that was a movie, wasn’t it? People didn’t act like this in real life! Did they?
“But we work together. This is the crew, the team. You guys planned this night in front of me, with me included. I mean—I don’t get it. I wouldn’t do this to a sworn enemy!”
“Sit down,” Corinne hissed. “You’re making a scene.”
“No. I’m not sitting with you—you. . . phonies.” Oh, that’s good—“phonies.” Harsh, real harsh. That’s telling ‘em, Blondie!
Corinne grabbed my arm and pulled me into the empty chair beside her—it must have been Lucy’s, because she was conveniently missing. I looked up at Toni and Rose and shook my head.
“You two, you’re my new assistants. I need to trust you.” I felt lost.
Maybe my sudden promotion was too good to be true. Maybe I didn’t deserve any of this: the job, LA, the supposed uber-cool friends. It was the universe getting back at me for playing out of my league—the cement boots’ equivalent of emotional payback.
“Look, just have a drink. It’s no big deal,” Corinne said sternly as she motioned for a waiter. “And whatever you do,” she leaned into me, “don’t tell Naomi.”
Lucy pranced to the table, all boobs and booty, with a hearty martini buzz. She nearly hit the ceiling at the sight of me.
“Hi, Jane. Awesome you made it,” she said about an octave higher than her normal range. “I was wondering where you were.”
Before I could answer, she turned around to return to some drunken richy-rich manager/agent type at the bar.
“I can’t do this.” I got up to leave.
“Naomi doesn’t need to know,” Corinne whispered sternly.
I shook my head in disgust. “You guys are—never mind, not worth it.”
“Jane, stay!” Corinne said, forcing civility into her voice. “Your drink is here.”
I turned to walk away.
The earlier pink sky now was a smoggy gray, with dots of burnt orange. The street lamps hummed painfully, as if even they wanted to hide. I smelled garbage and exhaust. The wind poked and spit at me. Strangers seemed to sneer. Even the bums lost their hobo charm.
I knelt beside a back alley dumpster and cried.
I had met my new boss, Naomi, almost a year earlier, at a surf camp in Sayulita, Mexico. About halfway through our respective vacations, she gave up on catching waves and opted for mid-morning Yogalates on the beach, with a post-stretch margarita.
“The lime is very cleansing,” she’d say convincingly.
“And the tequila?” I’d retort with a smile.
After a long day on the beach and in the water, we would grab dinner, laugh a lot, and go back to the resort, where she would read cards for whoever was interested.
“Oh, I see here you have the five of spades,” she’d say to me, posturing.
“What does that mean?” I’d say warily.
“It means you’ll meet the man of your dreams by your next birthday.” As if it was that simple.
She oozed big-city charm with a hint of hippy eccentricity. I didn’t doubt her for a minute when she casually mentioned her Hollywood production company, home of two of America’s most popular reality shows. Watching her haggle freebies was proof enough she was a Hollywood shaker. Naomi had been comped two extra days at the resort, meals and massages included, all because a booking mix-up had forced her to spend her first night in a nearby (and “dreadfully inferior”) two-star hotel.
But it was her expect-the-unexpected vibe that intrigued me most. She could let it all go in an instant. One night, after boozing at a Puerto Vallarta disco, proved she had a little crazy in her.
“Let’s hit the slots,” she slurred to the taxi driver.
“Qué?” the driver said, unable to understand her.
I was barely paying attention, busy rifling through the contents of my purse for a tube of Rolaids. Mixing sangria, cervesa, and tequila with a giant after-bar burrito ain’t pretty.
“The slots!” Naomi slurred loudly to our Mexican driver. Apparently, she liked to gamble, too.
Next thing you know, the cabby pulled over at a dank street corner in the middle of nowhere and three barely dressed, chain-smoking hookers peered into our window with curious grins. We giggled about that for days.
Before my vacation ended, I thought of subtly hitting Naomi up for a job. After all, I was in television, she did own a production company in the choicest place on earth to make television, and her ten years on me made her the perfect mentor. But that plan was quickly kiboshed when two surfettes from Colorado beat me to the punch. On the last