Girls on Film (10 page)

It wasn’t until the final bell rang that Anna looked up from her laptop. She backed up what she’d written and went to meet Adam in the student parking lot, as they’d agreed. If it hadn’t been for her appointment at Apex, she would have been happy to stay in the library and continue writing.

Adam looked so cute, leaning against her Lexus, waiting for her. She was so giddy over her idea for the script that she impetuously gave him a light kiss on the lips.

“Nice to see you, too,” he said, grinning.

As Anna pulled out of the parking lot, going toward Wilshire Boulevard, she bubbled over with ideas about her screenplay. It just felt so good to be excited again about something that didn’t involve guys—except on the page, of course.

“I realize it’s only a short,” Anna said as she headed toward Westwood Boulevard. “But it’s exciting to think that I’ll actually get to see it filmed. Sam said we can use her father’s editing room.”

“Cool. I guess this means we’re not going to San Diego this weekend, though.”

“You should come out to the desert,” Anna said. “That is, if you want to. You can meet my sister—she’s coming, too.”

“You were going to tell me about her,” Adam reminded her.

Anna nodded, then hesitated.

“Highly evolved guy that I am, I sense that something’s wrong,” Adam said. “Is it about your sister?”

Anna knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t bring herself to open up. “I’ll tell you about it some other time,” she said lightly. Then she opened the center console between her seat and Adam’s—it was full of CDs. When Django had seen that her father had leased her the Lexus, he’d brought over an eclectic assortment of music—Anna hadn’t even heard of most of the artists. She pointed to the CDs. “Pick something. Loud.”

Adam held up a CD. “Coldplay. Check it out.” He popped the music into the player; a gut-wrenching ballad filled her head and her car. She told him to crank it up to drown out her tumbling thoughts.

Minutes later they pulled into the underground lot at the corner of Westwood and Le Conte, directly below the building that housed the Apex office. One of the city’s ubiquitous valets took her car, and she and Adam rode the elevator to the main lobby, which was enormous. The windows went from floor to ceiling, and tall plants encircled the entire space. From the middle of the ceiling hung a huge Lichtenstein painting, and all the furniture was chrome. She felt like she was on the set of some futuristic movie from the 1960s. Anna signed in with security and was given a visitor’s tag, which she promptly shoved into her pocket.

“Look, I know this neighborhood. I’ll go get coffee at Jerry’s Deli. It’s right around the corner. Come meet me when you’re done,” Adam offered.

“I’m sure there’s a reception area where you can wait.”

“Nah. You should go up alone. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Anna took the elevator to the twelfth floor, where it opened into a spacious foyer that still smelled of wet paint. A stunningly beautiful young woman with cropped black hair and green eyes sat with headphones on behind a massive circular desk. “Good afternoon, Apex, hold, please. Good afternoon, Apex … I’ll transfer you. Good afternoon, Apex, hold, please.” Then, letting the phones ring for a few moments, the girl looked up at Anna. “Yes?”

“I’m Anna Percy. I have an appointment at three o’clock to see Margaret Cunningham.”

The girl pushed a button on her console and spoke into her headset briefly before turning back to Anna. “She’ll be right with you. May I get you anything? Coffee? A Coke? Bottled water?”

“No thanks.” Anna took a seat on a low-slung gray leather couch and glanced at the trade papers on an end table:
Variety, Hollywood Reporter
, and
Publishers Weekly
. A travel magazine caught Anna’s eye. On the cover was a Mediterranean-style inn on a windswept beach. Just looking at it made Anna feel more relaxed. She flipped open to the article. The Montecito Inn. In Santa Barbara, about an hour and a half north of Los Angeles. Built by Charlie Chaplin to accommodate his visiting friends. It looked so peaceful, so serene. Anna could picture herself walking the beach, her jeans rolled up, listening to the ocean. For a big-city girl, she was inordinately fond of non-big-city places.

“Anna Percy?” A diminutive Asian woman in an Armani suit had come out for her.

“Yes.” Anna stood up.

“I’m Wei Ling Feinberg, Margaret’s assistant.” She shook Anna’s hand. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

“No, not at all.”

“Good. Want some coffee? A Coke? Bottled water?”

Anna declined. “Well, come with me,” Wei Ling instructed. “It’s still a sea of boxes, so watch your step.”

Anna followed the assistant through a set of double doors and down a long hallway, passing a glassed-in conference room with a view of the Santa Monica Mountains. As they walked, she could hear snippets of phone conversations—most of them extremely profane—from inside various offices.

“Those schmucks screwed Al and Miles on
Hysteria
, so now they can bite me. I’ve got a long memory, Bob—”

“Tell your asshole of a boss that he’d better take my goddamn call, or you’ll never temp in this town again.”

“So what if her play is in previews? They’re offering two hundred and fifty for her to polish the script, and she doesn’t even have to do a good job.”

Margaret’s office was at the end of the hall. It faced west, toward Brentwood, Santa Monica, and the ocean beyond. Though workmen were laying a Navajo-pattern carpet, Margaret sat placidly behind her steel-and-marble desk. When she saw Anna, she rose gracefully and came to the door. “Anna, I see you found the madhouse. Did Wei Ling offer you anything?”

“Yes, thanks.” Anna turned to the assistant, but she’d already disappeared.

“Coming through.” Two workmen were hauling an enormous framed poster for
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
toward the doorway; Margaret and Anna had to step aside to let them pass.

Margaret sighed. “Why don’t we go to the conference room? I think it’s the only quiet spot right now.”

They headed back the way Anna had come—Margaret stopping at a few offices to introduce Anna to various employees. Finally they landed in the conference room. It could seat twenty comfortably at a long table surrounded by buttery leather high-backed chairs. Anna drifted over to the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows: the room featured the same view as Margaret’s office. But looking down, she could see just the edge of the Los Angeles National Cemetery, with its countless rows of soldiers’ headstones gleaming white against the green grass.

Margaret shut the door, and the jangly energy of the Apex office turned to relative tranquility. “Please.” Margaret sat in a big chair at the head of the table and gestured Anna into a place to her right. “So, Anna. Would it be safe to assume that you know how to use e-mail and a copying machine?”

Anna smiled. “Yes.”

Margaret touched her arm. “We’ll try not to load you down with too much scut work. Frankly, with your looks and pedigree, we can make better use of you out there.” She gestured toward the window. “And I guarantee it will be much more fun. Are you game?”

“Absolutely,” Anna said enthusiastically.

“How about reading screenplays and books? Interested in writing coverage?”

“Sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

Margaret laughed. “Let me fill you in on a Hollywood not-so-big secret. In this town, none of the big execs read. They get their youngest staffers to read books and screenplays—and write up summaries for them. That’s called coverage.”

“But how can they tell whether or not it’s any good?” Anna wondered. “I mean, it’s all in the writing, isn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, a lot of producers don’t consider writers very high on the food chain,” Margaret said. “Which is one of the reasons so many high-concept god-awful films get made. Here at Apex, though, we have great respect for the written word.”

Anna nodded. It did sound interesting. And maybe it would help her with her own writing.

“Wonderful. Well, we’ve got a closet full of scripts and bound galleys and fifty file drawers full of coverage summaries you can learn from. Help yourself. If you take something, just put it back. Anyway, I’m a jump-right-in kind of woman and we’re a jump-right-in kind of agency. One of my clients—a playwright from New York—just got hired off a pitch to write a script for Touchstone.”

“Pitch?” Anna asked.

“Sorry, another term of art. He had an idea that we thought was salable, so I set up some meetings for him at the big studios. Paramount passed, but that was no shocker. Warners passed, and that surprised me. But Touchstone Pictures bit. Anyway, I got him a fabulous deal, mid–six figures against low seven. He went back to Manhattan to buy an apartment, and he’s coming back out here on Saturday. The Steinbergs are giving a big Maxomile party in the hills on Sunday. We’d like you to escort him there.”

The name Steinberg meant nothing to Anna, but she figured she could research it. Still, she was surprised at Margaret’s suggestion. “I’d be happy to. But shouldn’t it be someone with more experience?”

Margaret waved a dismissive hand. “He’s a twenty-one-year-old boy wonder with the maturity of an egg-plant, but he’s also bloody brilliant. Believe me, Brock will be thrilled to see you.”

Anna was taken aback. Brock was such an uncommon name. Could it possibly be … ?

“Margaret, are you talking about Brock Franklin?”

“Yes, exactly.”

Anna laughed. “I know him.”

It was Margaret’s turn to look surprised. “How is that?”

“He went to Trinity, where my sister, Susan, and I went. He was a senior when Susan was a junior. I think maybe they went out once or twice.”

“Well, this is fantastic, isn’t it?” Margaret marveled. “Clearly I’ve chosen the perfect intern. I don’t have details yet on time and place, but as soon as I know—”

The conference room door slammed open and a tall, middle-aged man with blondish hair and a deep tan barged in. “Dammit, Margaret, we need you on this call,” he fairly spat. “Artisan is trying to fuck us on the fucking deal. Again.”

“Fine, I’ll be right in. Clark, this is our new intern, Anna Percy. Anna, this is Clark. She—”

“Fucking Artisan,” the man interrupted her. “One fucking hit and they think they’re Jack Warner. It’s now or never, Margaret.” He turned around, slamming the door on his way out.

“Manners aren’t his long suit,” Margaret said wryly. “But he’s got a client list a mile long.” She stood. “Sorry to cut this short.”

Anna rose, too. “Thanks for your time. I’m looking forward to working here.”

“Lovely.” She held the door open for Anna. “Be sure to ask Tamara at the desk to validate you. I’ll be in touch.”

Margaret shook Anna’s hand. Anna didn’t understand that last part about Tamara and validating, so she just found her way back to the elevators to the ground floor. When the doors opened, she was surprised to see Adam standing by the guard’s desk, reading the sports section of the
Los Angeles Times
.

“Hi,” he said. “Jerry’s was closed—some movie of the week is shooting there. So I came back. I didn’t want you to get lost.”

Anna smiled. “That was considerate.”

“Didn’t take long,” he said, folding the newspaper and putting it under his arm.

“No, but it looks like it’s going to be great.” They walked to the elevator that serviced the parking garage. “I get to take Brock Franklin to a party on Sunday.”

“Should I know who he is?”

“No, not really. He wrote a hit play about crass and callow Upper East Side rich kids and got a million-dollar deal from it, evidently.” Anna chuckled. “Not that he needs another million dollars.”

“How would you know?”

“My sister and I went to school with him. You’ve heard of the Franklin Mint? Same family.”

“Well, that’s convenient. What else?”

The elevator came and they stepped into it.

“I met one of Margaret’s partners,” Anna went on. “Well,
met
is the wrong word. We were in the same room briefly, though he never looked at me. And his favorite word was
fuck
. Clark something or other, I think his name was. Then someone named Tamara was supposed to validate me, whatever that means.”

The elevator door opened onto the parking level. “Whoa, back up one,” Adam suggested. “Clark Sheppard?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Anna found her parking ticket and gave it to the valet. He told her it was ten dollars, and she paid for her parking. “I think so.”

“Blond hair, deep tan, on the tall side?”

“Yes,” Anna said. “Why?”

“Sheppard,” Adam repeated. “Doesn’t that last name ring a bell?”

She had to think for a moment. And then, suddenly, she knew.

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh yeah. He’s Cammie’s father.”

The attendant brought Anna’s car around and they got in. “Well, hopefully I’ll never have to work for him specifically,” Anna said.

“From what I hear,
everyone
works for him. He’s that kind of guy.”

“I guess I’ll find out,” Anna said. “What’s that part about getting validated by Tamara?”

“It’s the part about saving yourself ten bucks. Tamara is probably the receptionist. Validate means to stamp your parking ticket so that you park for free.”

“Phew. I was concerned it meant validate my self-worth,” Anna added wryly.

Adam cranked Coldplay back up as Anna headed back to Wilshire Boulevard. So Cammie’s father was one of the partners in the agency where she’d be interning. It got her thinking about his daughter and her alleged interest in a friendship with Susan.

“Adam, do you mind if we make a stop at the Beverly Hills Hotel? On our way back?”

“I don’t suppose you’re inviting me to take a room and ravish you.”

“A bit premature.”

“Hey, a guy can dream.”

“My sister is staying there. I just want to stop in and say hi.”

“Yeah, sure,” Adam said easily, but there was a question in his eyes.

“It’s …” Anna stopped. But she knew she was being ridiculous. Susan’s problems were hardly state secrets. So
what
if it was personal family information?

I am not my mother
, Anna reminded herself.