until that day—being the best, the very best. I vowed at that moment to never be in Mr. Dean’s un-excellent quarter. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it! I’ll be the best damned producer on the lot!
Corinne grabbed my elbow as I walked away. “Whoa! That was amazing!” she said, her mouth gaping.
“He’s something else,” I said in agreement, gauging her mood.
Corinne and I had this awkward history that we both ignored, and this intense professional relationship that we couldn’t ignore. I knew she was a bit of a dragon, yet she had this girly side of her that bordered on gooey. Every day, part of my challenge was to figure her out. A part of me found her endearing. I liked her. And that was strange, given our beginning.
“I can’t believe I’m working on this show. I mean, how weird is that?” she continued in a child-like way. “It’s like, I still can’t even believe I’m working on a studio lot. It’s all so surreal! We’ve come so far since The Purrfect Life.”
“I hear they’re pouring more money into Ricky Dean than any other new show,” I said. “He’s unproven on TV, so it’s extremely rare.”
“Get out!” she gasped, as if I’d confessed some deep secret.
“This show is costing zillions.”
“No friggin’ way!” she said, shaking her head.
I laughed as we strolled between the buildings, making our way back.
Suddenly, Corinne stopped me. “I’ve been noticing,” she said, taking a good close look at my face. “You could use a little Botox on your brow lines.”
Cue bad Sybill.
“Botox?”
“Yeah, Botox. Just on your forehead. Everything else looks great. I use it. See? No lines.”
“You really think I need it?” I said, wondering if I should have felt insulted.
“Just a little. It’s only Botox, baby,” she whispered in my ear. “I won’t tell anyone. We’ll go sometime. It’s totally painless.”
“Hmmm. I’ll think about it.”
We settled back at our desks. Corinne had perfect skin—not even the hint of an old crow stomping across her delicate eye area. I felt my brows. I seemed to be frowning a lot lately, or maybe I was just more serious at the new job. It sucked that I had to start worrying about pesky brow lines, the scourge of professors and old people.
I took a minute and typed “Botox” into Google and began to read and look—pictures of women with flawless skin dominated the pages. I imagined myself, like them, sailing into my 50’s, skin plump and taut like that of a 15-year-old ingénue. It was nearly irresistible, the idea that with the jab of a needle and the swift injection of a clear liquid—and a mere three hundy or so—I could be wrinkle-free into the distant future. Brilliant. A year ago, I wouldn’t have dared consider Botox.
“Good girl,” said Corinne, who had snuck up behind me. “Try it once and you’ll be hooked.”
Grant made the most delectable salads: red lettuce, persimmons, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, yellow peppers, chick peas, and a creamy poppyseed dressing—and that was just a warm-up. When we finally sat down to dinner, he presented a delectably seasoned quinoa with sun-dried tomatoes, local asparagus grilled and topped with chunks of fresh Parmesan, and “catch of the day” blue-fin tuna. His bouquet of red sunflowers reminded me that, in actuality, he was the catch of the day—and probably the decade. The card in the flowers read:
To my little ray of sunshine, I’ve missed you lately. Want to sail this weekend (or next time you’re free)?. . . XOXO, Me.
Each time we got together, I learned something new about Grant. It was like peeling back the layers of an onion, and unlike my former boyfriend, Craig, this onion didn’t stink. So many LA guys would spill their entire life story, the fine-print of their resumé, their grand ambitions, their damaged upbringing, the whole grand epic, before anyone had even gotten up to pee. Grant was different. He never bragged or droned on about himself. He was subtle and charming, the type of man who didn’t need much to be happy, at least not in the way of ego food or gratuitous praise.
Tonight, I learned that he’d earned his boat captain’s license. I found out, too, that he and his dad had sailed to South America on their yacht, catching tuna, roughing it through fifty-foot swells—the real deal. He promised we would do it together, too, “if I wanted.” It made me want to know more, but I was tired and dreading another long day at work—my next day’s