Read Online The First Assistant by Clare Naylor, Mimi Hare - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clare Naylor, Mimi Hare
Ads: Link
work and instead spent all her days on Match.com. Now she was dating the head of worldwide distribution for Prada so she was so ecstatic with her lot in life she’d be happy to lend you her stunning body for an evening out if she could.
“I’m here because I don’t know where I’m going,” I said as I twirled my tennis racket head on the concrete. “I was told that you changed people’s lives.”
“I teach them tennis,” Zac said impatiently as he grabbed my racket from ruination.
“But you helped my friend Jason become a successful director,” I reminded him. When Jason had been about to make Sex Addicts in Love he’d had such a crisis of confidence that he spent the first three days of the shoot wandering the aisles of Ralphs. Eventually some bright spark at the studio hired Zac to go and pluck him from the canned goods section and focus him on the task at hand.
“Jason who?”
“Jason Blum,” I said, suddenly hoping that Jason hadn’t ended up se-ducing Zac’s daughter or some such.
“Jason. Okay. Well yeah, we did figure some stuff out for him. But his backhand showed promise from the get-go,” Zac said as he looked at me like the disaster with a ball that I was. It was as if he was X-raying me for skills and saw the bones of a not even halfway decent player.
I resorted to pleading. “I’ve been booked in for three months.” It was true. In fact, I’d rather stupidly put almost every decision in my life on hold until I got my appointment with Zac. He was supposed to help me find career direction, reassure me that someone as successful as Luke could love a mere nitwit of an assistant like myself, and help me find a way to reconcile my desire to be a good human being with working in an industry where behind every good deed there’s an ulterior motive.
“Well, let’s see what you can do,” Zac said without optimism. “I’ll hit you a few balls.”
With that Zac retreated behind the net and began to serve in my direction. I ran headlong toward the first ball.
“Oops,” I said as it skimmed past my ear and my racket plummeted down. I proceeded to miss the next seven shots and ran around like a spastic Don Quixote tilting at imaginary windmills with my arms aloft for ten minutes.
“Okay, enough,” Zac said with exasperation as he leaped over the net, his creased brown legs vaulting with the energy of a teenager.
“I’m sorry.” I hung my head and prepared to head for the dressing room. I guessed I was going to have to handle my problems myself, without the help of the legendary Zac.
“First rule of life. Don’t apologize for who you are.” Zac flashed me a lizardy smile.
“I’m sorry,” I said before I could help myself, then laughed. “Oops.” “You’re the worst tennis player I’ve seen in years.” Zac shook his head. “Am I really?” I looked around to see if the people on the next court,
who’d been gaping in disbelief as I flailed around after the balls, were listening in. “I’m sorry,” I reiterated.
Zac grabbed hold of my hand and shook it in congratulations. “I haven’t been so excited to help somebody in a long time. It’ll be a challenge for me. Not only are you pathetically bad at tennis but your self-esteem is in the toilet.”
“I can really stay?” I asked.
“Yes,” Zac said, “so let’s start with the serve.” He stood next to me with his racket and what seemed like hundreds of balls stuffed discon-certingly in his shorts, and showed me how to reach and throw. I copied him again and again. And I stopped apologizing, even when my arm swooped around and bashed his kneecap.
“If you’re calm inside, your serve will reflect that,” Zac explained as I bashed away ball after ball.
“I’m not very calm,” I told him. “I think my boyfriend’s cheating on me.”
“And if he is, is that his problem or your problem?” Zac asked in his wizened croak.
“Well, it’s kind of mine because . . .” I began as I sent a ball sailing
“I’m here because I don’t know where I’m going,” I said as I twirled my tennis racket head on the concrete. “I was told that you changed people’s lives.”
“I teach them tennis,” Zac said impatiently as he grabbed my racket from ruination.
“But you helped my friend Jason become a successful director,” I reminded him. When Jason had been about to make Sex Addicts in Love he’d had such a crisis of confidence that he spent the first three days of the shoot wandering the aisles of Ralphs. Eventually some bright spark at the studio hired Zac to go and pluck him from the canned goods section and focus him on the task at hand.
“Jason who?”
“Jason Blum,” I said, suddenly hoping that Jason hadn’t ended up se-ducing Zac’s daughter or some such.
“Jason. Okay. Well yeah, we did figure some stuff out for him. But his backhand showed promise from the get-go,” Zac said as he looked at me like the disaster with a ball that I was. It was as if he was X-raying me for skills and saw the bones of a not even halfway decent player.
I resorted to pleading. “I’ve been booked in for three months.” It was true. In fact, I’d rather stupidly put almost every decision in my life on hold until I got my appointment with Zac. He was supposed to help me find career direction, reassure me that someone as successful as Luke could love a mere nitwit of an assistant like myself, and help me find a way to reconcile my desire to be a good human being with working in an industry where behind every good deed there’s an ulterior motive.
“Well, let’s see what you can do,” Zac said without optimism. “I’ll hit you a few balls.”
With that Zac retreated behind the net and began to serve in my direction. I ran headlong toward the first ball.
“Oops,” I said as it skimmed past my ear and my racket plummeted down. I proceeded to miss the next seven shots and ran around like a spastic Don Quixote tilting at imaginary windmills with my arms aloft for ten minutes.
“Okay, enough,” Zac said with exasperation as he leaped over the net, his creased brown legs vaulting with the energy of a teenager.
“I’m sorry.” I hung my head and prepared to head for the dressing room. I guessed I was going to have to handle my problems myself, without the help of the legendary Zac.
“First rule of life. Don’t apologize for who you are.” Zac flashed me a lizardy smile.
“I’m sorry,” I said before I could help myself, then laughed. “Oops.” “You’re the worst tennis player I’ve seen in years.” Zac shook his head. “Am I really?” I looked around to see if the people on the next court,
who’d been gaping in disbelief as I flailed around after the balls, were listening in. “I’m sorry,” I reiterated.
Zac grabbed hold of my hand and shook it in congratulations. “I haven’t been so excited to help somebody in a long time. It’ll be a challenge for me. Not only are you pathetically bad at tennis but your self-esteem is in the toilet.”
“I can really stay?” I asked.
“Yes,” Zac said, “so let’s start with the serve.” He stood next to me with his racket and what seemed like hundreds of balls stuffed discon-certingly in his shorts, and showed me how to reach and throw. I copied him again and again. And I stopped apologizing, even when my arm swooped around and bashed his kneecap.
“If you’re calm inside, your serve will reflect that,” Zac explained as I bashed away ball after ball.
“I’m not very calm,” I told him. “I think my boyfriend’s cheating on me.”
“And if he is, is that his problem or your problem?” Zac asked in his wizened croak.
“Well, it’s kind of mine because . . .” I began as I sent a ball sailing
Similar Books
