suitor. They disengage and dart for opposite ends of sofa. Amanda flicks an unruly blonde tendril back into place. Her confused friend cowers in his corner, looking about as inconspicuous as one of
Michelangelo’s unfinished nudes suddenly appearing in the center of my living room. He crosses his hands and tucks them under his arms. If he’s trying to conceal the outline of his sculpted torso—clad in a disturbingly inadequate white Hanes T-shirt—he’s overlooking the fact there’s no hiding the massive bulge in his pants.

“Oh,
hi
 …” says Amanda. She turns to the man seated beside her. “Ryan, this is my roommate Sarah … Sarah, this is Ryan. He’s the managing director at my firm.”

“Nice to meet you,” I mutter, brushing right past them both and into my room. I slam the door behind me.

    The very first thing I do once I arrive at Stellar Productions is sit at my desk, dial an extension, and hit speakerphone.

“Gregory?”

“Yes?” answers the far-off voice.

“It’s Sarah. I just wanted to let you know that I have a lunch date this afternoon.” I flip open the new folder of deal memos. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“It won’t be longer than an hour.”

“Oh.” He sighs loudly, distorting the phone static. “Oh, all right.”

“You sure it’s okay? I mean, I usually put down an hour lunch break on my time sheet, even though I’ve been eating at my desk these past couple of days.”

“Yes, it’s fine,” he concedes grumpily and hangs up.

I steal away from the office at lunchtime and arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes late. There is no sign of Princess, so I grab a two-seater by the window and proceed to wait for another fifteen minutes.

Then my phone rings.

“Sarah, doll, it’s crazy here. Just crazy! The phones, the faxes, it never ends. I will be there soon, but I can’t stay long. Order me a Caesar salad without croutons, and I’ll be there before it arrives. Remember, no croutons!” Princess hangs up abruptly.

In a way, her phone call is reassuring. I was worried our reunion lunch would be awkward, that there would be uncomfortable silences, futile stabs at small talk, a vague, boring catch-up conversation. I am relieved to know our relationship will pick up exactly where it left off.

When Princess finally does show up at the restaurant, she is a full forty-five minutes late. She barrels through the front door and shoots past the restaurant patrons like a high-speed locomotive—the Jimmy Choo Choo Express. Women like her who constantly defy death by attempting to run in such questionably engineered high heels never cease to amaze me.

“Sarah,” she drips the vowels of my name through a tight smile. Her perfectly uniform blonde hair (I don’t think I’ve ever spotted a dark root the entire time I’ve known her) has been swept up into her signature bun. Better to balance the tiara, I’d imagine.

“Lovely to see you,” she says, delicately placing her foundation-caked cheek against mine. She slips into the seat in front of the Caesar salad. If she notices my turkey club is already half-eaten, she decides not to mention it.

“How’ve you been, Gracie?”

“Oh, good God. It’s been hell.” She hangs her bag delicately on the back of her chair. For the benefit of those of us who know next to nothing about fashion, Princess likes to emblazon her accessories with designer labels. Like the Kate Spade silver-plated logo above the outer tweed lining of her tote bag. And the eagle-crested, Armani-tattooed
stems of the sunglasses perched above her forehead. Princess picks up a fork and sighs. “All these manuscripts and screenplays, I tell you, Sarah, there is a stack on my desk so high, I can’t even see over it.” She spears a piece of lettuce and holds it in mid-air. “I just started this new job … wait, did I already tell you about this?”

“I found out from Laurie.”

“Laurie?” Princess cocks her head to the side and pretends to think. “Oh, right. Laurie. Your little friend who used to come round the office. Did I see her recently?”

“She says she saw you in the elevator.”

“That’s right.” Princess swallows her lettuce leaf and wrinkles her nose. “Jesus. If there is anything I can’t stand it is a wilted salad.”

Then maybe she shouldn’t let it sit at the table thirty minutes before she plans on eating it.

“And how’s work going for you, Sarah?”

“Well—”

“I hear the job market is just terrible these days. I wouldn’t know. I was at Paramount for a few months, as I’m sure you heard. And quite happy there, too. But you know me.” She smirks. “I’ve never been one to pass up a better offer.”

“Must be nice. These days I’d be lucky to get any offers at all.”

“They’ll come, you’ll see. They’ll come.”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s already been six months now. And the future, well, it looks kind of bleak.”

“Six months!” Princess gasps. “I had no idea it had been that long. Nothing’s turned up at all? You’d think it be easy for you. You went to Yale, right?”

“Brown.”

“Oh.” She nods her head, as if this explains it all.

I take a deep breath. “It’s funny you should bring this up, though, Gracie. ’Cause, see I was wondering, since, you know, you
are
in the inner circle and you do seem to hear of things before anyone else—”

“It’s true,” she agrees.

“Maybe you’ve heard of some potential job leads?”

“Hmmm.” She places a manicured nail against her chin. “Let me think.” She taps her finger. “Well, we do have a great intern pool at the office. Would you like me to recommend you for that?”

I try not to seem so stunned.

“Actually …” I trail off. My confidence has ruptured like a car tire, and I can hear the air seeping out in a plaintive moan. “Actually, I was looking for something more—”

“Sarah, I just had a marvelous idea!” she says, mercifully cutting me off. “This load of manuscripts I have, I am never going to get to them all. It’s overwhelming! I’m so backlogged. And you, well, I’ve always enjoyed your coverage. Maybe you could help lighten the burden?”

“I’d love to.”

“Nothing major. Just read the book, give me a one- to two-page synopsis, a few paragraphs of comments. That’d be such a blessing.”

“Sounds like a great idea.” I say, genuinely relieved. “It’ll keep me busy in the meantime. Plus,” I add hopefully, “if you ever need an assistant, people in your office will already be familiar with my work.”

Princess rolls her eyes. “God, I begged for them to let me have an assistant. They said they’d look into it, but they never did put it in my contract.” She must have seen my crestfallen expression, because then she adds, “But don’t worry, I will definitely keep you in the loop.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure, sure. Now, listen, I can messenger you over a manuscript immediately. You still at the same apartment or did you have to move?”

I let her subtle jab slide. She’s just being Princess.

“Yeah, I’m at the same place. But, um—”

“But what?”

“There’s this silly thing with my unemployment checks. It’s a real pain in my ass. It has to do with how much money I earn each week—”

“No worries. I’ll be paying you with petty cash. That’ll be okay, won’t it?”

I smile brightly. “That’ll be just fine.”

“Well,” Princess slides her unfinished salad aside. “I think this lunch has been very successful, after all.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“It was so good to see you, Sarah.” She pulls off her Armani sunglasses and polishes them with her unused napkin. “I am sorry I’ve been so rushed.” She puts on the sunglasses and stands. “We’ll do this longer next time, I promise. Thanks again.”

It takes me a while to figure out what she’s thanking me for. But when she picks up her bag and squeezes her way past the waiter, I realize he’s the one holding the check. And I’m the only one left to pay it.

W
hen I return to the office, I find a Post-it note from Gregory stuck to my computer. For a man who loves speakerphone so much, you’d think
e-mail
would be a technological advancement to make him wet his pants. Perhaps not.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t all films feature a makeover of one kind or another?

I’ll assume Gregory doesn’t want the laundry list of forgotten eighties favorites. Does
She’s Out of Control
ring a bell? No, I didn’t think so. How about
Ruthless People?
Or
Just One of the Guys?
Certainly you must remember
Can’t Buy Me Love
—the very film to coin the phrase, “He went from totally geek … to totally chic!”

But ignore those, and you’re left with only the obvious choices: your Audrey Hepburn standards (My
Fair Lady, Sabrina)
, your teen flicks
(Clueless, She’s All That)
, your cross-gender comedies
(Mrs. Doubtfire, Victor/Victoria)
, basically any musical,
(Grease, Annie)
, and, my all-time favorite category—when Beautiful Women with Bad Hair become Beautiful Women with Good Hair (Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
, Melanie Griffith in
Working Girl
, Gwyneth Paltrow in
Sliding Doors)
.

I could go on forever. But luckily, I don’t have to.

I am trying to add a foreign film to the list (Does
La Femme Nikita
count? Cold-blooded felon made-over into sophisticated government hit-woman? You really can’t top Jeanne Moreau providing makeup tips, right?), when the glass doors to the office swing open. It is 3 p.m., too late in the day for even the surliest of employees to be coming back from lunch. I crane my head over my computer,
more out of curiosity than out of any sense of obligation as a so-called receptionist.

He walks in. At first I see nothing but brooding black. Dark, slicked-back hair that grazes the smooth veneer of his forehead. Thick, devilish eyebrows that shield piercingly clear green eyes. A fine, recent sprout of stubble peppering his sharp jawline.

I expect him to waltz right by and ignore me. Just like every other employee has seen fit to ignore me before. But instead he stops and hovers by my desk. Damn my good luck!

“Can I help you?” I ask hopefully.

“Uh, maybe.” He cocks me a sideways glance. It’s enough to make me swoon. “What’s your name?”

I can’t help it. I blush. I feel like no one else has ever before asked me anything quite so intimate.

“I’m Sarah.”

“Hi, Sarah.” He extends a hand. “I’m Jake.”

    The fact that Stellar Productions has an equipment room at all is news to me. That the room is a sprawling, high-tech lair worthy of Batman’s cave is shocking. That I’m in here alone with Jake? Well, that sends a bolt of electricity down my spine so powerful I’m afraid anything I touch might short-circuit.