Read Online Skinnydipping by Bethenny Frankel - Free Book Online
Authors: Bethenny Frankel
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willpower.
Pull yourself together, Faith. Get your mind on business. I took a deep breath and headed toward the building. I could see Mia through a window talking with a tall bearded man.
“Faith! I’m glad you’re here,” she said as I came in the door. “I need you to run these scripts over to the Burbank office. Make six copies of this one, five copies of this one, and six copies of this one,” shesaid, piling scripts into my arms. Each script had a Post-it note with a number on it. “Then get this form signed by a man named Vince Beck. He’s one of our associate producers. The receptionist will tell you where to find him. Don’t leave it for him; actually watch him sign it. Fax it to this number, and also to me at this number, and then bring it back here with the photocopies of the script.” She paused. “Are you writing this down?” Obviously I wasn’t.
“I’ll remember,” I said with confidence, repeating the items to myself, and thinking about what she had told me about doing everything to the best of my ability.
“There’s more. Take this card so you can get onto the lot. Don’t lose it, it’s your pass. Otherwise, you won’t get in. Take this card and bring me back a blended nonfat mocha from the Bean. Got it?”
“The what?”
“The Bean. On Sunset Boulevard.”
“Oh. OK, absolutely!” A company credit card! I’d never been given one of those before. I could do this. I was great at this kind of high-speed multitasking. I turned to go.
“Oh, and Faith?” Mia called after me. “Get yourself a coffee, too.”
I found the NBC studio lot and parked my car, then gathered the scripts and papers and cards into my arms and headed for the gate. I loved the thrill of showing my card and being admitted. I might have been a grunt, but I belonged here.
I took the pile of scripts to the Hollywood & Highland office, just down the hall from the main set, and asked the receptionist where the copy machine was. “And I need to speak to Vince Beck.”
“He’s occupied right now, can I take a message,” she said, as if it wasn’t even a question. She was a bored, enviably skinny brunette. Are they all frickin’ clones out here? Are there any chubby girls, or do they detain them at the city limits?
“Mia said I had to speak with him personally.”
She sighed and picked up the phone.
“It’ll be just a minute,” she said with a yawn.
I took the scripts to the massive industrial copy machine, liftedthe Post-it note off the first stack, and put the script facedown in the slot on the lid. After I pressed a series of buttons—six, collate, copy—I turned and the receptionist said, “You can go back there now.”
“Can I leave my copies running?”
“Sure.”
She pointed at a door down a hallway. I picked up the folder with the form in it and nervously approached the door. I peeked in and saw him reading a script at his desk. Shit. He was really hot.
I instantly regretted my outfit. I backed up and quickly pulled my hair out of its ponytail and ran my fingers through it. I fumbled for the lip gloss in my pocket and slicked it on. Note to self: When getting dressed , never assume you’re not going to meet a hot guy. Let’s try this again.
I stepped back into the doorway.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to appear both sexy and businesslike.
Vince Beck looked up at me. He had shaggy, swept-back gold hair, deep green eyes, the tan of a surfer, and a smile that made me go weak in the knees. This was an associate producer? I hadn’t yet seen any producers that looked like this guy. He looked more like a musician. Or a major mistake waiting to happen.
“Hey there, darling. What can I do for you?” he said, his eyes twinkling. He had an Australian accent. Just show me to his bedroom, right now.
I cleared my throat and steadied myself. Why was everyone in California so goddamned hot? “Mia asked me to get you to sign this,” I said, holding out the folder. I did my standard check:
Pull yourself together, Faith. Get your mind on business. I took a deep breath and headed toward the building. I could see Mia through a window talking with a tall bearded man.
“Faith! I’m glad you’re here,” she said as I came in the door. “I need you to run these scripts over to the Burbank office. Make six copies of this one, five copies of this one, and six copies of this one,” shesaid, piling scripts into my arms. Each script had a Post-it note with a number on it. “Then get this form signed by a man named Vince Beck. He’s one of our associate producers. The receptionist will tell you where to find him. Don’t leave it for him; actually watch him sign it. Fax it to this number, and also to me at this number, and then bring it back here with the photocopies of the script.” She paused. “Are you writing this down?” Obviously I wasn’t.
“I’ll remember,” I said with confidence, repeating the items to myself, and thinking about what she had told me about doing everything to the best of my ability.
“There’s more. Take this card so you can get onto the lot. Don’t lose it, it’s your pass. Otherwise, you won’t get in. Take this card and bring me back a blended nonfat mocha from the Bean. Got it?”
“The what?”
“The Bean. On Sunset Boulevard.”
“Oh. OK, absolutely!” A company credit card! I’d never been given one of those before. I could do this. I was great at this kind of high-speed multitasking. I turned to go.
“Oh, and Faith?” Mia called after me. “Get yourself a coffee, too.”
I found the NBC studio lot and parked my car, then gathered the scripts and papers and cards into my arms and headed for the gate. I loved the thrill of showing my card and being admitted. I might have been a grunt, but I belonged here.
I took the pile of scripts to the Hollywood & Highland office, just down the hall from the main set, and asked the receptionist where the copy machine was. “And I need to speak to Vince Beck.”
“He’s occupied right now, can I take a message,” she said, as if it wasn’t even a question. She was a bored, enviably skinny brunette. Are they all frickin’ clones out here? Are there any chubby girls, or do they detain them at the city limits?
“Mia said I had to speak with him personally.”
She sighed and picked up the phone.
“It’ll be just a minute,” she said with a yawn.
I took the scripts to the massive industrial copy machine, liftedthe Post-it note off the first stack, and put the script facedown in the slot on the lid. After I pressed a series of buttons—six, collate, copy—I turned and the receptionist said, “You can go back there now.”
“Can I leave my copies running?”
“Sure.”
She pointed at a door down a hallway. I picked up the folder with the form in it and nervously approached the door. I peeked in and saw him reading a script at his desk. Shit. He was really hot.
I instantly regretted my outfit. I backed up and quickly pulled my hair out of its ponytail and ran my fingers through it. I fumbled for the lip gloss in my pocket and slicked it on. Note to self: When getting dressed , never assume you’re not going to meet a hot guy. Let’s try this again.
I stepped back into the doorway.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to appear both sexy and businesslike.
Vince Beck looked up at me. He had shaggy, swept-back gold hair, deep green eyes, the tan of a surfer, and a smile that made me go weak in the knees. This was an associate producer? I hadn’t yet seen any producers that looked like this guy. He looked more like a musician. Or a major mistake waiting to happen.
“Hey there, darling. What can I do for you?” he said, his eyes twinkling. He had an Australian accent. Just show me to his bedroom, right now.
I cleared my throat and steadied myself. Why was everyone in California so goddamned hot? “Mia asked me to get you to sign this,” I said, holding out the folder. I did my standard check:
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