Randy Jeanne. . . Romance With Attitude
LIGHTS! CAMERAS! LOVE!
Chapter One
January 28
Comments:
“Ohmigod, Sascha. You really know how to turn up the heat. When are you going to seal the deal?”
singlgal
“Whew! Hot, hot, hot. Sure you don’t have a sister for a guy in Tennessee?”
-markinmemphis
“This is better than all my soaps rolled into one. Can’t wait for the next post! Damien is crazy if he doesn’t go for you!”
-momwith2manykids
I smiled, sipped on a juice glass filled to the rim with Two-Buck Chuck Chardonnay, then put the glass aside and placed my fingers
on the keyboard.
So the meeting ends and all the gasbags—I mean Hollywood suits—waddle out, and I find myself alone with Damien. Alone! I
mean, it’s been weeks, hasn’t it? Two friggin weeks since we literally bumped into each other in the copy room, and I could have
sworn he…well, anyway. We’re alone and I’m clearing away wineglasses, only—get this—he stops me. “Pour me one more,” he
says. “And one for yourself, if you like.”
If I like? Is he kidding? “But I’m working,” I protest, hoping (knowing!) he’ll insist.
“You were supposed to be off hours ago. Go ahead.”
I feel him watching every move from beneath those heavy lids, and I’m aware he’s torn between desire and wariness since he’s my
boss. I refill his glass but instead of setting it on the desk, I hold it out so that he has to take it from me. When he does, his fingers
brush mine and a jolt of--
“Daphne, are you going to answer that call, or not?”
I jumped and picked up the phone, nearly knocking over the glass, which in fact contained diet Coke, not wine. “JRT Studios, Josh
Swenson’s office. How may I help you?”
“Nick Darling for Josh.”
Blood roared in my ears. The Nick Darling. The actor currently on the cover of a dozen magazines. (Okay, so the rumors are true−the
guy’s a certifiable douche bag−but he’s also the star of Josh’s new show, making him a VIDB−very important douche bag and
worthy of my careful attention.) “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Darling. Mr. Swenson isn’t in right now; may I take a message?”
“Have him call me.”
Click. No phone number. No have a nice day. Just click. As if I merited nothing more.
The thought depressed me.
“Who was it?” Ada called from her office.
“Nick Darling.”
“Dammit. We needed to talk to him.”
Ada always speaks of Josh in terms of the royal ‘we.’ At first I found it pretentious; then I learned that secretaries−excuse me,
assistants−in this business are like queen bees, so I understood.
“Was Nick calling from the office?”
“Um, I don’t know. He hung up before I could ask.”
That faux pas apparently rated a personal appearance at my door. Ada stood there, hands on hips, a frown drawing together
penciled brows that no longer contained hair. Josh had inherited her from the firm’s senior partner, for whom I gather she’d worked
her entire life. I hadn’t figured out yet whether she was gay or merely married to her career.
“Did you tell him Josh will be back at four?”
I would have if the queen bee ever kept the drone informed. “Sorry.” I checked my wristwatch. “Aren’t you going to be late for your
lunch appointment?”
“Oh, heavens.” She disappeared from view again, and I heard a couple drawer slams plus a terse see you around three before
blessed silence descended.
The phone rang and I picked it up, rattling off the standard greeting again.
“Hey, sweetheart, it’s Mom.”
In my haste to sit up straighter, I nearly knocked the chair over. Silly. Like she could see me from Minnesota. “What’s wrong?” She
never called me at work.
“I couldn’t wait to give you the good news. I may be coming for a visit!”
I blinked a couple times in rapid succession, just to make sure this wasn’t a nightmare. “Goody,” I finally eked out.
“Now it’s not for certain yet, but my old friend Roberta−you remember Roberta−she’s scheduled to sit on a panel at UCLA, only her
daughter’s very pregnant, so in case the baby comes early, I’m on stand-by.” She paused, probably contemplating my failure to
make her a grandmother, then went on. “I thought I’d stay with you, rather than the hotel. That’s all right, isn’t it? Honey, I can’t wait to
hear more about your new corporate position at the studio!”
Mentally wincing, I thought about the hours spent toiling at the copier...the endless trips to the coffee dispenser...the ridiculously low
paycheck. It’s not that I’d meant to mislead my parents when I announced my new job in corporate−they just hadn’t asked for details.
So what if my small deception also happened to distract them from their favorite topic−namely, the folly of my seeking a writing
career in Hollywood? A small price to pay. “Sure, Mom. Of course, I’d love to have you.”
“Perfect. Well, I have a class to get to, but I’ll keep you posted. Cross your fingers!”
I slowly set the receiver back in its cradle, wondering how I’d get out of explaining the truth of my pathetic employment. Then, I
relaxed. Keep her away from my office, that’s how.
Relieved, I went back to doing the only thing that keeps me from dying of boredom.
Blogging as my alter ego, Sexy Sascha.
* * *
Around four, I heard Josh breeze in. I say hear because I rarely see the guy since my office is a little cubbyhole behind Ada’s. Last
year, JRT Studios decided to reward their executive secretaries with minions of their own. Hence my job. And its suck-fest status.
Ah, but I have plans, you see. Yes, indeed.
If I play my cards right−and I plan to−this crappy job is merely the gateway to other, more substantial, opportunities. And let me tell
you, on the JRT lot, opportunities abound because most of the real estate is rented out to production companies making sitcoms.
Which is what I’m dying to do, by the way. Not make them; write them.
Meanwhile, I play Ada’s game−pretending to emulate her example of the proper career path when in fact I’d slit my wrists before
succumbing to the dreaded office trap.
The intercom button on my phone buzzed and I looked at it, confused. Ada had only to lean back in her chair and toss a word over
her shoulder, so...ohmigod, it must be Josh. Tentatively, I picked up the receiver. “Daphne Smith.”
“Could I see you for a moment, Daphne?”
My throat squeezed shut. Josh had never had any reason to request my presence in his office. What could it mean? “Sure,” I
mumbled. “Be right there.”
As I passed Ada’s open-mouthed stare, I tried to fluff my hair with one hand and smooth my skirt with the other. Not that it mattered
much. I’m the kind of girl men see as nonentities, you know? Not pretty, not ugly, just not really there.
Josh glanced up from his computer screen with the hint of a smile, then turned his attention back to the monitor. “Just one sec.”
No problem. Whatever was keeping him riveted gave me the unfettered opportunity to study the object of my affection. Correction.
Sacha’s affection. Well, let’s be honest. Obsession. Oh, I’d changed the name of course. But in every other facet—from the boyish
grin to the wings of chestnut hair spilling over his temples--Damien was really Josh Swenson in the flesh.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, he gestured to a fawn-colored leather couch. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Oh, God. As if. As if I could relax in this man’s presence. I sat with folded hands trembling in my lap.
The intercom buzzed and annoyance flickered across Josh’s face. “Who is it, Ada?”
“Nick Darling,” came the disembodied voice.
Josh punched a button. “Hey, Nick. How’s it going? I was just reading that blog you told me about. So, who do you suppose it is? I’ll
bet a hundred dollars on Jack Saperstein. He has that hot secretary, you know. What’s her name? Monica?”
He hadn’t put Nick on speakerphone so I couldn’t hear the response but a sudden wave of nausea engulfed me. They couldn’t be
discussing...no, what were the odds? I went back to concentrating on my breathing in an effort to calm my nerves.
“Okay, I’ll see ya tomorrow night then,” Josh was confirming. “Right. Seven o’clock. And, remember. Mark my words. Saperstein’s
getting it on with his secretary. She must be this Sascha person Hollywood’s talking about.”
McBreakfast threatened to reverse course in my digestive system. Creating an anonymous blog had seemed like a harmless way to
exercise writing muscles, not to mention libidinous ones. The thought of anyone actually reading the damn thing. . .and putting two
and two together. . .
Stars shot in front of my eyes and I had to rub at the sudden ache at my temples.
“So who do you think it is, Daphne?”
“Me?” My voice came out sounding muppet-like.
Josh skirted the desk and perched on the corner, dangling one knee over the other. The wicked grin on his face would have been
certifiably adorable if not for the source of its amusement. Namely me, although he didn’t know it. “You haven’t heard about Sexy
Sascha? My God, her blog’s the talk of Hollywood. I pity this poor sap, Damien. He’s obviously met his match.”
I brightened at this, forgetting for a moment I wasn’t anything like Sascha. “Um, I’ll have to check into it.”
He chuckled and picked up a remote control. “You’re about, what...twenty-four?”
“Er, eight,” I mumbled. Okay, so I look a lot younger than I am. That’ll be a good thing later on in life, right? So what if thirty-seven-year
old Josh Swenson (I checked his personnel file) sees me as an infant? At least he’s given a moment’s thought to my age.
“Perfect.”
Perfect for what? An affair? A tryst? I swallowed hard as I pictured myself being swept into his arms...no wait...I was already seated,
that couldn’t work...I switched it to—
“Perfect demographic for Nick’s show.”
Ouch.
He pressed a button on the remote and a plasma screen sprang to life with color bars and running time code. “I want your opinion
on this.”
My heart fluttered, and I had to surreptitiously fan away the sudden flush pride sent flooding to my cheeks. Imagine! Josh Swenson
not only knew I existed and had mentally calculated my age−now he valued my opinion on his new project. I could’ve fainted dead
away, Instead I sat up straighter and focused on the image of Nick Darling.
The show was a sitcom and in my humble opinion, a lame one. I tried to concentrate on the mundane set-up and the gratuitous sex
jokes, filing away notes of intelligent things to say, but the most significant conclusion I came to was Josh favors a minty aftershave.
Big help.
When the last notes of the theme song died down, he rose from the desk and strode around to face me. “How about it? Something
you’d watch?”
Talk about a nightmare. My thoughts jumbled up in a tangle of impressions, refusing to assemble into anything close to coherency.
“Uh, sure.”
He blinked. “That’s it?”
In my mind, the words formed like this: the show is sophomoric and mindless, Nick Darling is a perv, and the guest star should go
back to rehab. What came out was this: “Um, it’s different.”
“Different how?”
Shit. “Well...I like the way Nick and his co-star don’t bicker for the entire show.” No, only three-quarters.
Josh’s eyes lit up. “Go on.”
How could I break the news? The man would hate me. Suddenly, I had an idea. “If you want, I’ll write up my thoughts and type them
out. You know, like do a Siskel and Roper on it.”
“Great.”
I exhaled in relief and prepared to escape, eager and reluctant at the same time. “If that’s all then...”
His attention had already switched to a file on his desk. Absentmindedly, he glanced up. “Right. I’ll expect that report in the morning.
Oh, and Daphne?”
I braced myself against the door behind me. What now?
“Get on the Internet and check out Sexy Sascha. Let me know if she rings any bells with you.”
Crap.
Chapter One
January 28
Comments:
“Ohmigod, Sascha. You really know how to turn up the heat. When are you going to seal the deal?”
singlgal
“Whew! Hot, hot, hot. Sure you don’t have a sister for a guy in Tennessee?”
-markinmemphis
“This is better than all my soaps rolled into one. Can’t wait for the next post! Damien is crazy if he doesn’t go for you!”
-momwith2manykids
I smiled, sipped on a juice glass filled to the rim with Two-Buck Chuck Chardonnay, then put the glass aside and placed my fingers
on the keyboard.
So the meeting ends and all the gasbags—I mean Hollywood suits—waddle out, and I find myself alone with Damien. Alone! I
mean, it’s been weeks, hasn’t it? Two friggin weeks since we literally bumped into each other in the copy room, and I could have
sworn he…well, anyway. We’re alone and I’m clearing away wineglasses, only—get this—he stops me. “Pour me one more,” he
says. “And one for yourself, if you like.”
If I like? Is he kidding? “But I’m working,” I protest, hoping (knowing!) he’ll insist.
“You were supposed to be off hours ago. Go ahead.”
I feel him watching every move from beneath those heavy lids, and I’m aware he’s torn between desire and wariness since he’s my
boss. I refill his glass but instead of setting it on the desk, I hold it out so that he has to take it from me. When he does, his fingers
brush mine and a jolt of--
“Daphne, are you going to answer that call, or not?”
I jumped and picked up the phone, nearly knocking over the glass, which in fact contained diet Coke, not wine. “JRT Studios, Josh
Swenson’s office. How may I help you?”
“Nick Darling for Josh.”
Blood roared in my ears. The Nick Darling. The actor currently on the cover of a dozen magazines. (Okay, so the rumors are true−the
guy’s a certifiable douche bag−but he’s also the star of Josh’s new show, making him a VIDB−very important douche bag and
worthy of my careful attention.) “I-I’m sorry, Mr. Darling. Mr. Swenson isn’t in right now; may I take a message?”
“Have him call me.”
Click. No phone number. No have a nice day. Just click. As if I merited nothing more.
The thought depressed me.
“Who was it?” Ada called from her office.
“Nick Darling.”
“Dammit. We needed to talk to him.”
Ada always speaks of Josh in terms of the royal ‘we.’ At first I found it pretentious; then I learned that secretaries−excuse me,
assistants−in this business are like queen bees, so I understood.
“Was Nick calling from the office?”
“Um, I don’t know. He hung up before I could ask.”
That faux pas apparently rated a personal appearance at my door. Ada stood there, hands on hips, a frown drawing together
penciled brows that no longer contained hair. Josh had inherited her from the firm’s senior partner, for whom I gather she’d worked
her entire life. I hadn’t figured out yet whether she was gay or merely married to her career.
“Did you tell him Josh will be back at four?”
I would have if the queen bee ever kept the drone informed. “Sorry.” I checked my wristwatch. “Aren’t you going to be late for your
lunch appointment?”
“Oh, heavens.” She disappeared from view again, and I heard a couple drawer slams plus a terse see you around three before
blessed silence descended.
The phone rang and I picked it up, rattling off the standard greeting again.
“Hey, sweetheart, it’s Mom.”
In my haste to sit up straighter, I nearly knocked the chair over. Silly. Like she could see me from Minnesota. “What’s wrong?” She
never called me at work.
“I couldn’t wait to give you the good news. I may be coming for a visit!”
I blinked a couple times in rapid succession, just to make sure this wasn’t a nightmare. “Goody,” I finally eked out.
“Now it’s not for certain yet, but my old friend Roberta−you remember Roberta−she’s scheduled to sit on a panel at UCLA, only her
daughter’s very pregnant, so in case the baby comes early, I’m on stand-by.” She paused, probably contemplating my failure to
make her a grandmother, then went on. “I thought I’d stay with you, rather than the hotel. That’s all right, isn’t it? Honey, I can’t wait to
hear more about your new corporate position at the studio!”
Mentally wincing, I thought about the hours spent toiling at the copier...the endless trips to the coffee dispenser...the ridiculously low
paycheck. It’s not that I’d meant to mislead my parents when I announced my new job in corporate−they just hadn’t asked for details.
So what if my small deception also happened to distract them from their favorite topic−namely, the folly of my seeking a writing
career in Hollywood? A small price to pay. “Sure, Mom. Of course, I’d love to have you.”
“Perfect. Well, I have a class to get to, but I’ll keep you posted. Cross your fingers!”
I slowly set the receiver back in its cradle, wondering how I’d get out of explaining the truth of my pathetic employment. Then, I
relaxed. Keep her away from my office, that’s how.
Relieved, I went back to doing the only thing that keeps me from dying of boredom.
Blogging as my alter ego, Sexy Sascha.
* * *
Around four, I heard Josh breeze in. I say hear because I rarely see the guy since my office is a little cubbyhole behind Ada’s. Last
year, JRT Studios decided to reward their executive secretaries with minions of their own. Hence my job. And its suck-fest status.
Ah, but I have plans, you see. Yes, indeed.
If I play my cards right−and I plan to−this crappy job is merely the gateway to other, more substantial, opportunities. And let me tell
you, on the JRT lot, opportunities abound because most of the real estate is rented out to production companies making sitcoms.
Which is what I’m dying to do, by the way. Not make them; write them.
Meanwhile, I play Ada’s game−pretending to emulate her example of the proper career path when in fact I’d slit my wrists before
succumbing to the dreaded office trap.
The intercom button on my phone buzzed and I looked at it, confused. Ada had only to lean back in her chair and toss a word over
her shoulder, so...ohmigod, it must be Josh. Tentatively, I picked up the receiver. “Daphne Smith.”
“Could I see you for a moment, Daphne?”
My throat squeezed shut. Josh had never had any reason to request my presence in his office. What could it mean? “Sure,” I
mumbled. “Be right there.”
As I passed Ada’s open-mouthed stare, I tried to fluff my hair with one hand and smooth my skirt with the other. Not that it mattered
much. I’m the kind of girl men see as nonentities, you know? Not pretty, not ugly, just not really there.
Josh glanced up from his computer screen with the hint of a smile, then turned his attention back to the monitor. “Just one sec.”
No problem. Whatever was keeping him riveted gave me the unfettered opportunity to study the object of my affection. Correction.
Sacha’s affection. Well, let’s be honest. Obsession. Oh, I’d changed the name of course. But in every other facet—from the boyish
grin to the wings of chestnut hair spilling over his temples--Damien was really Josh Swenson in the flesh.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, he gestured to a fawn-colored leather couch. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Oh, God. As if. As if I could relax in this man’s presence. I sat with folded hands trembling in my lap.
The intercom buzzed and annoyance flickered across Josh’s face. “Who is it, Ada?”
“Nick Darling,” came the disembodied voice.
Josh punched a button. “Hey, Nick. How’s it going? I was just reading that blog you told me about. So, who do you suppose it is? I’ll
bet a hundred dollars on Jack Saperstein. He has that hot secretary, you know. What’s her name? Monica?”
He hadn’t put Nick on speakerphone so I couldn’t hear the response but a sudden wave of nausea engulfed me. They couldn’t be
discussing...no, what were the odds? I went back to concentrating on my breathing in an effort to calm my nerves.
“Okay, I’ll see ya tomorrow night then,” Josh was confirming. “Right. Seven o’clock. And, remember. Mark my words. Saperstein’s
getting it on with his secretary. She must be this Sascha person Hollywood’s talking about.”
McBreakfast threatened to reverse course in my digestive system. Creating an anonymous blog had seemed like a harmless way to
exercise writing muscles, not to mention libidinous ones. The thought of anyone actually reading the damn thing. . .and putting two
and two together. . .
Stars shot in front of my eyes and I had to rub at the sudden ache at my temples.
“So who do you think it is, Daphne?”
“Me?” My voice came out sounding muppet-like.
Josh skirted the desk and perched on the corner, dangling one knee over the other. The wicked grin on his face would have been
certifiably adorable if not for the source of its amusement. Namely me, although he didn’t know it. “You haven’t heard about Sexy
Sascha? My God, her blog’s the talk of Hollywood. I pity this poor sap, Damien. He’s obviously met his match.”
I brightened at this, forgetting for a moment I wasn’t anything like Sascha. “Um, I’ll have to check into it.”
He chuckled and picked up a remote control. “You’re about, what...twenty-four?”
“Er, eight,” I mumbled. Okay, so I look a lot younger than I am. That’ll be a good thing later on in life, right? So what if thirty-seven-year
old Josh Swenson (I checked his personnel file) sees me as an infant? At least he’s given a moment’s thought to my age.
“Perfect.”
Perfect for what? An affair? A tryst? I swallowed hard as I pictured myself being swept into his arms...no wait...I was already seated,
that couldn’t work...I switched it to—
“Perfect demographic for Nick’s show.”
Ouch.
He pressed a button on the remote and a plasma screen sprang to life with color bars and running time code. “I want your opinion
on this.”
My heart fluttered, and I had to surreptitiously fan away the sudden flush pride sent flooding to my cheeks. Imagine! Josh Swenson
not only knew I existed and had mentally calculated my age−now he valued my opinion on his new project. I could’ve fainted dead
away, Instead I sat up straighter and focused on the image of Nick Darling.
The show was a sitcom and in my humble opinion, a lame one. I tried to concentrate on the mundane set-up and the gratuitous sex
jokes, filing away notes of intelligent things to say, but the most significant conclusion I came to was Josh favors a minty aftershave.
Big help.
When the last notes of the theme song died down, he rose from the desk and strode around to face me. “How about it? Something
you’d watch?”
Talk about a nightmare. My thoughts jumbled up in a tangle of impressions, refusing to assemble into anything close to coherency.
“Uh, sure.”
He blinked. “That’s it?”
In my mind, the words formed like this: the show is sophomoric and mindless, Nick Darling is a perv, and the guest star should go
back to rehab. What came out was this: “Um, it’s different.”
“Different how?”
Shit. “Well...I like the way Nick and his co-star don’t bicker for the entire show.” No, only three-quarters.
Josh’s eyes lit up. “Go on.”
How could I break the news? The man would hate me. Suddenly, I had an idea. “If you want, I’ll write up my thoughts and type them
out. You know, like do a Siskel and Roper on it.”
“Great.”
I exhaled in relief and prepared to escape, eager and reluctant at the same time. “If that’s all then...”
His attention had already switched to a file on his desk. Absentmindedly, he glanced up. “Right. I’ll expect that report in the morning.
Oh, and Daphne?”
I braced myself against the door behind me. What now?
“Get on the Internet and check out Sexy Sascha. Let me know if she rings any bells with you.”
Crap.