The Second Assistant Read Free

sheet.
    “Yup.” He strode by, heading for the heavy maple door of what I assumed was his office, though it had no name on it, only a Lakers sticker.
    “And this is Elizabeth, your new second assistant.”
    “Sure.” Scott seemed not to notice me and scanned the sheets of paper in his hand before pausing dramatically. “Ashton called?”
    “He’s on location in Hawaii.”
    “Get him on for me.” Scott ignored the fact that I was now standing up, awaiting my formal introduction to him. Ready to curtsy if necessary. Hell, ready to let blood if necessary.
    “I’ll try.” Lara shrugged without much optimism. “Oh, and hey, Scott?” He looked up at her quizzically as she motioned to me. “This is Elizabeth.”
    “Oh, sure, sure.” Suddenly a light switched on in his brain, and the full wattage of his gaze fell upon me. I smiled politely and held out my hand to meet his enthusiastic shake. “Elizabeth. It is. Great. To meet you.”
    “Oh, you, too, Mr. Wagner. You, too. Well, I’ll just be here if you need me. . . .”
    “So where are you from, Elizabeth?” Scott asked as I anticipated golden days ahead, basking in the warmth of my new boss’s appreciation and admiration, not to mention the tutelage of one of the most famous agents in town. He was a good-looking, young, cool guy. This was going to be a fun job. Cocktails, premieres, movie stars . . . well, didn’t Ashton have to be that Ashton?
    “Rockville, Maryland. It’s a suburb of D.C., actually. I worked for Senator Edmunds for a year until his campaign—”
    “Wow, you worked in politics?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “Incredible. You must be one smart chiquita.”
    “Well, I’m not sure about that, but I’ll certainly try my best and—”
    But suddenly the light went out. Scott had looked down. Only for about .003 of a second but nonetheless it was enough. He was gone.
    “Reese called?” He was scowling at his call sheet. I was as distant a memory as his first day at kindergarten. “Why in hell’s name didn’tyou tell me before now? Jesus Christ, Lara. Reese called and you didn’t tell me?”
    “You told me not to put any calls through.”
    “It was Reese, for fuck’s sake.”
    “You said tell everyone you were in the elevator.”
    “Christ, Lara.” Scott stomped into his office and collapsed behind his desk. “Get her for me now. Now. ”
    And that was that. In actual fact that was probably the longest conversation I ever had with Scott. Another distinguishing feature of the inhabitants of Hollywood is that their attention spans are no longer than a very fast, witty pitch for a movie. Which is about two and a half minutes. And that is only if the pitch has million-plus legs. Anything under that price tag and you lose them at hello.

2
    I’d hate to take a bite of you. You’re a cookie full of arsenic.
    —Burt Lancaster as J. J. Hunsecker
The Sweet Smell of Success
    M y floor at The Agency resembled a battery hen factory; it consisted of about twenty neat little squares of desk. Each one featured:
An assistant in his/her early twenties, clad in regulation black with a face that would probably crack if it smiled. Though nobody had ever tested this theory.
An iMAC. Bright, white, luscious, and triffidlike, with a screen-saver featuring a life-affirming statement in a foreign or ancient language—i.e., Plus est en vous or Carpe diem. Most assistants had been to NYU film school or majored in literature at an Ivy League college, and this was their only opportunity to exhibit their $100K education.
A can of some diet soft drink.
A framed poster hailing a piece-of-genius movie, the likes of which hasn’t been made for at least fifty years, often starring Jack Lemmon or Audrey Hepburn.
A blister pack of Advil or, for the more hard core, a silver Tiffany pillbox containing Valium.
    All of these details were virtually obscured by vertiginous piles of scripts bound with glossy black endpapers bearing the legend THE AGENCY , in gold