The Last Time I Saw You by Eleanor Moran Page B

a good five years. He veers between obtuse indie flicks and big budget action films, none of which reproduce his massive early success. “I know, it’s a tough life,” adds Mary with a self-deprecating giggle.
    “Was he inthanely handsome?” lisps Charlotte, emboldened by Mary’s good cheer. Charlotte has patented a nauseating strain of girlishness that she uses to try and cloak her scheming.
    “If you like that kind of thing,” says Mary without much warmth. “Flynn spent his early life in Africa, and is planning to take the next year out to devote himself to putting something back.” Translation: Flynn can’t net a good scriptfor love or money, and is desperately searching for another way to raise his dwindling profile. Actors, you’ve gotta love them. “He’s actually a wonderful man,” adds Mary, and I chide myself. Since when did I become so cynical? If he has realized that life is short, that we’ve got only a limited time to do what it is that we’re here to do, then I couldn’t agree with him more. Stupid, disobedient tears spring up behind my eyes, Sally’s presence almost tangible. Fragments of the times we spent together keep whirling up in my mind’s eye, like the spin of a kaleidoscope. I think about excusing myself and running to the loos, but I force the feeling down, and ask a question instead: if I act normal, perhaps I’ll start to feel normal.
    “Is he setting up a charity?”
    “It’s a trust,” says Mary, “which is going to give out grants to give deprived young women life-changing educational opportunities. He wants to raise money in Hollywood, and also here.”
    Surely if he just donated his take-home pay from playing a loose-boweled rock star in Sh*t Happens 2 , an ill-judged, multimillion-pound gross-out movie from last year, he’d be able to educate a whole university’s worth.
    “How inthpiring,” says Charlotte, sweeping her perfectly blow-dried flaxen locks up into a ponytail like she’s readying herself for action.
    “So here’s my thinking. Two teams: a couple of weeks to come up with a pitch for a print campaign that will cut across all those bleeding heart liberal pleas for cash and make an impact. Now who wants to lead?”
    I can feel myself physically shrinking, every part of me recoiling from the idea. There’s no lack of candidates; Charlotte’s straining forward like a slice of thin white breadpopping from a toaster, and Chris Minky, a copywriter at my level, is apparently foolhardy enough to want to take her on. Mary looks straight through him, her gaze—oh God—her gaze alighting on me.
    “Livvy . . .”
    “Thank you, Mary, but . . . I don’t think I’m in the right head space this week . . . Chris would be great. Or Amy . . .”
    I trail off, her stony silence the only cue I need. I know nonnegotiable when I see it.
    “So there we have it, Livvy versus Charlotte. I’m expecting great things.”
    “May the betht woman win,” says Charlotte, extending a bony hand over the table, a fat lozenge of a diamond hovering on her ring finger. “In all seriouthness, Olivia, good luck.” She cocks her head prettily and smiles without any discernible cheer.
    “Ditto,” I say, my hand trapped in hers a second or two longer than I would like—despite its bloodless appearance, she has a surprisingly vise-like grip.
    Mary swiftly divvies up the teams, leaving me with a crowd of doleful-looking colleagues, all sensing inevitable defeat. Before my team can slip out, I take them into an adjoining meeting room. I’ve got to push through.
    “We can do this. We just need to make a plan.”
    “No offense, Livvy,” says Chris, “but she’s a force of nature. She’s got a cabinet full of awards.”
    I look at him, exasperated by his casual assumption that he would have done such a vastly superior job. I sort of like Chris, but he’s a bit of a moaner. He should be attractive, but he’s too vain, the kind of man who’d use up all your