“Yeah.” I swallow. My voice is weak. “Great.”
When I get home from the office at three in the morning, my head finally quiet and sleep beckoning, I sit down on my couch and stare at the wall. For what feels like hours, I sit and stare and think about the job offer. This could make me or break me. I could either achieve my dreams or bury them in the cold, hard ground. Around four AM, I stumble down the hall and crawl into bed, finally able to sleep.
I know exactly what I have to do.
“Laurel. Come in,” Mr. Davis says the next day when I enter. He had his assistant make a phone call down to me; no cold, impersonal email. I shake his hand, sit and listen to the pitch that Ed told me about last night. I keep a smile on my face, and nod as he lays out all his grand plans for me. At the end, he’s actually grinning. I’ve never seen an executive this happy before.
“So. What do you say?” he asks when he’s done. I take a deep breath.
“It’s the best offer I’ll probably ever get,” I say. “Thank you. I mean it.”
“So you’ll take it.” He doesn’t make it a question.
“No, Mr. Davis,” I say firmly, folding my hands in my lap. “I’m afraid I have to turn you down.”
33
Even when you’ve fired yourself from your own show, there’s no reason not to attend the premiere. Suze comes over to my place during the afternoon, so we can let the studio-hired styling team do whatever they can with my brown, shoulder length hair (‘No highlights? My God’), fuss over my makeup, and generally make me feel subpar. It’s kind of like Katniss getting done up in The Hunger Games, except that I won’t have to fight other people to the death in an arena afterward.
Oh, who am I kidding. This is Hollywood. It’s always an on-camera fight to the death.
“I can’t believe you turned Davis down,” Suze says, as we each sip a glass of rosé. Well, I don’t so much sip as I drink my wine through a straw. Desiree, the makeup technician, doesn’t want me smudging anything.
“It was just going to get stale anyway,” I say, waving my hand. That’s good. Pretend you didn’t really want it. “No reason to do another season.”
“I don’t like you giving up your dreams over some guy,” Suze says. She angrily pops a grape into her mouth.
“It’s not just about him,” I say. I shrug, which has Desiree instantly smoothing the smock she’s draped over my shoulders. “I don’t want to be anybody’s monkey, which is what I would be if I’d agreed. Would any of the other executives let themselves be dolled up to play sexy and giggle on television?” Suze sighs; she knows I’ve got a point. “Men don’t have to do anything. If they push back, it’s a sign of a good leader. If I do the same, I’m not a ‘team player.’ Screw that.” I look into my now empty glass. “Flint is just the sexily confusing icing on the cake.”
“Still don’t like it,” Suze mutters.
“Yeah. Me neither,” I say. “But that’s show business.”
The limo pulls up to the Roosevelt Hotel, located in the glittering heart of Hollywood. Lights are flashing as I maneuver myself out of the car, keeping my legs together, careful not to do any flashing of my own. I walk the red carpet alone, pasting a smile on my face. Granted, Desiree actually painted one on, so I could probably scowl and still look cheery. Normally no one cares about the producer, but because I’ve been all over the press recently, right alongside Flint McKay: New American Dreamboat, people actually recognize me.
“Laurel! Look over here!” a cheery paparazzo yells, and takes a picture right in my face. It’s so bright I blink and make a weird, grimacing expression. The laughter that accompanies the snapping of pictures all around me suggests that it’s going to make a pretty picture on page five of Star Weekly. Lucky me.
I walk into the hotel, my bedazzled clutch purse in hand, my poppy red Dior gown moving on my body like a dream. Perks of being the star of the show: designers offer to dress me. As soon as I’m inside, there’s life-giving champagne. I grab a glass and walk through the lobby, down the red velvet rope lined avenues to the ballroom. Everyone is there, in a mad buzz of show business elite and old friends.
Callie and David are next to me in a heartbeat, which is a relief. Callie’s beaming, hanging onto David’s arm while he sneaks adoring looks at her. Well, if I did nothing else right, at least I get to see the two of them happy.
“The twins keep asking about you,” Callie says as we walk to the side of the room. “It’s all ‘Auntie Laurel this, Auntie Laurel that.’”