The Second Assistant by Clare Naylor, Mimi Hare

managed a small yet confident smile.
    “Do you know nothing about life, Elizabeth?” He moved really, really close to my face. I could smell last night’s garlic on his breath. I inched back in my seat.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Well, I guess you don’t.” He looked at my hair as though he’d been asked to floss his teeth with it. Then at my clothes. I dug my admittedly untidy nails into my palms. “Because even the most clueless douche bag from Idaho would have known that these people don’t drink anything but Patrón Silver tequila.”
    “Patrón Silver?”
    “Yes, you silly little girl. Even people from Sherman Oaks know that.” And with that he spun on the heel of his overpolished shoe and strutted cockily out of my office.
    I looked around to see whether anyone had overheard. There was really only so much public humiliation a girl could take in the space of eleven days, and I think that I had reached my limit. Naturally everyone was silent, and they all seemed intent on figuring out the precise punctuation of their e-mails, but no fingers tapped on keyboards, all telephone conversations had been mysteriously halted, and Courtney and Talitha were chewing on their lips as if their sides would split with laughter if they stopped. I didn’t know whether to yell or cry. But before I could succumb to one or the other, Talitha fractured the silence.
    “He’s right. I once had a couple of margaritas at Bar Marmont made with some low-rent tequila and barfed all over this guy’s business card.” She nodded sagely. “While he was still holding it.”
    “Well, it beats shitting on his shoes,” said the mail guy, who was passing with his trolley. And everyone laughed. Except me.

5
    She looks familiar, but, dearie, these blondes all bleach alike.
    —Esther Howard as Mrs. Kraft
Born to Kill
    “E lizabeth, we’ve spoken on the phone. I’m Cameron.” I looked up and saw a bright, white, light-gleaming woman and assumed that I was experiencing a divine visitation. Which ought not to have surprised me, because I had been praying an unprecedented amount since I’d joined The Agency. Usually along the lines of:
    “Please, God, do not let Daniel Rosen find out that it was me who spilled Wite-Out on the calfskin sofa in the lobby and then tried to wipe it off with a copy of the Hollywood Reporter. ”
    Or:
    “Please, God, make Scott Wagner take so much cocaine that he has a nosebleed for the rest of the week and has to stay home. Because even though it’s a job that a chimpanzee could perform, I still have not learned how to program his video player and last night recorded Will & Grace instead of the Knicks game.”
    But in spite of my prayers, it wasn’t a visitation, it was a movie star. And her teeth shone as brightly as any I’d ever seen. And her golden hair hung about her shoulders more goldenly than even Goldie Hawn’s in Private Benjamin. Oh, yes, Cameron was a movie star. And as well as blinding me with her light, she seemed to be asking me a question.
    “I’m sorry, would you mind repeating that?” I asked with a slight frown.
    “I said, would you mind if I waited here and hung out with you until Scott arrives back from lunch? It’s just I get a little weirded out waiting in reception.” She leaned in and whispered, “I always think Daniel Rosen’s going to come by any minute, and he scares the shit out of me.”
    “Of course not. Of course you can wait here.” I scuttled to my feet in such a hurry that my chair overbalanced and ended up on the floor. “I mean, where exactly did you want to hang out ?”
    “Oh, I’ll just sit here.” She perched on the corner of my desk and pulled a copy of Allure out of her purse. “What are you going to wear to the party at Daniel’s, by the way? I was thinking hot pink. I’m kinda sick of those dresses of no color. You know what I mean?”
    “Pink sounds perfect,” I agreed. “If you like, I can organize it so that the cocktails match your