Lights! Cameras! Love!

By Randy Jeanne

Aspiring sitcom writer Daphne Smith is bored. So bored, in fact, she's taken to blogging as a fictional seductress named Sexy Sascha. Hey, it's seemingly harmless and a great way for Daphne to live out fantasies about her boss, the dreamy and oh-so-unattainable Josh Swenson. So what if "Sascha's" tales of lust have become the talk of Tinseltown? Daphne's a mere peon at JRT Studios, and more like Ugly Betty than Sexy Sascha, so who's gonna connect the dots?

But someone does. Someone with a grudge. Anonymous threats appear on Sascha's blog, and a series of "accidents" seem designed to make Daphne look suicidal, psycho, or both.

Just as the man of her dreams offers her the TV job of a lifetime, is Daphne doomed to be cancelled...permanently?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randy Jeanne
• Release date: May 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458170118

Randy Jeanne

Randy Jeanne prefers traveling to far off lands over toiling at the dreaded day job; alas, pesky bills constantly get in the way. So instead, she daydreams-−creating people to meet, places to go, and things to do. As a lifelong serial dater, she loves to share misadventures-−er, successful tips-−with readers who, like Randy, are looking for love and laughter.

Book preview

Lights! Cameras! Love!

Randy Jeanne

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Randy Jeanne

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

January 28

Comments:

"Ohmigod, Sascha. You really know how to turn up the heat. When are you gonna 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 lets you get away!"

-momwith2manykids

I smiled, sipped from a juice glass filled with Two-Buck Chuck, then put it 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! 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. I’ll have another, he says. And pour 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 hesitation 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?

Dave Darling for Josh.

Blood roared in my ears. The Dave 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.

Dave 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 Dave calling from the office?

Um, I don’t know. He hung up before I could ask.

This faux pas rated a personal appearance at my door. Ada stood there, hands on hips, a frown drawing together penciled brows which 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 yet figured out 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 again, and I picked it up, rattling off the standard greeting. JRT Studios, Josh Swenson’s office. How can I help you?

Hey, sweetheart, it’s Mom.

In my haste to sit up straighter, I nearly knocked over the chair. 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 might be coming for a visit!

I blinked a couple times 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 standby as a last-minute fill-in. She paused, probably contemplating my failure to make her a grandmother, then went on. I thought I’d stay with you, rather than at a 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 the corporate arena—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, 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. Well, 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 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 before today. 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. One sec.

No problem. Whatever was keeping him riveted gave me the unfettered opportunity to study the object of my affection. Correction. Sascha’s affection. Well, let’s be honest. Our 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 his face. Who is it, Ada?

Dave Darling, came the disembodied voice.

Josh punched a button. Hey, Dave. 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 Dave 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 everyone in 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 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 feel sorry for this guy, 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 bio on-line) 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 Dave’s show.

Ouch.

He pressed a button on the remote and a flat 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 Dave 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 that 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, Dave 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 Dave 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 type up my thoughts. 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 he’d picked up from his desk. Absentmindedly, he glanced up. That’s all. Oh, except 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 Two

The thought of researching Sascha for Josh made the ache at the base of my neck approach aspirin-ingesting levels—and I rarely pop pills, prescription or otherwise.

What if I’d slipped somewhere? Y’know, like left an incriminating clue to my identity? I’d be the laughing stock of Hollywood.

Poor thing. Imagine such a plain Jane having such delusions of grandeur.

I could already picture David Letterman skewering me in his monologue. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, straight from the home office in Iowa, we have the top ten posts that gave it away...number ten...the night Sascha finally disrobed for Damien and described taking off her penny loafers.

Ba-dum-dum.

I forced myself to get a grip. After all, I had only myself to blame for this Catch-22. Either I could embrace being the total opposite of Sascha, or I could worry about exposure, not both.

Earth to Daphne.

Startled, I glanced up. How long had Ada been watching me daydream?

With a disapproving frown, she laid a folder on my desk. I need Dave to sign these right away, so no stopping for coffee.

She knew me too well.

I headed across the lot to Building Eight and Dave Darling. By the way, Smoking Gun claims he entered the world as Oliver Wenschlatt. If true, I can hardly blame the guy for changing his name. I mean, I’m not fond of being Daphne Smith, but lowly secretaries-to-secretaries don’t get much cause to adopt new identities.

Unless they blog, that is.

Anyway, since Ada rarely moves a muscle—except for fancy lunch appointments—I get to run all the errands, which suits me fine. Anything to escape from corporate into the world where television actually gets made.

And there’s lots getting made at JRT. First you have the local television station, but on top of that you have independent production companies creating everything from game shows to sitcoms. In other words, plenty of elbow-rubbing opportunity.

If only I could rub more than elbows with Josh...save it for the blog, Sascha.

The day was typical for spring in California. Hell, it was typical for any season in California. Bright sunshine, mild temperatures, cloudless sky. I took a short cut through the parking lot (you never know what celebrity might be climbing out of a chauffeur-driven limo), past the ubiquitous roach coach (aka the catering truck), and ducked into Building Eight where Darling Productions currently takes up two floors of office space. Funny thing about these old Hollywood buildings. On the outside they look...well, like old Hollywood buildings. But on the inside, they run the gamut from hip and groovy to stately and corporate, depending on the occupants. In Darling Production’s case, the bottom floor, populated by creative types, sported what I called the Saturday Night Live look—lots of messy bulletin boards, overflowing (not to mention illegal) ashtrays, and tributes to current pop culture. Upstairs was more like corporate America but with less taste.

Then there are the layers of protection—as in the minions you need to go through to see people. Since I entered through the production lobby, the receptionist matched the environment. To wit, I pushed open the doors to find a girl my age with long purple hair on one side of her head and a pink buzz cut on the other. An assortment of five, maybe six, studs and hoops lined a brow, and I didn’t even bother counting the tattoos.

The gum smacking almost drowned out the heavy metal music blaring from her headset.

I held up the file in my hand and braced myself. I need to take these up to Dave Darling’s office.

Suspicion flickered in her Elvira-like eyes. Who are you?

See, this is what happens every week. Why couldn’t Dave Darling keep the same damn girl for more than five consecutive days? I sighed. Daphne Smith. From Josh Swenson’s office. Heavy emphasis on the second sentence but I could see she was clueless, so I mustered up a helpful smile. If you look in your phone directory, you’ll find he’s the head honcho around here.

Her hand made a move toward the computer keyboard, then stilled. Dave Darling is the head honcho around here, she said in a you can’t fool me kinda voice.

Rrrright. Well, see—sorry, I didn’t get your name...?

Britannia.

"Well see, Britannia, Dave is the head honcho of this building. Josh is the head honcho of all the buildings." To illustrate, I spread my arms wide.

Frowning, she tapped out a few commands on the computer, then her eyes widened and she popped a big bubble with her gum. I see whatcha mean. Okay, go right up.

As if she could have stopped me anyway. Who hires these gatekeepers? Unfortunately, all the Britannia’s in Hollywood give girls my age a bad name.

Upstairs I encountered the other version of the sentinel. This time, one Wendy Reynolds who, unlike ol’ Brit, I was well-acquainted with.

As usual, when I found her poised majestically guarding the citadel, her long blonde locks hanging to her waist and her big blue eyes simultaneously shrewd and innocent, the same old thought flitted through my brain: how did her parents know she’d turn out to be such a Wendy? I mean, did my parents look down at me and find no more inspiration than Daphne?

Hi, Daphne. You look nice today. That color is great on you.

Oh, the Wendys of the world. Full of empty compliments we secretly wanna believe but can’t because they come out of the mouths of...well....Wendys. Thanks. I need to give these to Dave. (Amongst the minions, first names are okay.)

There was just the slightest hesitation before she said, I’ll see that he gets them.

Sorry, I said cheerfully. Strict orders. I’m supposed to give them to him personally. Did I love issuing the subtle insult without having to take responsibility for it? (Answer: yes, I did.)

Wendy clucked a bit and muttered under her breath—something I’m sure she didn’t do in Dave’s presence. No, around Dave, Wendy was what I called the Stepford wannabe—part of that Hollywood strata who work the plush jobs, hoping to land their boss at the altar, current attachments notwithstanding. The only type of women more protective in the role are the ones hired and/or approved by the men’s wives.

He’s not in the office right now.

Okay. Where is he then?

Downstairs with the writers. They’re going over this week’s script.

Great. And thanks for beating around the bush, bitch. Have a nice day. (It doesn’t pay to piss off the sentinels, you know.)

I headed back down the stairs (no one uses the elevators in these buildings) and turned down the hallway with a polite nod for Britannia (see caution above).

Okay, confession time. My backbone’s pretty intact when it comes to my peers (and, trust me, I consider the Britannias and Wendys of the world my equal) but I have this thing about production types—both male and female.

Total intimidation.

Yeah, I know. Wimpy. To the max.

But please picture a roomful of Hollywood’s best and brightest, tossing off zingers with rapier sharpness. Wit, intelligence...doesn’t even matter if they’re slovenly, nerdy, or all-of-the-above.

They have the IT factor.

Sadly, I have the IT’S NOT factor.

I hated every one of them.

I wanted to be them.

Which is why I had to take a couple deep breaths before entering their inner sanctum.

Fortunately, things were in chaos because if I’d blundered into quiet, I’d have shriveled up and died. Still, it’s kinda unnerving when a roomful of attention sweeps your way.

I zeroed in on Dave who, naturally, happened to be on the opposite side of the long conference table. I paraded past the staff of scribes (all white males with one token female, by the way), squeezed by a copy machine, and managed to reach him without tripping over anything or knocking anyone in the head.

He smiled—dazzling, yet apologetic—and I could see his brain whirring with the strain to remember my name. Or maybe even place me at all. Yeah, I have that effect on people. Well, at least his kind of people.

I put him out of his misery in short order. Documents from Josh. I’m to wait while you sign them.

His eyes lit up with recognition. Of course. I’ve been expecting those. Give me a minute to look them over.

No problem.

Hoping for invisibility, I did my best to shrink into a corner as the guys (and the girl) eventually morphed back into comedy writers. Within minutes, the noise level reached a dull roar.

The show isn’t on the air yet. In fact, they’ve only written two episodes past the pilot, so the script they’re hashing out must be for the third.

A guy they called Gray (who appeared to be the head writer) kept vetoing suggestions as the rest tossed out ideas. Finally the only quiet member—the girl—spoke up.

What about making reference to this Sascha person?

Thump, thump.

Doubting eyes turned in her direction, then away again dismissively. Who the hell is Sascha? Gray asked.

Come on. You haven’t heard of Sexy Sascha?