Page 7

Oh. Yeah, that conversation did happen. We’re low on floaters because of some summer flu. Steven wasn’t happy about the arrangement, but since there was so little time—fuck.

Okay, well, I guess I was wrong before—it could get worse. Everything has now officially gotten worse.

But I just smile. “Of course. Hope your appointment goes well.”

He smiles back, teeth and dimple and all. “Thanks! Steven’s client’s in the lobby right now. She’s meeting with A.D.s all day, but she’s easygoing. Good luck.”

And with that, Wyatt’s gone.

Covering two desks. An assistant’s worst nightmare. Well, I don’t really have a choice. So c’est la vie, guess it’s time to die. I take a deep breath, set Alice’s phone calls to forward to my cell phone, and put on Steven’s headset.

I adjust my hair, make sure I didn’t somehow ruin my makeup, and head down the stairs.

Let’s do this.

According to the schedule, Steven’s next client meeting is with Valeria Sullivan. She’s an overnight Oscar darling from three years back, and all the blockbusters she booked off her award hype are now coming out. I’ve been told to see her debut a million times, but given this job has been fourteen-hour days five days a week, I’m lucky if I don’t spend the entire weekend passed out from exhaustion. The idea that I could watch hundreds of movies in my free time seems laughable.

So, Valeria’s on my oh, cool list and easy enough to stay professional around. Of course I have teenage crushes, and who wouldn’t freak the fuck out if Meryl Streep showed up? But I’ve gotten pretty good at treating acting clients I’m not a superfan of normally. They all tend to be quirky at best or dysfunctional ego trips who can’t open a pack of yogurt alone otherwise, and you get used to dealing with the latter pretty quickly in this industry. Nothing particularly godlike about these people when you listen to their managers console them over their IBS or cheating spouses day in and day out.

This’ll be fine.

Valeria Sullivan sits with her legs crossed in the middle of one of the couches. Her phone is turned sideways and has—and I’m not kidding—a picture of a very disturbed wet cat on the phone case. That’s what catches my attention first, but then it’s like the bisexual part of my brain just decides to turn on. Information floods in. She’s wearing a long-sleeve-blouse-and-black-high-waisted-shorts getup, and the curves of her legs spill out like brushstrokes on a painting. She’s at an angle to me, and her jawline is sharp enough to cut glass. Well, I guess I’ve at least learned that it’s not just Rachel Brosnahan.

“Valeria, right?” I say as I approach her.

She looks up from her phone and frowns. I don’t even know the context, but my heart’s already hammering. Please no one call right now.

“Did Steven fire Wyatt?” she asks, sounding genuinely upset.

Oh. Yeah, not related to me. “No, no, Wyatt’s just at a doctor’s appointment. I work with Alice Dadamo, and I’m covering for a few hours.”

She gets to her feet and shakes my hand. “Okay, good.” She puts a hand on her chest, then slowly lowers it back down. “He writes these weird email sign-offs, and sometimes they’re theonly good thing that happens to me all day.”

I genuinely chuckle. Never would’ve thought a dramatic actor would be self-deprecating. “Well, let’s get you up to Steven.”

We make the walk up the stairs. Her brown eyes travel along the modern paintings that hang on the walls. My eyes are the same color, but hers have a soft beauty I’ve never seen in my own. “This place is so sterile, but it has the coolest paintings.”

Not gonna lie, it does have the coolest paintings. “Yeah, Laura Owens is incredible. The physicality of the texture can keep me staring forever. Slater picked one of the more muted pieces, though.”

I haven’t talked about art, composition—anything in that realm—for so long. It’s the first moment all day I feel myself starting to relax. And, unlike most of Alice’s clients, Valeria is making eye contact with me.

“Do you have a favorite of hers?” she asks.

“Pavement Karaoke. It was part of an exhibition on display at the Geffen a couple years ago. It’s just got these incredible bold colors and overlapping texture. It’s, like, visually arresting, but if you look deeper, it’s covered in these sixties and seventies counterculture magazine articles. It’s just like she’s trying to say a million things and becomes this gestalt…”

When I look over at Valeria, she’s got this half smile on her face, eyes lit up. Not the way Alice smiles, but genuine happiness. “I have not heard someone wax poetic about contemporary female-created art in a while.”

I don’t know why, but I mirror her half smile and tease her: “Treat, or are you ready to run?”

“Treat. Have you seen Julie Mehretu’s work at the Broad? She does a similar mixed-media thing.”

“I’ll have to check it out.” It’s just hard to find people who’ll go to the Broad with me. Romy prefers pop culture and kitschy museums where everything on display is fake but treated as real.

We reach the top of the stairs. We’re almost at Steven’s office. I get this weird mushy urge to thank this random actress for having a pleasant conversation with me.

“I like your phone case,” I say instead.

Valeria pulls out her phone, as if she’s forgotten what’s on it. She chuckles a little and returns it to her purse. “Thanks. I try to keep funny, irreverent images on there. You gotta have something to consistently cheer you up, you know?”