Blonde Ambition (2 page)

“Nice to see you again, too,” Ben said, leaning closer to Susan. “How are you feeling, really?”

“Super-duper,” Susan sang out with a too-bright smile. Anna gave Ben a significant look that meant:
Please realize you’ve made an error in judgment, excuse yourself, and go.
But evidently their brains weren’t communicating, because all he did was squeeze the hand that he still held tightly.

Jonathan ignored Ben and checked his Rolex. “We really should get going, Susan.”

“Right,” Susan agreed. “Well, Ben, nice of you to pop in like this on our
intimate family breakfast.
”

“I wanted to be here,” Ben answered in earnest. Anna couldn’t tell if he was glossing over Susan’s dig or if he was oblivious to it entirely.

“I hate goodbyes,” she told Anna, “so let’s skip it. I’m off like a dirty shirt.”

Anna stood, too, as did her father and Ben. “No goodbyes,” she promised her sister as a lump formed in her throat. “But … good luck.”

“Oh, fuck it. C’mere.” Susan pulled Anna close and hugged her hard. “Love you like a sister, sister. You ready to go, Dad?”

Jonathan Percy nodded, took a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet, and left it on the table. “For breakfast,” he told Anna, then shot Ben a last warning look. “I’ll call you from the road,” he added to his daughter.

“Hang in there, Susan,” Ben called. “We’re rooting for you.”

“We’re rooting for you”?
But Anna didn’t have time to dwell on Ben’s inappropriate words.

Anna watched as her father put his arm around Susan’s shoulders and ushered her out of the Polo Lounge and toward the lobby.

Ben squeezed Anna’s arm. “You okay?” he asked. “I’m fine. But … I think I’ll just go home and … take a nap,” Anna said.

Now he slid both hands around her waist. “Dad’s gone,” he pointed out. “We could nap together.”

But after Ben’s out-of-nowhere arrival, she really didn’t feel like inviting him under her covers. “Another time,” she promised.

The valets brought their cars around to the front of the hotel. Ben followed Anna out to Sunset Boulevard, then once again they sped off in different directions. But Anna kept checking her rearview mirror until she turned into her father’s circular driveway, half expecting to see that Ben had followed her home.

Brownie Points for the Pedigree

S
ix hours after Susan and her father departed for Arizona, Anna stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of the Apex Talent Agency large conference room and looked west, out toward Santa Monica and then the Pacific. It was one of those golden California afternoons with a cerulean blue sky and only a few puffy cumulus clouds on the horizon. A strong west wind was blowing—Anna could hear the soft moan as a gust whooshed past the sides of the Apex building. But the westerly breeze had also scrubbed the ever-present air pollution from the Los Angeles basin and pushed it east. Fifty miles away, in the San Bernadino Valley, where a working couple with regular jobs might actually afford a house, people were choking on the smoggy airborne fruits of the Los Angeles freeways. Meanwhile Anna’s view to the horizon was crystalline.

Which, Anna realized, was somehow quintessentially L.A.

She took out her cell phone, knowing that she still needed to talk to Adam Flood—to tell him that she was back with Ben. She dialed Adam’s number. But again there was no answer. She left a message saying that she’d call him later.

“Anna? Might I have a word? I don’t have much time.”

Anna put away her phone as Margaret Cunningham strode into the conference room. One of three lead partners in Apex, she was the person who had offered Anna the internship in the first place. She was also her father’s current girlfriend. In a city where a forty-five-year-old, once-divorced man with a twenty-one-year-old girlfriend was the norm, the relationship was an aberration. Margaret was at least the same age as Jonathan Percy. The bizarre thing was, Margaret bore a more-than-passing resemblance to Anna’s mother, Jane Percy. The same blunt-cut blond hair, the patrician features, the understated makeup, the preference for Armani suits and vintage Chanel—even the well-bred East Coast WASP diction.

Anna could feel her heartbeat speed up as she slid into one of the leather chairs at the conference table; she faced the door. Margaret took a seat at the head of the table. Having been dressed down by her own mother many a time, Anna was not looking forward to being reprimanded by Margaret.

“I just got off the phone with your father,” Margaret said. “I’m very happy to hear that your sister has decided to return to rehabilitation. White Mountains has a very fine reputation.”

“I’m glad, too.” Anna’s first reaction was relief. She’d felt certain that Margaret would simply send her packing because of what had happened at the party, but perhaps she was separating Anna from her sister and her sister’s problems. Now, that would be refreshing. Not to mention fair.

It was ironic, really. An internship at a talent agency wasn’t something she’d ever wanted. Anna’s heart was in the literary world. But now Anna found herself excited about being a part of it, open to the new experiences it might bring. That was the reason, she kept reminding herself, she’d moved west in the first place.

And now here she was, about to lose her internship right after it began, all because Susan had shown up at an industry party completely drunk and had made a scene. Anna and Sam had rescued Susan. If Anna had to do it all over again, she’d do exactly the same thing. It wouldn’t be the first time Anna had suffered for Susan’s mistakes.

Margaret folded her hands and continued. “Also, I’m pleasantly surprised that your father has decided to stay in Arizona for a few days. He says it’s to make sure that Susan doesn’t check herself out, but I suspect it’s really so he can drive up and see the Grand Canyon.”

Anna nodded. Her father had sent her a long e-mail from his laptop—she was totally up to speed on everything that Margaret was telling her.

“Are you doing okay at home? By yourself?”

“Sure. In New York, I was alone a lot. My mother is on a lot of committees and—” Anna stopped herself. There was no reason to bring up her mother right now—Anna was sure that Margaret had heard all about her mother. “I’m used to taking care of myself. I’m fine.”

“Well, if you need anything, your father asked me to help. So call me.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” As Anna spoke, a sunbeam cut through the window and against the far wall, as if the ray of hope had actually come to life. She couldn’t believe it. Margaret was actually
befriending
her. Her heart rate slowed to something approaching normal.

“So,” Margaret asked. “Shall we discuss the events of this past weekend? At the Steinbergs’ party?”

Anna had already mentally rehearsed for this moment. “I would like to say that I am sorry I didn’t stick closer to Brock Franklin. He’s an Apex client; you asked me to attend the party with him on Apex’s behalf, and I should have handled that in a more professional manner. I apologize.”

“And?” Margaret prompted.

Anna sat silent. She had been well raised on the subject of airing family laundry in public: it just wasn’t done.

Margaret seemed to suck in her cheeks a bit, making her sharp cheekbones stand out. “There is the matter of your sister and her snap decision to test the water purity of the Feinbergs’ backyard fountain. With her mouth and in her underwear.”

Anna kept her voice steady. “My sister has a substance abuse problem. We’ve already addressed that. I wish I could have prevented her behavior. But I can’t. That’s a lesson that’s hard to accept.”

“She made her problem abundantly clear to every guest at the party.”

Anna opened her mouth to speak, but Margaret held up a restraining finger. “I don’t hold you responsible for that problem, Anna. I do hold you responsible for the way you handled it. Running to your sister’s aid and then departing with her was completely unacceptable. Not to mention out of line. Not to mention an embarrassment to this agency. And to me personally.”

Anna could feel her face redden. It didn’t happen very often. But it was equally rare for her to sit through such a dressing-down by an authority figure.

“I’m sorry for that.” Anna tried to make her apology sound as heartfelt as it was.

“I should hope so. It was a black eye for the agency.” Anna cocked her head. She’d already apologized from the bottom of her heart. What else did Margaret want her to do? “With all due respect, Margaret, I think there’s some blame to be shared here. You knew about my sister’s problems. Why would you have wanted her to be at a party like that when she’d only half completed her rehab? If you’re going to fire me, just fire me. I can handle it.”

Margaret tapped a pencil on the table. “Perhaps you’ve led a privileged life for so long that you don’t know what it means to be in a subordinate position. That is most unfortunate, Anna. I asked you here assuming you were willing to listen. What I’m telling you isn’t my position alone, but the position of the agency. I spoke about this with my associates, and this is a group decision.”

Anna stood and walked to the door, fully prepared to depart with grace and dignity. “Fine. I understand that. You speak for Apex. Apex invited Susan to that party because she went to school with Apex’s client, Brock Franklin. You did that because you thought it might benefit you. You never gave a thought to how it might affect Susan. Asking her to be there was irresponsible. Far more irresponsible than I might have been with Brock.”

Margaret sighed. “Are you finished?”

“No,” Anna said. She knew this wasn’t going to be the last time she’d see Margaret. It was more important for Margaret to know what kind of person she was than for her to work as an intern at the agency. “I’m grateful that you gave me this chance at Apex. I really am. But Susan is my sister. If Susan had been your sister, I hope you would have done exactly what I did.”

From behind Anna came the sound of one person clapping. Anna whirled, shocked to see Clark Sheppard, Cammie’s father, another of the Apex agency partners, staring at her with raised eyebrows.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Anna Percy. For about ten minutes I was an intern here.”

“You still are,” Clark said bluntly.

“Clark,” Margaret cut in, not raising her voice one iota. “We talked about this, remember? I’m going to be the one to decide whether she goes or stays.”

“Anna, wait outside.” Clark pointed toward the hallway outside the conference room. “We’ll be with you momentarily.”

Anna exited. She could see Clark and Margaret arguing through the glass wall but couldn’t hear a word.

It must have been nerves that made her think about clothes. Margaret and Clark were both impeccably turned out. She wore a pantsuit—Anna guessed it was Ralph Lauren—and his suit was obviously custom-made. Sam had explained the bizarre show business clothing pecking order to her: Writers dressed like bums. Producers dressed like writers, except they wore baseball caps to cover their hair loss. Directors dressed like producers, except that they were frequently tanned from being outside while on location. Actors dressed like bums but looked better since they spent their free time in the gym if they were earning a living or running in the park if they weren’t. If they were going to be photographed, they wore designer clothes and jewels provided gratis because the designers wanted the free publicity. In fact, the only people who dressed like New York businesspeople were agents.

Clark clearly didn’t share Margaret’s understated style. Though Anna couldn’t hear what he was saying, she could see him in there, waving his arms around. At one point a finger stabbed the air in Margaret’s direction. Then he swung the door open and beckoned Anna back inside.

“You’re not working with Margaret anymore,” he barked.

“I’m already well aware of that fact,” Anna replied. “You’re still an intern, though,” Clark added.

Anna was confused. “I don’t know that I—”

“You don’t have to know; you’re an intern, for chris-sake, so just listen. You are not to talk to Margaret Cunningham. That means if you pass her in the hall or see her in the bathroom, you are not even to look at her.
She’s dead to you.
Understand?”

Anna thought about explaining that it would be a bit difficult for Margaret to be dead to her since there was a reasonable chance on any given morning that she’d encounter Margaret at her breakfast table, drinking her father’s coffee. Then she thought better of it. Then she thought about declining this offer—whatever it was. She couldn’t imagine why Mr. Sheppard had intervened on her behalf.

The old Anna Percy would have certainly declined. She could only imagine what her mother would think of crass Clark Sheppard: he might wear a three-thousand-dollar suit, but that didn’t change the lack of class of the man inside it.

Screw it, Anna thought.

“Yes sir,” she said brightly. She snuck a final look at Margaret. Her demeanor hadn’t changed, but her eyes were flecked with rage—not at Anna, but at Clark. Clearly she had been out-manipulated by Cammie’s father in some arcane game of intra-office politics.

“See me in my office in ten minutes, Anna. It’s the biggest one, on the corner. This meeting is over.”

When Anna approached the corner that held Clark’s office, his assistant, Gerard, told her it was okay to enter the inner sanctum. Gerard was in his twenties, an obvious athlete with extremely broad shoulders. He wore a white shirt and red tie.

Anna opened the door. Clark was in a huge black chair behind his desk—a sleek metal-and-glass number—gabbing away into his telephone headpiece. On the tabletop were two multiple-extension telephones plus a flat-screen computer monitor and a keyboard. One entire wall of the office was lined with television sets, DVD players, and audio equipment as well as a stack of scripts that went from floor to ceiling. He motioned for Anna to come in and sit down. She did, taking a seat on the lowest couch in the history of low, buttery leather couches. Behind Clark and to her left were more of those floor-to-ceiling wall windows.

“Well, I don’t give a good goddamn what
Quentin
thinks or how much
Quentin
believes that my client would want to work with him,” Clark bellowed into the tiny microphone. “Her quote is fifteen mil, it’s always fifteen mil, it’s always gonna be fifteen mil, but if you piss me off any more, it’s gonna be twenty mil. If
Quentin
can’t get your goddamn studio to write a check for fifteen mil, he can call Madonna. I hear she’s always available!”