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1
Ping!
My head pops up at the sound of the elevator. Like Pavlov's dog, I'm conditioned to snap to attention at the sound of a call, a text, even a microwave. It's an occupational hazard.
Some people call me "The Face" of Wide Angle Pictures, a specialty production company on the Galaxy Films back lot. Never mind the fact that those "people" are mostly Tommy-everybody's favorite mail courier whose daily greeting almost always borders on harassment.
On paper, I'm the receptionist. To the execs that call the shots, I'm "the front desk girl." And to the directors, writers, and producers who churn through each day to pitch ideas and hawk scripts-I'm a greeting committee of one. And it gets old.
What felt prestigious about this job to a once bright-eyed film school grad has slowly faded over the years. Yet here I sit with a forced smile on my face. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Soul empty.
The elevator deposits a clique of my colleagues onto the glistening marble floor of the reception area. Like gum, they always come in a pack. And because I'm of no use to them at the moment, they dodge me like a speed bump in an empty parking lot. Still, I manage to catch snippets of their conversation.
"You won't believe the clusterfuck I had to sort out last night with Allison and Keith's travel. Apparently booking flights in coach is always the wrong choice. Even when first and business class are full. Even when it's the last flight out of New York and their kid's spelling bee is the next day."
"Well, at least you didn't have to bail on a hot date after an SOS text from Louis. I had to pull out midthrust and drive the Outlaws digital print all the way to the Palisades for a last-minute request from the Bel Air Circuit."
Believe it or not, I envy them.
Their work/life balance might look like a lone panda on a seesaw but at least they've managed to ace Industry Gatekeeping 101: Get a job supporting the daily functions and navigating the erratic idiosyncrasies of a Hollywood executive for one to two years. In your nonexistent spare time, make sure to ear-hustle every call said executive takes. Never enter that executive's office without a notepad or tablet for documenting their demands. Before bed each night, speed-read every book, script, or article that's come across their desk. Write up coverage that's whip-smart and spot-on. Do it all well-and voilà! You're promoted and on the executive fast track.
Or at least a track faster than the one I'm currently on, which seems to have taken the off-ramp toward Admins 4 Lyfe R-Us.
Ping!
I flinch again. This time, it's my desktop. I click out of Outlook and scan my cluttered screen for the culprit, grimacing when I find a little snarky gray bubble of a message from Nick-in-Publicity.
NickatNite: Hey Kaliya. I'm not sure if you've made your rounds yet. But tracking says my Vitamix should have arrived in the mail room an hour ago. Just wanted to put this on your radar!
Unfortunately for me, at WAP, being receptionist means both business and personal deliveries fall under my purview. While I'm never one to say a task is beneath me, I won't pretend that tending to the emotional wounds from this dead-end job hasn't taken its toll. I'll probably never crawl out from under all the debt I've racked up from the top film school in the country by sorting other people's mail, either. But when duty calls, I answer. So with a huff, I'm up and on my way to the dusty dungeon of the mail room.
Posters of the top films WAP has made over the last two decades line my path down the hall, and for a moment, my soul stirs. Corny as it may seem, this corridor of hits is why I'm still here. Right now, I may be on the hunt for someone else's juicer. But some day, the name Kaliya Wilson will be on one of these posters with the hallowed words Produced by in front of it.
But as I've come to expect from this place, any flicker of hope is quickly doused by reality-this time in the frazzled form of Sharon-in-Accounting as she barrels toward me looking stern and impatient. I am briefly distracted by the lack of movement in her blunt, red bob. And after a few failed attempts to blink myself invisible, I'm swiftly cornered with a USB thrust beneath my chin.
"Kaliya, the Xerox is on the fritz again." Sharon's tone drips with accusation, like the printer and I have conspired against her. I fight the urge to roll my eyes because her version of "on the fritz" usually means it's either unplugged or experiencing a paper jam.
Her French-tipped fingers wave the USB beneath my nose like smelling salts. "I need you to get twenty copies of these budgets printed, stapled, and collated," she demands. "And I need them on my desk in fifteen minutes."
"I'm on it!" I announce. Then begrudgingly, I accept the memory stick and pop it into my pocket. Training a false smile at her, I note that she's still blocking my path. We're essentially in a standoff until she squints at me for a beat then spins on her heel to stalk back down the hall.
Upon entering the mail room I head straight for the sorting bins, which have been filled to the brim with Amazon boxes and AmEx bills. I am elbow deep in the slush when a call comes in from the main line. My boss, Gary, whom I've un-affectionately titled the VP of Paper Clips, upgraded me to a headset with a long range-heaven forbid the reception line ring more than once because I stepped away.
I fumble to click on my earpiece without dropping a package, but it's already on the second ring, dammit, when I catch the call.
"Kaliya . . ." Speak of the devil. My name out of Gary's mouth might be my least favorite sound.
"Yes, Gary," I reply, biting back my irritation.
"I just got an email from Tom-in-Business-Affairs, and it appears the ants are back in the twelfth-floor conference room," he says in a clipped tone. "I thought you'd gotten to the bottom of that last week."
I grimace. "So did I," I say. "But don't you worry, Gary, I am on it."
"I certainly hope so," he shoots back coolly before clicking off the line. I take a few calming breaths, open my eyes, and spot the juicer.
Lunch time arrives like a cold glass of water on a hot day. Even though I’m stuck downing a smoothie at my desk because there aren’t any interns around to cover the phones, I seize the opportunity to dive back into my current audiobook obsession.
Normally, I wouldn't dare listen to this type of material on my work-issued computer. But in this case, WAP has optioned the novel and given the green light to go into preproduction on a feature adaptation soon. Since employees are encouraged to become familiar with the studio's newest projects, technically, I'm just doing my job.
I pick up where I last left the young billionaire and his impressionable new girlfriend. Moments into my listening, he's just yanked out her tampon so they can do the deed and I've crossed my legs in shock. I hear a gasp, realize the sound came from me, and shut my mouth so quickly I almost chip a tooth. No way this scene gets past the MPA.
Ping!
I'm still clutching my proverbial pearls when the sound of the elevator provides a sobering jolt. Quickly, I reach up and press the button on my earpiece to power off my headset. Then, the unthinkable happens.
"Tell me how bad you want this rock-hard cock," Caleb groaned through gritted teeth, hands firmly gripping the globes of her ass.
"Yes! Yes! Give it to me, Caleb. Please don't make me wait," Ashley cried in wanton ecstasy at the same time he thrust into her swollen cleft.
I am a deer in headlights, immobilized at the sound of smut blasting from my desktop at my place of work. The voices coming from the elevator are growing louder, too. Their footsteps are drawing nearer. Panicking, I fumble with the mouse in search of the X that will put an end to the rapidly escalating scene.
"Come for me, Ashley!"
"I'm close, Caleb! So close!"
And I'm close to being caught red-handed-like Shaggy with the girl next door.
But not today, Satan.
I am frantically scanning my desktop in search of the elusive culprit window that's hidden somewhere among the fifty tabs cluttering my screen. With time running out, as a final Hail Mary, I grab the plug to my speakers and yank it like a lasso. In the name of all things holy, everything goes silent. Heart racing and chest heaving, I'm still gripping the speaker plug when two figures enter my periphery. Stiffly, I turn to offer my customary welcome. But the words seize up in my throat when my eyes land on him.
Danny Prescott.
I am a slab of granite. For seven years I have on equal fronts feared and anticipated our reunion-even rehearsed it in my mind. I'd run into him on a hot afternoon in the South of France at the Cannes Film Festival. I'd have a flute of champagne in one hand and Idris Elba's bicep in the other. I certainly wouldn't be attempting to hide the fact I'd been listening to erotica on my treasonous computer at a reception desk on a Friday afternoon.
I decide my best shot at salvaging the dregs of my dignity is to get through this cursed encounter without being recognized. So, against all odds, and past the lump in my throat, I force out a greeting as they both close in. "Welcome to Wide Angle Pictures. H-how can I help you?"
At the sound of my voice, Danny's sage green eyes scan upward and lock with mine. He freezes, causing his glamorous companion to collide with his shoulder, which in turn knocks him slightly off-balance.
"Um. Hello," he says, cocking his head to the side like a confused puppy. "I'm . . . Danny-" He stops short and that voice-it's a shallow fragment of the one I remember. He falters for a moment or two, fidgeting with his collar, before abruptly burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans and carrying on. "-Prescott. Um, I'm here to meet with Jim Evans?"
To my utter dismay, it seems as though he knows who I am. Still, I desperately cling to my act, practically chirping, "Sure, I'll let Jim know you're here!"
I will my hands steady and dial up Jim's office to notify his assistant their one o'clock appointment has arrived. Hanging up, I clear my throat and gesture toward the plush sofas to my right.
"If you'd like," I say to Danny and his companion as I channel the poise of a flight attendant, "you can have a seat while you wait. But do let me know if I can bring you coffee, tea, or water."
He's saved from responding to me when the phone rings-my constant companion. With my headset now charging on its base, I pick up the handheld and avoid Danny's stare of astonishment.
"Hi, Gary, what can I do for you?" I try to project calm, as if everything is business as usual and my college ex isn't standing before me watching my every move. Gary honks into the phone at a volume loud enough for Danny to hear a few feet away. I turn slightly, cupping a hand over the receiver to create an auditory shield.
"Kaliya, Rose-in-Marketing is complaining of a foul odor coming from the love seat in her office. I'm concerned we have a rodent problem again-" Gary drones on about checking mouse traps and procuring rat poison and I'm grimacing, eyes shut tight, hoping that when I open them, by some miracle, Danny will no longer be standing here witnessing my humiliation.
Damn it all to hell, Gary.
I inhale sharply and breathe out a plan: "I'll call Peter in pest control ASAP and then I'll set Rose up in the conference room with a temporary workspace."
If nothing else can be said for this utterly desolate moment, it's that I'm damn good at my job. People throw their problems my way and I fix them. I return the phone to its receiver and stare at it in surrender-trying to ignore the sustained bafflement on Danny's face.
Then, his friend looks up from her magazine. "Umm . . . hellooo," she coos, waving to get my attention. "I'll take a green tea, no sugar, bag out."
I recognize her now as Celine Michèle, the lead actress from a nighttime soap I'm ashamed to admit I watch. She's pushing thirty but plays a high schooler at the apex of a love triangle with two vampire brothers. She's tall and willowy with pale skin and a mane of silky brown hair. She's stunning. Worst of all, she's Danny's creative partner and girlfriend-the things I once wanted to be.
Snapping out of it, I rise to go prepare the tea. But remembering my front desk etiquette, I stop and turn to Danny. "Anything for you, sir?" The sir rolls off my tongue like a hairball and by the look of it, he's not too fond of it, either.
Danny does a micro grimace before clearing his throat. "No thanks, Kaliya-um, I mean I'm fine." The corners of his lips turn up in a small, contrite smile and his eyes soften just slightly.
When Danny Prescott says my name, it does strange things to my executive function. No longer capable of processing it all, I bolt away on wobbly legs toward the kitchen. Once tucked away in its tight quarters, I finally feel like I can breathe again. But that just conjures all the feelings.
Kaliya, you will not cry on the Keurig.
No, I'll save that for later when I'm in my car, as I do often. LA traffic tends to have that effect on me.
With trembling hands, I head back to the reception area cupping a piping hot mug for Celine, only to see the backs of her and Danny as they glide down the hall toward the elevators with Jim's assistant.
I zero in on Danny's retreating form. His tight russet curls gradually disappear into a close fade that brushes the collar of a crisp white shirt that's fitted to perfection across broad shoulders and strong arms. Dark-wash jeans cling to his slim hips and taper down two very long legs. His signature, impeccably clean and uncreased Jordans finish off the look. What can I say? The man still has swag.
