Today's Reading

I'm just opening my mouth to thrust forward some such reply—because fine, the whole point of my being at this party is to win over potential employers—when he adds the fateful words, "The only thing that could possibly top what you've all done would be if Lavender Rhodes was your leading lady."

My body tenses as if he just casually pulled a grenade from his pocket.

"Can you just imagine?" he says wistfully, casting a hopeful glance around at the mob of guests around us.

"I'd rather not."

My response is immediate. My tone flat.

He pulls back for a startled moment. Then abruptly he laughs, accompanied by a shake of my shoulder. "You Brits. Such dry humor."

As I'm being shaken like a ragdoll, I cast a sidelong glance at Paula, who has been following the conversation from across the room. She gives two thumbs up in a sort of Power on! You are doing great!

I bet this is the sort of look nurses give women in labor when they're on hour nineteen and the nurses secretly know they've got at least another ten hours to go.

I take a breath.

There are thirty-four couches in this house hosting this charity event.

Thirty-four couches among the sixteen rooms of this seventy-million-dollar estate, which looks and feels more like an airport with an open bar crawling with Hollywood elites than the kind of place you'd call home.

And around these thirty-four, there must be someone of influence who doesn't have a sausage-eating problem and an obsession with Lavender Rhodes.

"It's called networking, Finn," Paula had said when she pushed the ticket into my hand two days ago. "If you really want to move out and up, this is the place they bring the ladders. And if you really want to get on one of those ladders, you're going to have to schmooze your pants off'"

I brace myself and refocus on him as he continues his lecture. To me. About the art of writing for the telly.

"Remember, half the guests at this party would gladly murder you behind the bushes and take your place if they could get away with it. Remember, Mr. Henry has more money and fresh interest in the affairs of Hollywood than he knows what to do with, thanks to a robust life in business and a recent marriage."

I spot a long white carpet fiber on the sausage on his plate. Watch his eyes gloss over it with disinterest before he plucks it off and bites the sausage in two.

"Did you know, Masters," he says around a mouthful, as his eyes take on a special gleam, "I'm a writer myself?"

I throw an exasperated gaze at Paula.

No.

I survived mention of Lavender Rhodes.

I will not survive the I'm-also-a-writer conversation too.

But Paula throws me a you-stay-right-there-young-man stare. I grit my teeth but stay.

She's a convincing one, that Paula.

Ten years my senior. Mum of four, three of whom are state championship wrestling boys, all of whom could pummel me within an inch of my life—including the seven-year-old. She carries a bit of post-baby weight around the middle, which she spent a couple years declaring she was working off but now just refers to fondly during those late-night writing sessions (usually with taquito in hand) as Fred.

She's been a story editor since I began in the lowly ranks of writing assistant. Saw my potential when I was bringing the room caffeine during 2:00 a.m. shifts and frantically taking notes. She takes the credit for pulling me up to staff writer. She befriended me. Mentored me. And also, in her motherly way, terrifies me. The squint in her eyes is a direct line: Be pleasant. Remember why you are here.

I clench my jaw. Pleasant.
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