Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

Chapter 1 KELSEY’S BOSS AND OTHER DEMONS

Chapter 1

K ELSEY ’ S B OSS AND O THER D EMONS

Any minute, somebody is going to fall into the pool. They’ll make it look like an accident, but it will totally be on purpose.

It’s a classic move, a staple of Hollywood movies because it happens so often in real life.

I sip a glass of champagne that costs more than a tank of gas as I stand on a terrace overlooking an impeccably manicured yard filled with Hollywood glitterati. Everywhere you turn is someone you’ve seen on a big screen, small screen, award show, or interview.

Clear plastic balloons twinkle with lights as they bob at the base of a waterfall. A band plays on a stage across the lawn. It’s a perfect California night, the subject of movies and songs. We’re on the cusp of summer, the air warm and breezy, with the ocean only a whiff away.

But I wish I were anywhere else.

I’m hoping to hide up here until an acceptable hour to leave. The tension below is thick, evident in the uptight body language, false laughter, and wild gesticulations.

Everybody’s working angles, trying to seem more important than they are to secure a nebulous advantage. It’s so fake. So stressful. It takes incredible mental energy to make it through every interaction.

But right now, I have a moment of peace. Nobody’s trying to put their arm around me, or tell me what they can do for me in the business, or worst of all, walking away when they realize I’m only a lowly casting assistant.

A grating voice makes me jump. “Kelsey? What the hell are you doing up here?”

Dang it. I’ve been spotted. It’s Desdemona Lovechild, the hottest casting director in Hollywood, if she may say so herself. And she does, regularly, followed by a hollow laugh that makes you wonder if she’s kidding or being self-deprecating.

But no, she means it.

She’s also my boss.

I drain my glass before she can take it away. She’s dressed dramatically in a silver lamé shirt with wide sleeves that flap like bird wings when she waves her arms. The color matches her hair.

“Hello, Desdemona.”

“Call me Ms. Lovechild here, you know the rules.” She says this while faking a brilliant smile as people glance our way, then adds a tinkling laugh as if I’ve said something funny.

This is the worst. I’d rather be home watching movies in my Care Bear pajamas, but Desdemona insisted I come to do her bidding.

Nobody says no to Desdemona.

Her minions, me included, secretly call her the Demon. It’s right there in her name.

She flutters her fingers as if she’s conducting a firefly opera, looking past me at anyone who might climb the stairs to approach her divine self. “I need you to go talk to that hot young thing by the champagne fountain.”

I turn to look. “The one in the eight-hundred-dollar T-shirt?”

Her voice is laced with irritation. “Oh, you and your silly hobby. But yes, him.”

I ignore her dig. Adding up the cost of an outfit is one of my favorite pastimes. I’m quite good at it.

Mr. Pricy Shirt has $400 Diesel jeans and, oddly, $60 Converse. Grand total: $1,260. This is good information. He’s a working actor if he can afford those clothes. He’s not running to auditions between shifts at In-N-Out.

Not that it’s bad to be in that place. Everyone starts somewhere. But it helps to know how to approach him.

Desdemona can’t take her eyes off him, which would be creepy, given she’s sixty-three and he’s barely twenty, but I get it. She’s picturing him on-screen.

“Get his name. His agent. His credentials. I want him on my roster by Monday morning. Go!” Her flapping arm flutters her silver sleeve. “Get him before anyone else fills his head with other plans.”

I set my empty glass on a tray and hurry away. I hate when she does this at parties. She doesn’t see how awkward it is for me to walk up to young, successful actors in a casual setting.

Desdemona insists I try to fit in. I work hard to ensure my thrifted $40 red sheath and vintage $35 silver stilettos look $1,500. But because of my blond hair, the dress, and the shoes, my approach to this actor will seem like a come-on. Hollywood party hookups are legendary.

Desdemona, on the other hand, is a cross between Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada and Cruella de Vil. She’s not in it for the rug burns.

But as I slowly navigate my way around the pool toward Desdemona’s new mark, I get it. If she talks to him, and the next role he accepts comes from Arista or Jenny Wolfgang or any of the other casting directors that Desdemona considers her rivals, she looks like a chump.

If I fail, well, blame the lousy assistant for botching the deal.

I know the drill.

Before I can wade through the crowd surrounding the booze, someone bumps my arm. I turn to see Zachery, who also works for Desdemona, holding two fresh glasses of champagne.

My heart leaps a smidge, even though it shouldn’t.

“You look like you need this,” he says, passing me a plastic flute.

I clutch it like a dog with a favorite toy. “You are a lifesaver.”

He smiles with the single dimple that got him decent parts before his career dried up. He could have taken it hard a decade ago, washed up at twenty-six, and disappeared from the industry. But instead, he invested his money wisely and nurtured his network.

Now, like me, he gathers actors for Desdemona.

And at this moment, he’s exactly what I need.

I lean in close to him. “The Demon wants me to nab that guy in the Diesel jeans.”

“What project?”

I shrug. “She didn’t say. She might just be collecting.”

Zachery’s wearing a simple white button-down (Burberry, $800) and navy pants (Santorelli, $250), and he smells so good. He can layer colognes like a chemist. Sometimes I sit next to him at auditions to get a good sniff. If somebody bottled Zach No. 5, I’d sell my car to buy some.

But work proximity is as far as it goes between us. He’ll never be mine. He’s your classic Hollywood playboy, and his ability to charm up-and-coming leading ladies into attending premieres is legendary.

And undoubtedly the source of his usefulness to Desdemona.

“You want a wingman?” Zachery asks.

“Totally. We can’t have a repeat of Plumeria Drive.”

Zachery frowns. “My knuckles have never recovered.”

I lift his hand to kiss them. He punched a guy who tried to get up my skirt at a premiere party earlier this year. “My hero.”

Too bad he’s not “my” anything. But we’re like this all the time. Jester, our casting associate who schedules auditions, has dubbed us “the old married couple.”

And we are. There would be no way to survive Desdemona without each other.

We both love Jester. Zachery and I sometimes fantasize about hanging our own casting shingle, dumping the Demon, and hiring Jester right out from under her.

But this business is built on threats and promises, and Desdemona is one of the hubs. I sometimes regret the day I applied to be her assistant. I should have gone with someone more easygoing. Most casting directors are.

But here I am. Zachery and I often realize we’re stuck in this web, right up close to the spider in the center of it all.

Speaking of which, Desdemona has moved into our sight line, frantically pointing at our mark. He’s already speaking to Glen Jacobs, who everyone knows has been tapped to cast a new superhero series. If Jacobs pegs our guy for something, he might get too busy for us.

And Desdemona will be pissed.

I glance at Zachery. “I’ll take the mark. You take Jacobs.”

“Got it.”

I down my tank of gas for courage, and we move in for the kill.