He reaches for a paper clip and his custom-tailored shirt stretches across the type of chest and arms you can only get from a lot of time at the gym. A green smoothie sits on the corner of his desk, and despite my annoyance at being here, I inwardly smile. That kale sludge is his version of junk food; no wonder he didn’t notice the dog-food bar.
“Have a seat,” he says, and I do, waiting while he takes the next few minutes to finish scribbling something in a black ledger before securing the entire booklet with a thick leather band. Not like he couldn’t have done that before he called me in. “Listen, kiddo, I need you to throw in a team token.”
I remind myself to count to three before I answer. Team token is one of my least favorite Bradisms. It’s his stupid catchphrase for a favor. But if he makes it about being a team player, there’s no way to pass without looking like the bad guy.
“For what?” I keep my expression neutral.
“I want you to give John a little help building his list back up.”
I look up, confused. John Fineman is a very well-established colleague in Features. “Brad, he’s been here longer than I have.”
“I’m aware.” Brad leans back in his chair. “But we all know he’s lost two heavy hitters this year. Now he’s in the middle of a divorce and a little distracted. Maybe throw him a pass once in a while. Something you hear, someone you have a hunch about. Keep him busy. Teamwork.”
Keep him busy? A few years ago, John was paid the lion’s share of a six-figure commission that I earned on my own, simply because the call was forwarded to his line when I was out of the office at a meeting. John called Kylie to let her know we’d signed the client on to the project, and she mistakenly started the paperwork assuming it was his.
He never corrected her.
When I raised hell, Brad’s compromise was to give me a little more money in my bonus and a lecture about team tokens. And yes, John has lost two clients this year. But he lost them because he’s a backstabbing jerk who got caught gossiping nastily about one client to another client, not because he’s a little distracted. When I needed a few days to help my mom during Dad’s knee surgery, Brad suggested I hand over some of my clients so I wouldn’t feel “overwhelmed.” He certainly wasn’t offering to have someone assist me, not that I’d have accepted anyway.
“I’m fine helping if that’s really what he needs,” I start, tone cautious, “but—”
“Evie.” Brad sighs, pushing away from his desk to stand with his back to the wall of spotless glass behind him. “You know I don’t like to bring this up, but you needed a team around you when you dropped the ball on Field Day.”
I stiffen. Here we go.
Field Day was one of the biggest box office flops of recent years, and I was the agent representing—and pushing for huge money for—the lead actor whose sign-on resulted in the entire project being greenlit. Think Waterworld and Gigli and you’ve got the right idea. It was so bad that both the film and my client won armloads of Razzies and became standard gossip rag fodder for the masses. I’ve actually heard someone use the phrase, “It totally Field Day’ed” as a metaphor when a film royally underperformed.
My in-house legacy, ladies and gents.
The worst part is that I was crushing it before that all happened. I was the top-performing agent at Alterman my last two years there, and I’m still in the top twenty percent at P&D. But with Field Day, my reputation—and confidence—took a major hit. I can’t seem to shake the sense that it’s the first thing everyone in the business thinks about when they meet me.
Brad seems to delight in the leverage it gives him postbomb. But, like any good underling, I never remind him how many times he praised the movie’s potential as “like Bull Durham meets Avengers—sports hero gold.”
As if on cue, Brad walks around his desk and props himself on the edge of it. “A bad decision like Field Day would’ve killed most agents, let alone one who hasn’t proven herself yet. But did I let that happen?” he asks, pinning me with an expression that from an outsider’s perspective would read a lot like genuine concern.
I swallow back a snide retort because he’s right, Brad did come to my rescue. He stuck up for me when others thought I should be let go. But he’ll never let me forget about it, either.
“No, you had my back,” I say, not pointing out that I had proven myself by then. I’d been an agent nearly eight years at the time.
“That’s right. Because your failures are my failures. And your wins . . . ?” He pauses, waiting expectantly.
“Are your wins,” I finish for him.
“That’s my girl.” Those three words send a blazing shiver of rage down my spine, and he rounds the desk to sink back into his chair again. “Keep me updated and go ahead and close the door on your way out.”
And I’m dismissed.
? ? ?
After my last meeting of the day, I hook up with Daryl and Amelia at Café Med for dinner. It has to still be at least seventy degrees where we sit on the patio, but Daryl is wrapped in a giant beige sweater and wearing sunglasses even though the sun set nearly an hour ago. Los Angeles, man.
Café Med is a cool little restaurant on Sunset Boulevard, which means it offers some of the best people-watching around. On the sidewalk just on the opposite side of the green railing, a woman walks by in a pair of three-inch platforms and a silk kimono. A car pulls up at the corner with an entire desert diorama built in its rear window. We’re just as likely to see a celebrity walk by as we are to see a man in a tutu pushing a baby carriage full of aluminum cans.
“Heard you were in with Brad today,” Amelia says to me, and then adds with a giant grin, “Bet that was fun!”
“He’s always such a dick to you,” Daryl says.
“I don’t know,” I hedge. “I think he probably has his own version of dick for everyone. He’s smart. He knows all of our buttons.”
We all look up as Steph dodges the hostess with a smile and jogs over to the table.
“Sorry I’m late.” She hangs her purse on the back of the empty chair next to Daryl and takes a seat. “Longest client meeting ever.”
“We haven’t even ordered yet.” I hand her a menu. “But wine is on the way.”
“And the angels sing hallelujah,” Steph mumbles, looking at the food options.
“Did you guys have a good time Friday night?” Daryl asks.
“I did,” I say honestly.
“Does this mean I’m forgiven for missing it?” she asks.
Steph nods emphatically, but I pop a piece of bread in my mouth and tilt my head, chewing. “Still thinking about it.”
Daryl pretends to take a bullet to the chest.
I open my mouth to tell both her and Amelia all about the party when I realize that if Steph is twenty-seven, and Mike is twenty-seven, and Carter is the same age they are . . . then Carter is six years younger than I am.
Six years.
As if she’s read my mind, Steph puts her menu down and says, “Carter seemed to really like you.”