Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

The second assistant is cute and fresh-scrubbed Midwestern, not all plastic, like every other woman I’ve seen out here. I think she’s sporting her real hair color, and the only makeup she wears comes in the form of the tube of cherry ChapStick on her desk. She’s speaking into her headset while I approach, which gives me a couple of seconds to determine what I want to say.

And that’s when I see it — my lifeline, my ticket in, my sign .

When she disconnects, I point to her desk and say,“You’re reading my book.”

Instead of getting the typical blasé oh-yeah-well-Brad-Pitt-and-I-share-a-pool-boy response, the girl actually squeals and leaps out of her seat. “Oh, my God, are you Mia MacNamara? I love you! My little sister turned me on to your books and I can’t stop reading them! I’m so excited to meet you! Hello! I’m Jasmine!”

“Hold on,” I say.“You’re excited to meet me ? Don’t you get, like, A-list movie stars in here every five minutes?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says. “You just missed Will Smith. Although he’s actually really cool, because he acknowledges us out here. But most of them are just empty suits. Actors, they just say the lines. I’m more impressed with people who write the stuff that makes them sound good. That might seem weird, but I just graduated from USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, and I did a ton of writing, so that’s what I’m into. Trust me, I’m an anomaly around here. Everyone else is a total star fucker.” Jasmine claps her hand over her mouth. “Didn’t mean to swear. Sorry! Terrible habit. So, anyway, did you have an appointment? I don’t remember seeing you on the schedule. I’d have noticed.”

I give Jasmine the condensed version of my situation, and I tell her that if there’s any way I could get five minutes of a twin’s time without getting her fired, that she could potentially save my film from, if not obscurity, then at least a solid panning on Pajiba.com.

“They cast Vienna Hyatt? As Miriam? Is that a fucking joke?” She slaps her hand over her mouth again. “Shit, I’ve got to stop swearing at work. Goddamn it, I did it again!” She pulls up the twins’ schedules and tells me, “I can get you ten minutes with Phil in about an hour.”

“And that won’t get you in trouble?” I already love this kid, and I don’t want to jeopardize her job.

“Oh, please.” She waves me off. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll blame it on Brittany, the first assistant. She’s a Bernstein niece, and she’s a total space cadet. She screws stuff up every day and everyone lets her coast. She just scheduled Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie in back-to-back meetings with the twins. I mean, are you kidding me? Who does that? But she’s Teflon and everything slides off her. She’ll probably run this place someday. Trust me, Mia, I’m all over this.”

Jasmine puts me in the schedule and directs me to the waiting room down the hall after setting me up with a latte and a stack of magazines.

An hour later, she comes to get me, and just as I get ready to walk into Phil Bernstein’s office, she whispers to me, “Do it for Miriam.”

And then I prepare myself for the fight of my — no, our — lives.

I don’t want to say I went Swayze all over the Bernstein brother.

But I went Swayze all over the Bernstein brother.

In my ten minutes, I managed to not only convince him to dump Vienna, but also to assign a totally new producer and start the whole casting process from scratch. He even promised to call in a favor from Kevin Spacey to do a cameo as Amos’s father.

I’d like to say my powers of persuasion were top-notch and that I unleashed a little bit of my inner Ann Marie. 173

But the truth is, Mr. Bernstein’s daughters are huge fans, and they stopped talking to their dad the minute they found out Vienna had been cast.

You know what? A victory’s a victory, even if it comes from a forfeit.

The best part is, I get to do my own rewrites, and I don’t have to be on-site for the whole process. Mr. Bernstein is pulling a couple of producers who worked on the Harry Potter and Twilight films to head up Buggies , and I’m confident they’ll make it great.

Did I mention I got Vienna fired?

Yeah, that’s worth noting twice.

I finally feel like my baby’s in good hands. And now I can go home to begin the rest of my life.

Mac and I are picking up the last of the garbage from our housewarming party. Tonight was even more fun than our wedding reception, and that went on all night and well into brunch the next day.

Everyone was here — all of our friends, my whole family, and even Ann Marie was able to make it out, although she’s presently passed out in my writing room. We offered her a regular guest room, but she said she wanted to sleep on the couch in “Jake Ryan’s bedroom.” I’m telling you, even though he was fictional, and despite the movie having come out twenty-seven years ago, you can’t negate the influence his character had on an entire generation of ladies.

At one point in the night, we all went outside and poured out a little bit of our drinks in John Hughes’s honor, and then we came in to dance to the Pretty in Pink sound track. I could not imagine having a better time. Lulu — no, Amanda even stopped by, and she and Ann Marie became instant besties.

I fear what this depraved pairing might bring forth.

I’m just locking the front door when I see an odd flash of light outside. “Mac?” I call. “Come check this out.”

Mac flips off the porch light and we both peer into the darkness. In the distance we see a car idling at the end of our driveway.

“Mac, is that a. . Bentley?”

Mac cranes his neck to get a better view. “How about that? It is. Did you invite any latecomers who drive a Bentley?”

I wave him off.“Pfft, I don’t know anyone who drives a Bentley. What, is Puffy going to show up at our housewarming? Kanye? A Kardashian? Be real. The only time I’ve ever even seen a Bentley is when Vienna used to—”

“Speak of the devil.” Mac and I have been heading quietly down the driveway in the shadows and now have a much better vantage point of what’s happening at the end of our drive.

“Is that her?”

“You don’t recognize the hair extensions?”

I’m not entirely surprised that Vienna’s showed up here. To say she was pissed about getting fired would be an understatement. Apparently she’d already gotten “Miriam” tattooed across the small of her back when she got the news. We’ve been expecting some kind of revenge but weren’t sure of the form it would take until now.

Vienna’s standing outside of her car with a Dom Pérignon bottle, and it would appear that she’s created a Molotov cocktail of her own. We quietly observe her sticking a strip of cloth in the bottle, and we step back into the brush line while she lights it. Then, with all her might, she hurls it in the direction of our house.

The problem is, we’ve got this big old black mailbox at the end of our driveway. Remember how our mailbox caused so much consternation in the neighborhood when we put up the beautiful red iron one? After we’d installed it, we shone an uplight on it so people could see it in the dark and they wouldn’t accidentally hit it with their cars on our winding street.

But everyone threw such a fit over our tacky 174mailbox that in a fit of goodwill, we took it down and replaced it with the old, boring, big black box. Then we unplugged the light because it was causing everyone so much aesthetic distress.

Vienna’s standing ten feet away from the mailbox, but because of its color and the late hour, it’s practically invisible. When she tosses her Molotov cocktail, she’s not, in fact, throwing it into all the dry brush surrounding the front of our house. Instead, what happens is that the bottle shatters when it hits the mailbox, and because she’s standing so close to it, she becomes covered in its flammable contents, which ignite when her lit cigarette falls out of her agape mouth.