“What, Suze? I’m in the middle of a highly professional spiritual crisis.” I stand up, and Suze looks down at my feet, her eyebrow quirked.
“Are you wearing Minion slippers? Like from Despicable Me?”
Damn. I knew I forgot something. My face heats up. “It’s just for desk work. Very professional,” I mutter, cursing my footwear. But they’re so cute, with their fuzzy yellow heads and goggles. And heels hurt, dammit.
Focus, Laurel!
“This isn’t the end,” Suze says, running a hand through her sleek black bob of hair. That’s the sort of thing your well-meaning friends say when they know this is the end. I’m finished at Reel World. No one else will notice or care now. If I’m not fired outright, I’ll fade into the wallpaper. It’ll be fabulous wallpaper with a designer blouse, but still: wallpaper.
“I have to get back to my desk,” I say, trying not to sound as lifeless as I feel. The Minions and I hike back and sit down to find, joy of joys, an email bearing the cheerful title ‘Sanderson’s Departure.’ I click and read, then proceed to do a very expressive double take. It’s from the assistant to Herman Davis, executive of development. He’s all the way on top, looking down over us mere mortals. I don’t think he’s been below the tenth floor in twenty years; he probably arrives and leaves via helicopter every day. So yeah, he’s hard to talk to. But he knows reality television inside and out.
And this email says he wants to see me in his office now. Right now. No loitering. I kick off my cartoon characters and slip into my heels before dodging out of the cubicle. My heart’s pounding as I jab the elevator button and wait. Part of me is afraid this is a “clear out your desk” type of meeting, but that doesn’t feel right. One of the company heavies doesn’t want to do HR’s grunt work.
It’s quiet on the top floor. The air up here tastes executive. The elevator doors whisper open, and I step out onto gray carpeting that’s so lush, my heels almost sink into it. I wobble a little as I pat my hair—brown, shoulder length, boring—into place. Keep it together, Laurel. You need to project cool confidence, not little girl skittishness. Already, the men passing me in the hallway grin sideways or look down to scope out my ass. Fucking sexist dickwads. Granted, I work at Pilates to make sure it’s a nice ass, but still. Gross.
The men up here are mostly executive level, mostly middle-aged and trying not to look it, mostly creeps with oiled hair and roving hands. With their buttoned-in martini paunches and desperately whitened teeth, they see me—young, female—as either a conquest or an annoyance, depending on how horny they are. But they’re not getting rid of me that easy. Not if I’m meeting with Herman Davis. I straighten my shoulders and walk on.
The assistant looks up from her computer. “Yes?” She’s got long, bejeweled pink nails that must make it hard to type.
“Laurel Young to see Mr. Davis,” I say. No squeaky voice. Great start. She picks up the phone, hits a button, and says, “She’s here.” After a second, she hangs up and nods. “You can go in.”
I enter Herman Davis’s office without tripping, smacking my head into the door, or initiating a nuclear standoff. Always a good beginning.
At first it’s hard to see anything, what with the row of about twenty golden Emmy awards lined up against the back wall reflecting the morning sun. Blinking stupidly with my mouth open is surely not the world’s greatest first impression, but I recover fast. Behind a spacious, mahogany desk, Herman Davis waits.
Mr. Davis is somewhere in his early sixties, with a full head of silver hair, a pair of rimless glasses, and an attitude full of don’t-fuck-with-me. He looks at me without irritation or lust: already, this is new.
“You’re Young, aren’t you?” he asks.
That’s not a real question about my age. Hopefully.
“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” I try to keep my voice pitched as low as possible. Otherwise, I come off as the teenage babysitter hoping to score an extra five bucks at the end of the night.
“Brian Sanderson’s an asshole.” He sighs. “Taking off like that with the star of our show. Idiot.” Poor Brian. He’s a sweet, loveable dork who remembered birthdays and collected Funko POP! characters on his desk, not a sharky Hollywood jackass. I have to resist the urge to stick up for him. “But he told me you’re one of the best assistant producers he’s ever seen.” Davis raises his eyebrows.
Do I take a seat now? I can’t hesitate: in Hollywood, perfect confidence gets you the corner office. I sit down in front of his desk, fighting the urge to smooth my skirt. Nervous habit. He doesn’t say anything.