“I’m sure the delivery man will just set them by the door,” I say, resisting the urge to pat her hand. “I mean, they’re just plants. They’ll be okay.”
“You would think so. Simon is particular about everything, including his stupid peace lilies.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna have to go back there.”
“Wait, I can go.” I put my hand out as she starts to get out of her chair.
“Really?”
“Yep. I’m not even hungry. I’m just gonna save my salad for later.”
She nods and sinks back into her chair. “Okay, thanks. I owe you one.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I grab my backpack and plastic to-go box full of greens and head out of the cafe, hopefully towards a prime opportunity for redemption.
*
The plants are in the little lobby, near the front desk. Stacey is nowhere to be found, but I assume the two potted plants, a few feet tall each, are the right ones since they’re just sitting in the middle of the floor. I feel their soil, testing to see how dry they are. Maybe if I water them and take them to Mr. Mulroney’s office, I’ll score a brownie point with him. It’s worth a try, anyway. After bringing him back the coffee earlier, I’d promptly spilled half of it on the floor. I need all the help I can get.
I fill a little paper cup with water from the drink dispenser and give each plant a healthy dose, then set about moving them to their new home. They’re heavier than they look, and I end up having to drag them one at a time. I alternate between the two, pulling one a few yards down the hall and then going back for its twin. I’m glad the office is empty because I look like an idiot, I know it.
The door to his office is closed. I stop in front of it for a second and crane my neck to listen for any noises. He left for his lunch break before any of us assistants, breezing by without saying goodbye. That was only thirty or so minutes ago. All’s still quiet beyond the heavy wooden door, so I go ahead and push it open.
The first thing I see are the papers all over the floor. Or is it the panties, resting around the ankles of a blonde, curvy woman I’ve never seen? Or perhaps it’s the look on Mr. Mulroney’s face as he winds his hand back to land it on the bare ass of the woman, who’s bent over the surface of his desk.
Whatever it is that I take in first, it’s not long before I see something that’s more terrifying than anything else I’ve ever encountered. Simon Mulroney’s ice-blue eyes turning to stare into mine as I take in the one scene that will absolutely be the end of my career at Mulroney Pictures.
You’ll never work in this town again, is the cheesy Hollywood adage I hear as I pivot on my heel and catapult all one hundred and twenty pounds of my being out of the office.
*
I don’t see Mr. Mulroney for the rest of the day. When Dana and I arrive back from our lunch break, the plants had been moved, presumably into his office. The door remains shut all day, though, and we don’t even know if our boss is behind it or not. According to Dana, this is normal. He pops up when he’s ready to give us some new assignment, she explains, but other than that he’s often a no-show.
I spend the afternoon sorting a large pile of documents by date and mentally running through a list of L.A. restaurants that are potentially hiring. A career slinging beer and french fries suddenly doesn’t seem so bad when it’s looking like it might be your only option.
At least it will be a waitressing job in California and not North Carolina, so I can write home lies and keep up the pretense of living my glamorous life in Hollywood. I won’t have crushes from junior high or my dentist coming in and watching me sing Happy Birthday to diners.
When it’s time to leave for the day, I book it off the lot, semi-happy to have escaped the afternoon without getting the boot.
And, yet, I’m not completely happy at all, because I’m just waiting for my cell phone to ring. Waiting for the inevitable dismissal that is sure to come once you’ve walked in on your boss’ kinky sex game.
…A kinky sex game that causes a hot flush to wash over my body whenever I think about it. In fact, the muscles between my legs are repeatedly clenching together as I drive home to my dingy Hollywood apartment, thinking of Mr. Mulroney the entire way. The fierce look on his face as he raised his hand is the only thing I can think about as I navigate traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard.
“Stop it,” I whisper to myself. “You don’t even like that weird spanking stuff.”
At least I don’t think I do.
When I get home, I bang through the front door and drop my backpack next to the long row of shoes and skates in the hallway — rollerblading is kind of a big thing in our apartment. The smell of onions sautéing fills the entire place, and I immediately cross the living room to open up a window.