Chapter 2
“Can I help you?” came the southern draw of an attractive blonde from behind the desk in front of me.
“Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Cordova. My name is Holly Preston,” I replied politely.
“Go ahead and have a seat, sweetie, I’ll let you know when he’s ready for you.”
She flashed a perfect smile at me, the kind meant for Crest toothpaste commercials. She looked much more like a model than a secretary. Even sitting in the small gray swivel chair, I could tell she was very tall and runway slender. That’s the thing about living in this region. I can spot a model, a fake tan, silicone breasts, and veneers in mere seconds. Fairly often I bear witness to the quadruple whammy.
On the surface, at first glance, this town has the most beautiful people you could ever see. But when you look deeper, they are often the ugliest people you'll ever meet; manipulating, conniving, ladder climbing, money-grubbing, lying, egocentric, and elitist. There are very few people you can trust. That is, in part, why I worry that my indiscretion will hurt me in the future. I was not sleeping my way to the top. However, there are enough people willing to dirty their knees for fame that someone like me, who just made a mistake, could be written off as merely another floozy.
Without wanting to, I pictured myself the day Jonathon Roberts hired me.
You see, the day I graduated from college, I packed up all of my belongings and moved to California.
My father, sick for years, had died when I was twenty. After that I had transferred from the local city college to the university, moving away from our small town of Fort Dodge to the marginally larger Iowa city. In 2 years I'd gotten my degree, bought a one way ticket and didn't look back. All I thought about was a more exciting life in a real city, Los Angeles.
I had no real experience as a personal assistant, no high-up connections, and as far as education goes, my bachelor’s in philosophy didn’t qualify me for the job. Luckily it seemed fate didn't care about my qualifications.
That day I had already been in LA for nearly three weeks and had been lucky enough to finally land a job interview for a secretarial position to a well-known agent named Joan Whittaker, that I at the time, had never heard of. Since it was the only lead I had and the type of position I had never imagined taking, I decided to go for it. This was my chance to have a different identity, learn another skill set, and leave the blue collar life of my past behind.
It was a nine a.m. interview and I was there twenty minutes early on the fourteenth floor of a large coldly designed building sitting with my legs crossed, watching the seconds tick by on a large modern clock when life decided I deserved a fascinating fork in an otherwise bleak road. I remember that I was in my most professional gray pantsuit- which I hated. If it would have been allowed I would have worn my favorite pair of faded ripped jeans and a black tank top. I was all about comfort and the stuffy corporate world was not exactly my playground. Still, I tried to sit tall and look like a worldly confident woman that held within her a great many valuable assets.
It was only moments later that a door to my right burst open and a tall, thin frame of a man came barging clumsily out. He slammed the door behind him and looked down right pissed off. He looked at me menacingly and in turn my eyes found interest in everything in the room save him, which seemed to be his intention.
It was then that I realized I was completely alone with him in the brightly lit waiting room. Even the desk behind me where a very petite bird-like woman had been answering phones was empty.
The stranger began walking forward towards the elevators, but before he could get far he tripped on his untied shoe lace and came tumbling down towards my stiff form. I was relieved that he didn’t land on top of me, but my respite was short-lived when I registered that his head had struck the arm of my chair pretty hard in the fall. He was on the floor at my feet holding a cut in his forehead. The dark hateful eyes he had only just used to glower towards me were now gone and replaced with the wide incredibly vulnerable eyes you see on the faces of freshly injured children as the recognition of their accidents begin to color their features.
I’d had my fair share of scrapes and bruises working all of the odd jobs I had to take when my father was sick, so blood and injuries didn't bother me and I had learned to be prepared for the obstacles by carrying a small first-aid kit in my purse. I also carried floss, a lighter, a Tide bleach pen, aspirin, tampons, pens, post-its, and a couple protein bars. You never know what you’re going to need. Preparation is key.
I grabbed the stranger’s elbow and pulled him into a sitting position, prepared to check his wound. It was then that he looked directly at me, and with his face softened, I could see that under bushy eye brows, his eyes were the blue one only finds in deep stormy seas. He had sharp cheek bones, a strong jaw and I can recall thinking that the harsh edges were in direct contrast with the eyes before me. Average to thin lips resided below a straight but subtly asymmetrical nose. This imperfection only made him more handsome. A mess of thick russet hair lay atop his head in total disarray giving that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that I guessed was actually very difficult and expensive to achieve. That had been the moment realization hit and I knew who he was. How could I not? His face was on billboards, on the cover of every magazine with a target audience of females between the ages of ten and forty and he had been in film after film for the last several years. Pushing aside my shock, I decided to deal with the situation without turning it into a fiasco. No need to make a scene.
“Are you okay?” I asked, furrowing my brows with slight worry.
“Um, yeah… I… tripped. I think I’m fine,” was his reply in a slightly rough throaty British accent. His breath reeked of alcohol and it suddenly clicked why he had fallen in the first place. He was drunk.
He tried to stand while still holding his head but his legs were wobbly and he went back down, luckily landing on his butt rather than his head again. I grabbed his elbow, this time to keep him in his current position on the floor in front of me.
“I think you should sit for a minute. Let me see your head.”
It was a demand, not a question and before he could reply or protest I pulled his hand away to reveal a red scrape on the right side of his pale forehead. I pulled out my first-aid kit and opened it up, grabbing the small disinfectant spray bottle.
“This might burn a little, but it’s just to clean it.”
I pushed his unkempt hair out of the way and he winced slightly as I sprayed before quickly leaning in and blowing on the small cut to ease the sting. Ignoring the fact that my face was an inch away from a damn movie star and that it had been over an hour since I brushed my teeth, I continued blowing cool air until the wrinkles in his forehead smoothed with relief. Then I leaned back and grabbed the Neosporin, gently dabbed a bit on the scrape, and placed a small flesh colored Band-Aid over it.
“All patched up, you feel all right?”
His stare was one of disbelief.
“Does your head still hurt?” I probed.
Finally he blinked several times and replied, “Yeah, got a headache though.”
I pulled out the aspirin and gave him 800 milligrams along with the bottled water I had. To my surprise, he didn’t even eye the pills, but rather took them with hesitation. I found it was strange because I would never take pills from a stranger, especially without inspecting them.
After swallowing he tried handing the water to me while staring again, so I tried not to make eye contact and instead told him he could hang on to it. For what seemed like several awkward minutes we stayed like that; him looking intently at me and me avoiding his gaze, uncomfortable. It was dead quiet and I kept wondering where the hell that secretary was or why no one came out after him. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he spoke.
“I’m Jonathon Roberts.”
“Holly Preston.”
“Will you marry me?”
That was the last thing I expected to hear, but I thought for a moment and decided that the absurdity of the situation was hilarious. I replied as I tried to stifle it.
“I would love to, but I have a job interview right now.”
Then I let out a small chuckle, not being able to hold back and shook my head. To my surprise he began laughing lightly as well. Maybe he was coming to his senses.
“What job are you interviewing for Holly?”
“A secretarial position for a woman named Joan Whittaker,” I nodded, self-assured again.
He laughed, “You don’t want that job, trust me.”
“Well, it’s the first interview I’ve been able to land and I need a job. Being someone’s assistant can’t be that hard. I’m sure I can handle it. I get along with most people, shouldn’t be too difficult.” I was feeling defensive.
A big smile slowly crept onto his face. “Well then I have just the job for you.”
“And what is that exactly?”
He nodded towards the door he had just come out of, “According to those wankers in there, I need a personal assistant. Considering how you handle yourself,” he said eyeing my first aid kit, “I’d say you can handle the job. And trust me; I am not the Nazi that Joan is.”
“How do I know that you even know her?”
“Easy, she’s my agent. And a bloody good one, but that’s because she is incredibly ruthless. She goes through secretaries pretty fast. Of course, working for me, you’ll still have to deal with her, but only marginally.”
He gave me a moment to think before speaking, “So what do you think?”
I didn’t know what to think. This was crazy! Jonathon Roberts was the most sought after star there was these days and I didn’t even know all that much about him. Hell, I didn’t even know anything about being a personal assistant.
But then I thought of my father and having to go back to Fort Dodge if things didn’t work out in California; back to the diner we ate at every Wednesday, to the lake where we used to catch all the striper, to those blue collar jobs he worked so that I wouldn’t have to when I was older. And I knew what I had to do. I had to have my own new adventure. Even if I failed, at least I tried.
I put my hand out, “I’ll do it.”
He shook it, smiling and I helped him into the chair next to me.
“When do I start?”
“He’s ready for you, sugar,” the Crest commercial secretary announced, pulling me out of the past and back into the present interview I should have been thinking about.
I stood up and followed the six foot tall woman down a long hallway, watching as her nonexistent ass shook from side to side as though she were currently on the catwalk. She opened the door for me, smiling and shut it behind me as I stepped forwards. After seeing her, my smile felt less white, my ass seemed a heavy burden, and at five foot two, I felt like a child; not a big confidence booster.
Inhaling deeply, I remembered why I was there, how valuable I could be, and how hard of a worker I was. Slowly, my insecurities and worries fell away.
When she opened the last door at the end of the hall I immediately thought the office had an old Hollywood feel- cluttered, poorly lit, and slightly musky. The only light was from a small glass tiffany antique lamp, whose bulb could be no more than forty watts. It sat on a large oak desk that had several mounds of haphazardly stacked papers. There was a cluster of pens and pencils protruding from a square plastic container. Several large paintings lined the walls, though they were hard to precisely make out in the dim lighting. I found my destination when I noticed the two black leather chairs sat in front of the desk.
A man, whom I assumed was Tony Cordova, stood from behind the desk. His skin had a light olive tone to it, which if I had to guess based on his last name, was due to a spanish decent. His black hair was short, but slightly spiked, a bit too young for his face. He had thin pink lips and a small pointed nose. His eyes were nearly as dark as his hair. As he stood to greet me, I was surprised to see that he was very thin, though not lanky. His gray business suit looked off on his small shoulders. He was not as tall as I had expected, five foot six tops. Little man syndrome, that partially explained it.
“You must be Holly Preston. I’m Tony...” he stated, with the same air a car salesman has about him.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Cordova.” I stepped back into 'professional Holly Preston.'
“Oh, please, call me Tony…and this is James.”
He gestured to an aged leather couch on my left, where, to my surprise, James McCalman lounged. He was sprawled out comfortably across the couch, ankles crosses on one end and hands behind his head at the other end, as if no one else was in the room. He was wearing light blue jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and black boots. He looked different than the pictures I had seen. His hair wasn’t the short cropped look I had expected, but rather longer, just an inch or so from his shoulders, though still pale blonde. It fell in untidy waves around his face with what seemed to be natural high and low lights. His once smooth face was now covered in light blonde hair; cheeks scruffy leading to a full on mustache and goatee. Once I got past the differences, though, I was able to see the similarities; the same perfect nose, white, even smile, and light blue eyes.
I shook Tony’s hand and turned towards McCalman to do the same. He quickly sat up and pulled back the curtain above the couch, letting bright rays of sunshine into the room from behind him. He stood up and took a step towards me, right hand outstretched. I shook it firmly, having learned that in what constantly feels like a man’s world, I must never show my weakness. I was pleased to see his hand was also strong; a pre-requisite of mine for any boss. Floppy fish handshakes were always a red flag.
“Mr. McCalman, hello.”
“James is fine, can I call you Holly?”
“Of course,” I smiled back at him, surprised. His English accent was not as deeply pronounced as it had been in the independent film I owned. Maybe living here in the U.S. for so long had turned a once thick accent subtle.
Up close I could see his features more clearly. The internet had not done him justice. His eyes, in person and in such close proximity were much more intriguing. They weren’t just blue, but more a pale icy blue of the arctic. They were ageless and disarming. His facial hair made him look stern and intense. Though this new look took me by surprise, it did not take away his appeal. If anything, it magnified the allure causing immediate incoherency on my part. He still held my hand in his. I pulled it back smoothly, forcing myself to look away. A disconcertingly large part of me wanted to flee right then.
“Go ahead and take a seat, Holly.” Tony motioned toward one of the leather chairs I had initially seen. I sat down, completely aware that James McCalman had relaxed back down on the couch, though sitting rather than lounging. I angled my chair so that I could see them both, though I only looked at Tony.
I answered a series of basic questions about the job functions I had performed in the past, the projects I had helped with, and the locations to which I was willing to travel. I explained that I had stayed in Jon’s guest bedroom in order to fulfill my job requirements and that I was currently unemployed because Jon’s workload had lessened and he had more than enough help. More half-truths. I also told them I had quit just over three months ago and had started looking for new positions just this last week. At least that one was a full truth.
It began to seem silly that I had even turned my chair; it was as if Tony and I were the only ones there for the interview. I wondered if it was because McCalman thought he was too good to speak to me. Was he a spoiled brat with a lot of bad habits like Jon was when he hired me? Or worse, if he did come from a rich, privileged family, did he look down on assistants, housekeepers, and the working class alike? Was he bored with my answers? Did he want an assistant that looked more like the secretary just outside?
No, those were my insecurities talking.
When he introduced himself, he had kind eyes and he didn’t scope my body up and down as if sizing me up weighing out my traits to see if I was worthy. Instead, he looked directly in my eyes. It made me a bit uncomfortable, but I wanted him to know how genuine I was being, so I tried to look back into them as much as I could.
As if sensing my thoughts were on him, James interrupted, “Where have you been staying?”
Ah, so he had noticed. If one lives with her employer, where does one go when she is unemployed? I had not expected the question, but the answer was easy enough.
“A hotel here in LA, the Redbury.”
“And you’ve been there the last three months?” he questioned, astonished at the thought.
“No, just the last week or so. I was traveling before that.” I wasn’t sure why he asked or where he was going with his questions.
“Where did you travel, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Ireland and Sweden, followed by two full months in London.”
“Why so long in London?” he asked with what seemed like genuine curiosity, but I'd learned that with actors -especially the talented ones- it was often difficult to tell. I went with my gut and told the truth.
“I love it there; the clouds, the rain, the general grayness of the place… I love it all. It's a nice contrast to the bright, sunny, new age hipster feel of Los Angeles,” I was staring off out the window as I spoke. “I suppose I wanted something to offset the time I had spent here; a place with deeper roots, if that makes sense.” Finally I looked up at McCalman. He was staring at me, a hint of a smile on his contemplative face.
“Why do you want to work for me?” he asked without hesitation.
The directness of his question took me off guard. Locked on his eyes, I froze for half a second before recovering. I inhaled deeply, dragging out the exhale, keeping my eyes on his.
“I took care of my father until he died and am incredibly codependent. It's bad for relationships, but great for a this kind of working environment. It is much easier for me to take care of someone else and their problems than to have a life and have to deal with my own. I’m sort of a… jack of all trades, and thus, am slightly above average at a great multitude of things. I have a lot of common sense and know-how. Because of that I've found that I'm best served doing a job where someone else is the center of attention and I can use my wide range of knowledge to help them take their amazing talent to the next level, by taking care of all the mundane things in their life they don’t want or know how to do and being whatever it is they need me to be.”
I broke my gaze to lean back in my seat, splitting face time between the two men. “I am a behind-the-scenes kind of girl. Every great actor, musician, politician, chef has someone helping them to be successful. That person can be me. It is not the ‘why’ or ‘how’ I got into the business, but it is the reason I am staying in it.”
McCalman looked a bit bewildered, but he recovered quickly. Apparently I had not answered the question how he had meant it. I didn't know if that was good or bad.
“But… why me? Why not another actor? Tony told me you turned down two other job offers from people who didn’t even need interviews to hire you.”
I paused considering my answer. A motto my father loved came to mind; Honesty is the best policy. It wasn’t a quote anyone in the business lived by and certainly not the theme of my answers in the interview, but it felt good to give another honest answer.
“I watched their films, guest appearances, and even their smaller parts. One didn’t have the passion and the other didn’t have the talent. You have both. I don’t want to half-ass my job, so I need to work for someone I believe in; someone I want to see succeed and someone who is capable of it. You qualify," I said simply.
"Just as Jonathon Roberts did?”
I stifled the wince and recovered quickly, "Yes, exactly.”
I could tell he was flattered, but he tried to hide it, nodding slowly, smiling ever so slightly. By the warmth in my face, I knew I was blushing, something that I prided myself on not doing often and found incredibly embarrassing. I could only hope my make-up would conceal it. Just as McCalman was about to speak, someone called for Tony over my shoulder. I didn’t look to see who it was for two reasons. For one, it was none of my business. Secondly, as Tony left the room, James McCalman remained in his seat, eyes locked on mine in introspective thought.
It reminded me of the staring game I played as a child; whomever blinks first loses. This was not the same though, not so much a standoff of a physical nature. He blinked occasionally, eyelids hiding his bottomless eyes, and there was no competitive edge to his face. He merely seemed to be trying to decipher or decide something, but as hiring or not hiring me seemed simple, I could not imagine what he needed to process.
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