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Authors: Clare Naylor, Mimi Hare
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Daughter.
“No wait, honey,” he pleaded. But it was too late. If I held on any longer I’d cry in front of the real-life Dracula’s Daughter who was sitting beside me, and I couldn’t afford to do that.
Instead I hastily closed down my computer and went to knock on Scott’s door. Only a few weeks ago, Scott had employed an open-door policy, mostly because he had such chronic ADD that he got completely bored if his door was closed and he didn’t have a full view of “cubicle life.” Even though his office was filled with every executive toy on the market and a few nonexecutive, five-year-olds’ games like Twister and a basketball hoop, he still got twitchy if he didn’t have a visitor or someone on a call. Most agents have an assistant listening in on their calls so that they can write down numbers and make notes of what scripts have to be sent and so on, but Scott actually needed coverage on three-minute phone conversations because after a minute he would get distracted and not remember a thing that had been said. Thankfully this was Amber’s job now that I was First Assistant, because if being Scott was boring even for him, having to listen to his inane flattery and “don’t fuck with me I’m the king of the world” negotiating tactics was a guaranteed narcotic.
But recently Scott’s door had been wedged shut. Even Amber, who pretended to be above such things, had had her interest piqued by the
mysterious occurrences behind the PRESIDENT plaque, which had replaced the old Lakers sticker on his door. For days we’d eavesdropped on the filthiest talk, which, no matter how noisily I typed to drown it out (admittedly not that noisily because I considered the dirty-nothings quite educational in their way), could still be heard all the way out into the hallway. Whatever was going on in Scott’s office, the chick had lungs and was getting some seriously good action. I’d contemplated telling Lara a million times, but as we never saw the adulteress in question, there wasn’t anything tangible to report just yet.
“Yeah?” Scott yelled.
“I’m going to see a screening of Tara’s new movie!” I shouted, nam-ing a B-list actress whom he’d probably struck off his Christmas card list and wouldn’t know whether she had a movie out or had moved to Tulsa.
“Then go!” he shouted back. And I swear the panting and little pussy-cat noises continued. Jeez, where was he getting his stamina? Surely it wouldn’t be long before Lara noticed his diminished sexual appetite. Then there’d be hell to pay.
“I heard in the meeting that Dracula’s Daughter ’s going to run over. Is that true?” Amber asked with a sadistic smile as I gathered up my gym bag and ran from the room before I dissolved in tears.
“Right, let’s see you serve,” was the first thing that Zac said to me when I shuffled onto the tennis court for my first coaching session with the renowned guru who was going to change my life, not to mention my strokes.
“My serve?” I asked worriedly.
“Sure.” Zac stood with his arms folded and waited. I’d expected him to be younger. But then again he was also a zen master so I guess that had taken a few years of sitting around and trying to imagine nothing. His eyes were a terrifying blue and were a little too close together for him to look kind, as I’d imagined he would be. His leathery wallet of skin belied the fact that he was obviously as fit as a fiddle, even though he must have been seventy.
“Oh, I think there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I can’t really play tennis.
In fact, I haven’t served a ball since 1989.”
“Then why are you here?” He looked in slight bewilderment at my new white tennis skirt, pristine sneakers, and the über-racket I’d borrowed from Talitha, my old cube-mate and newly high-flying PR for everyone from Fendi to Puma. I was glad that when we’d worked together I’d never complained about the fact that she never seemed to do a stroke of
“No wait, honey,” he pleaded. But it was too late. If I held on any longer I’d cry in front of the real-life Dracula’s Daughter who was sitting beside me, and I couldn’t afford to do that.
Instead I hastily closed down my computer and went to knock on Scott’s door. Only a few weeks ago, Scott had employed an open-door policy, mostly because he had such chronic ADD that he got completely bored if his door was closed and he didn’t have a full view of “cubicle life.” Even though his office was filled with every executive toy on the market and a few nonexecutive, five-year-olds’ games like Twister and a basketball hoop, he still got twitchy if he didn’t have a visitor or someone on a call. Most agents have an assistant listening in on their calls so that they can write down numbers and make notes of what scripts have to be sent and so on, but Scott actually needed coverage on three-minute phone conversations because after a minute he would get distracted and not remember a thing that had been said. Thankfully this was Amber’s job now that I was First Assistant, because if being Scott was boring even for him, having to listen to his inane flattery and “don’t fuck with me I’m the king of the world” negotiating tactics was a guaranteed narcotic.
But recently Scott’s door had been wedged shut. Even Amber, who pretended to be above such things, had had her interest piqued by the
mysterious occurrences behind the PRESIDENT plaque, which had replaced the old Lakers sticker on his door. For days we’d eavesdropped on the filthiest talk, which, no matter how noisily I typed to drown it out (admittedly not that noisily because I considered the dirty-nothings quite educational in their way), could still be heard all the way out into the hallway. Whatever was going on in Scott’s office, the chick had lungs and was getting some seriously good action. I’d contemplated telling Lara a million times, but as we never saw the adulteress in question, there wasn’t anything tangible to report just yet.
“Yeah?” Scott yelled.
“I’m going to see a screening of Tara’s new movie!” I shouted, nam-ing a B-list actress whom he’d probably struck off his Christmas card list and wouldn’t know whether she had a movie out or had moved to Tulsa.
“Then go!” he shouted back. And I swear the panting and little pussy-cat noises continued. Jeez, where was he getting his stamina? Surely it wouldn’t be long before Lara noticed his diminished sexual appetite. Then there’d be hell to pay.
“I heard in the meeting that Dracula’s Daughter ’s going to run over. Is that true?” Amber asked with a sadistic smile as I gathered up my gym bag and ran from the room before I dissolved in tears.
“Right, let’s see you serve,” was the first thing that Zac said to me when I shuffled onto the tennis court for my first coaching session with the renowned guru who was going to change my life, not to mention my strokes.
“My serve?” I asked worriedly.
“Sure.” Zac stood with his arms folded and waited. I’d expected him to be younger. But then again he was also a zen master so I guess that had taken a few years of sitting around and trying to imagine nothing. His eyes were a terrifying blue and were a little too close together for him to look kind, as I’d imagined he would be. His leathery wallet of skin belied the fact that he was obviously as fit as a fiddle, even though he must have been seventy.
“Oh, I think there’s been a mistake,” I said. “I can’t really play tennis.
In fact, I haven’t served a ball since 1989.”
“Then why are you here?” He looked in slight bewilderment at my new white tennis skirt, pristine sneakers, and the über-racket I’d borrowed from Talitha, my old cube-mate and newly high-flying PR for everyone from Fendi to Puma. I was glad that when we’d worked together I’d never complained about the fact that she never seemed to do a stroke of
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