comatose, as the urge to drink the last of the dressing out of the container dissipated.
“Your three o’clock just called to confirm his appointment.” Mitch announced from the doorway, “He’s about ten minutes out. Get your life together, wipe the ranch off your face, and for the love of Gaga, buy some granola bars to keep in your purse. You’re a scary woman on a good day, but you turn into some kind of angry black hole for food when you’re hungry and God help anyone who gets too close.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Can you grab me the script for this project? I want to glance through it one more time before I listen to this guy drone on for the next two hours about his ‘artistic vision’ and how his movie just has to star Angelina.”
“And that bullshit is exactly why I just guard the door,” Mitch spun on his heel, snapped his fingers out to the side, and shook his head. His inner diva always did a hell of a job expressing his distaste.
My phone vibrated on my desk as Mitch dropped the miniature manuscript on my desk.
“Thanks, Snookums.”
“Mmmmhmmm,” was the only response I got as he flitted back to his desk.
I decided the text message would be more fun than a read through of a script that was doomed to be completely rewritten at least three times during production.
I’m bringing The Kit to your office on Friday. No time to change at home before your date with Ryder.
I groaned and shoved the phone off the edge of my desk. The three hour phone call and light-speed ingestion of my lunch had driven all thoughts of my impending ‘date’ with Porter Hale to the darkest corners of my mind. I might have actually gotten lucky enough to forget about it entirely. Then I could have just texted him the day after with a lame excuse about work being too busy and we would have been even. He spills my drink, I let him sit alone in a restaurant for an hour, and we never have to speak again. It seemed like a pretty good pipedream at the time.
Then Becks happened.
Her and that damn kit.
She always ruins my fun.
The Kit had made its first appearance at our senior prom. I hadn’t intended on going at all. I’d bought a few pints of ice cream and a stack of the latest chick flicks. Then a crazy ginger girl dressed to the nines showed up on my doorstep with a dress and corsage in one hand, and an ominous duffle bag in the other.
“Please tell me we’re not burying your date’s body already,” I had said with a suspicious glance at the massive black bag.
“No. He’s still alive and well. He took off with your date to do God-only-knows-what while I try to salvage what’s left of your dignity.” The duffle hit the floor with a thump and several rattles. I remember feeling like prey caught in the crushing embrace of a human-sized snake as she pushed me down onto the couch and went to work.
A flat iron, round brushes, a blow dryer, dozens of shades of nail polish, eye shadow, lipstick, foundation (both liquid and powder), blush, files, buffers, tweezers, and something in a box that said Summer’s Eve tumbled onto my parents’ living room floor. Thankfully, the last one went back into the bag almost immediately.
It had taken just over an hour and a half for her to squeeze, tweeze, brush, blow, paint, and primp me into what she still calls ‘The Prom Night Miracle’.
It was only the first of many run-ins with The Kit and I wasn’t looking forward to another.
I glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of my computer monitor and squared my shoulders. I had five minutes to make myself look presentable and get to the conference room where the meeting was to be held.
Lucky for me, it was right across the hall from the executive restroom I shared with one other casting director.
I slid the deadbolt into place behind me and turned to study myself in the mirror over the sink. I blanched as I realized it looked as if I had decided to drink the ranch out of the container. I’d start there and work
“Your three o’clock just called to confirm his appointment.” Mitch announced from the doorway, “He’s about ten minutes out. Get your life together, wipe the ranch off your face, and for the love of Gaga, buy some granola bars to keep in your purse. You’re a scary woman on a good day, but you turn into some kind of angry black hole for food when you’re hungry and God help anyone who gets too close.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Can you grab me the script for this project? I want to glance through it one more time before I listen to this guy drone on for the next two hours about his ‘artistic vision’ and how his movie just has to star Angelina.”
“And that bullshit is exactly why I just guard the door,” Mitch spun on his heel, snapped his fingers out to the side, and shook his head. His inner diva always did a hell of a job expressing his distaste.
My phone vibrated on my desk as Mitch dropped the miniature manuscript on my desk.
“Thanks, Snookums.”
“Mmmmhmmm,” was the only response I got as he flitted back to his desk.
I decided the text message would be more fun than a read through of a script that was doomed to be completely rewritten at least three times during production.
I’m bringing The Kit to your office on Friday. No time to change at home before your date with Ryder.
I groaned and shoved the phone off the edge of my desk. The three hour phone call and light-speed ingestion of my lunch had driven all thoughts of my impending ‘date’ with Porter Hale to the darkest corners of my mind. I might have actually gotten lucky enough to forget about it entirely. Then I could have just texted him the day after with a lame excuse about work being too busy and we would have been even. He spills my drink, I let him sit alone in a restaurant for an hour, and we never have to speak again. It seemed like a pretty good pipedream at the time.
Then Becks happened.
Her and that damn kit.
She always ruins my fun.
The Kit had made its first appearance at our senior prom. I hadn’t intended on going at all. I’d bought a few pints of ice cream and a stack of the latest chick flicks. Then a crazy ginger girl dressed to the nines showed up on my doorstep with a dress and corsage in one hand, and an ominous duffle bag in the other.
“Please tell me we’re not burying your date’s body already,” I had said with a suspicious glance at the massive black bag.
“No. He’s still alive and well. He took off with your date to do God-only-knows-what while I try to salvage what’s left of your dignity.” The duffle hit the floor with a thump and several rattles. I remember feeling like prey caught in the crushing embrace of a human-sized snake as she pushed me down onto the couch and went to work.
A flat iron, round brushes, a blow dryer, dozens of shades of nail polish, eye shadow, lipstick, foundation (both liquid and powder), blush, files, buffers, tweezers, and something in a box that said Summer’s Eve tumbled onto my parents’ living room floor. Thankfully, the last one went back into the bag almost immediately.
It had taken just over an hour and a half for her to squeeze, tweeze, brush, blow, paint, and primp me into what she still calls ‘The Prom Night Miracle’.
It was only the first of many run-ins with The Kit and I wasn’t looking forward to another.
I glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of my computer monitor and squared my shoulders. I had five minutes to make myself look presentable and get to the conference room where the meeting was to be held.
Lucky for me, it was right across the hall from the executive restroom I shared with one other casting director.
I slid the deadbolt into place behind me and turned to study myself in the mirror over the sink. I blanched as I realized it looked as if I had decided to drink the ranch out of the container. I’d start there and work
Similar Books
