Chapter 1
It’s impossible to mistake the bark of new CEO Hank Johnson of Hollywood Films. He doesn’t so much talk as snarl, or (if you’re particularly unlucky) snaps and spits like he’s some kind of military man ordering his lackadaisical troops about.
My cubicle is on the other side of the foyer to his office, and I swear the floor vibrates in time with the less than politically correct recriminations he’s been bellowing at staff since his arrival yesterday.
I’m not going to lie, I’m quaking in my boots. Confrontation is not my thing, especially when I’m facing a six-foot, bald-headed sweary pants who doesn’t seem to care that this sort of behaviour went out in the Noughties.
We have rights, dammit. But I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
This is Hollywood. AKA Hollyweird. A universe unto itself.
A year ago, I landed the perfect job as a book scout; a feat really that I – quiet achiever – managed to get myself hired in Tinseltown after a decade in various publishing houses back in NYC.
Here, I spend most days reading manuscripts in the hopes I’ll find the perfect romantic comedy to adapt into film. It’s a bibliophile’s dream but, as always, it’s the people peopling around me that take the shine off.
There are so many big personalities in showbiz; it’s intense for someone who prefers the comfort of the written word to, say, actual conversations with living, breathing humans.
But I am passionate about finding those hidden gems: the books that don’t shout the loudest, yet have the most beautiful message and a story worth sharing, so I persist.
Work was going swimmingly until my fabulously old-school Hollywood boss Gene announced he’d up and sold the business.
Enter stage left: Hank.
A potty-mouthed pedant who spent his first day telling us all how useless we are and that big, devastating changes are coming our way.
Yikes. For someone who suffers with anxiety and is socially awkward at the best of times, this kind of remonstrating has been enough to send me into a tailspin.
My inner critic is already quite proficient at negative self-talk, so he really doesn’t need to admonish me further.
Are we useless though? Am I useless? This has been running in a loop in my mind since yesterday.
It doesn’t take much for me to sink into this kind of self-doubt and get stuck there.
The only thing that pulls me out of such funks is reading.
Nose in a book, the real world slips away and, best of all, I get to call it work.
‘EVA!’
The internal walls shake at the same rate my hands do. Penelope, one of his personal assistants pokes her head in my door, her expression fraught. ‘That’s you, Evie. He’s calling you.’
‘Right.’ Of course, I knew it was me, but at times of high stress, I shut off and pretend to be invisible. I’m guessing this coping mechanism won’t work with Hank Johnson.
Penelope darts a worried glance over her shoulder as if Hank might pop up behind her. ‘He wants to see you in his office, like five minutes ago.’
‘Coming, coming.’ I shuffle my proposals together, not quite sure what to have at hand.
‘Don’t worry about all that. Just hurry!’ Penelope says.
I shuffle, half-run and try not to let fear show on my face. It doesn’t help when everyone shoots me looks of abject pity. Do they know something I don’t? I feel an overwhelming sense of impending doom, which might be my anxiety or a premonition of what’s to come. Hard to tell.
At the shiny double doors, I take a moment to compose myself. Tuck an always stray hair behind my ear and—
‘Where the hell is she?’
Heart galloping, I knock. ‘Sir, Mr Johnson, it’s me, Evie. Hi!’ Tentatively, I peek around the door.
‘I don’t have all day, Eva! Get in here and shut the door!’
A headache looms from all his thundering but I duly enter and sit in the chair in front of his vast desk, clasping my shaky hands together so he doesn’t clock my nervousness.
‘Right so, let me see here.’ He dons specs as he reads a sheet of paper. ‘Book scout, eh? One of three hired by Hollywood Films.’
‘Yes, sir, I—’
Hank holds a meaty palm in the air that implies I should stop talking. That’s fine by me.
‘OK, so you’ve been here a year. Relocated from New York. Already have two films in development. Romantic comedies.’ And with that he drops the piece of paper as if it’s downright offended him. ‘Well, as you can imagine, Eva . . .’
‘It’s Evie.’
‘Don’t interrupt.’
What century have I astro-travelled to?
He leans back on his chair with a creak and places his hands across the wide expanse of his generous belly.
‘We’re taking a more streamlined approach now that I’m at the helm.
Romantic comedies, yeah they’ve had their time, but that time has been and gone.
We’re going to focus on superhero films – that’s where the money is.
As of now, your position is redundant, Eva. ’
My mouth falls open. This can’t be happening! ‘Redundant? Sir, it’s just that we’ve seen the profitability of romantic comedies and bringing those . . .’
‘This isn’t up for debate.’
I float inside myself wondering how I can convince him that I love this job, and I work hard at it.
I muster all my courage to fight for those stories that I believe in.
‘Mr Johnson, I understand that you’re making this decision based on numbers alone, but if you’ll allow me to present you a proposal I’ve been . . .’
‘No need. It’s been decided.’
I eye the stapler on his desk and have a brief fantasy about fastening his lips together so I can finish at least one bloody sentence, but common sense prevails.
‘These stories matter! Sure, superhero films will be blockbusters at the box office, but romance isn’t dead, sir.
Far from it! Every single romcom Hollywood Films has developed has been profitable. ’
‘Clear your desk and leave your security pass.’ Spittle flies from his mouth.
Just like that? ‘Ah, before I go . . . the redundancy, does it come with some kind of fiscal remuneration?’ At least that might keep the wolf from the door for a bit while I internally combust over the loss of my dream job.
‘You’re redundant. It’s not a redundancy. Words matter. You of all people should know that.’
‘But that’s not—’
With that, Penelope reappears, face pinched. ‘It’s OK,’ she whispers as she pulls me, in my now semi-catatonic state, out of the office and deposits me back in my teeny cubicle.
Eyes glazed I say, ‘I’m fired?’
‘Redundant.’
That bloody word! It’s so hurtful, as if my skills are so basic that my job just went ahead and dried itself up, poof, gone!
‘Is he firing everyone?’
With a slight shake of the head, she says, ‘So far just you.’
‘Right.’
‘But it’s only mid-morning. I’m sure lots of us will be sent packing soon enough.’
‘It’s a small comfort, Pen.’ I will myself to think. Is there any way I can salvage this job, even if horrible Hank is running the place? I feel protective towards the manuscripts that sit patiently on my desk and in my inbox. I’m their voice. What happens to them now?
Penelope gives me a hopeful smile. ‘You’re better off, seriously. Can you imagine working for this brute? There’s not enough cabernet sauvignon in all of Napa to handle this kind of stress.’ The industry, as it’s known, really is not for the faint of heart.
I expel a breath. ‘This was going to be the making of me. Gene said so! He promised me that if I picked up and moved from my safe little literary bubble in New York to the bright lights of Hollywood, my career would grow exponentially.’ Gene and I met when I edited his memoir.
It went on to be a worldwide bestseller with readers who were keen to peek behind the curtain of Hollywood.
He claimed I had an eye for a compelling tale and soon after offered me the book scout position.
‘Gene sold the place, Evie. We can’t sit here lamenting his choice.’
‘Can’t we?’ I’m very good at lamenting. In fact, I can sit on this for days, weeks and not get over it. I can obsess over it until it steals into my dreams, wondering where it all went so wrong.
Penelope gives me a maternal smile. ‘I’ll be sad to see you go, Evie.
You’re the best book scout we’ve ever had.
Two films are already in development because of you!
’ She gives me an encouraging smile. ‘You’ll find a better job than this!
You just need to get out there and network a bit.
’ Networking, such a buzz word in this biz.
‘Flash that dazzling smile of yours. Light up a room.’
I can’t quite imagine myself lighting up a room, I’m a lot more low-wattage than that.
In fact, at work functions I field requests for drinks as if they assume I’m the waitstaff.
Penelope says it’s because I slink rather than saunter.
I hover awkwardly whereas my colleagues make entrances worthy of the red carpet.
Is this why I’m the scapegoat today? They have to cut expenditure, so they’re clearing the decks with the quiet ones they assume won’t make a fuss?
‘I’ll stick with fictional people thanks. Isn’t my job about finding books to develop into film? Why do “people” have to come into the equation at all?’ Therein lies the root of all my problems. Peopling.
She sighs and pats my shoulder. ‘It’s the way of the world, dear. What will you do now?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question.’ Penelope gives me a warm hug, which I allow since I’m now redundant and at an all-time low.
After I pack my belongings, I consider how to frame this in a text to my mom.
My all-star sister never finds herself entrenched in disasters like this.
Posy is an ambitious singer/actress and well-known Broadway celeb.
Will Mom secretly compare me to her and find me lacking?
Gah. I can’t catch a break no matter what I do.
In the end I go for a succinct message because crying at work would catch attention I’d rather not have.
Hey, Mom. I’m no longer a romance book scout at Hollywood Films. E xoxo
As I’m carting my lucky bamboo (perhaps I didn’t talk to it enough?) from the building my phone pings.
Darling, sorry to hear this! I’m working away on a case but I’ll be home tomorrow. We can video-chat then. Chin up. Love Mom xoxo
I’ll drown my sorrows with an espresso Frappuccino that will keep me awake all night so I can count the ways I’ve failed.
And when Mom’s home tomorrow I’ll video-call my support team; that’s what I’ll do.
Mom’ll smother me in love and sympathy knowing this is just a blip .
. . and Posy will highlight my flaws and tell me just where I went wrong.