Rugged(2)

“I have to get back to my desk,” I say, trying not to sound as lifeless as I feel. The Minions and I hike back and sit down to find, joy of joys, an email bearing the cheerful title ‘Sanderson’s Departure.’ I click and read, then proceed to do a very expressive double take. It’s from the assistant to Herman Davis, executive of development. He’s all the way on top, looking down over us mere mortals. I don’t think he’s been below the tenth floor in twenty years; he probably arrives and leaves via helicopter every day. So yeah, he’s hard to talk to. But he knows reality television inside and out.

And this email says he wants to see me in his office now. Right now. No loitering. I kick off my cartoon characters and slip into my heels before dodging out of the cubicle. My heart’s pounding as I jab the elevator button and wait. Part of me is afraid this is a “clear out your desk” type of meeting, but that doesn’t feel right. One of the company heavies doesn’t want to do HR’s grunt work.

It’s quiet on the top floor. The air up here tastes executive. The elevator doors whisper open, and I step out onto gray carpeting that’s so lush, my heels almost sink into it. I wobble a little as I pat my hair—brown, shoulder length, boring—into place. Keep it together, Laurel. You need to project cool confidence, not little girl skittishness. Already, the men passing me in the hallway grin sideways or look down to scope out my ass. Fucking sexist dickwads. Granted, I work at Pilates to make sure it’s a nice ass, but still. Gross.

The men up here are mostly executive level, mostly middle-aged and trying not to look it, mostly creeps with oiled hair and roving hands. With their buttoned-in martini paunches and desperately whitened teeth, they see me—young, female—as either a conquest or an annoyance, depending on how horny they are. But they’re not getting rid of me that easy. Not if I’m meeting with Herman Davis. I straighten my shoulders and walk on.

The assistant looks up from her computer. “Yes?” She’s got long, bejeweled pink nails that must make it hard to type.

“Laurel Young to see Mr. Davis,” I say. No squeaky voice. Great start. She picks up the phone, hits a button, and says, “She’s here.” After a second, she hangs up and nods. “You can go in.”

I enter Herman Davis’s office without tripping, smacking my head into the door, or initiating a nuclear standoff. Always a good beginning.

At first it’s hard to see anything, what with the row of about twenty golden Emmy awards lined up against the back wall reflecting the morning sun. Blinking stupidly with my mouth open is surely not the world’s greatest first impression, but I recover fast. Behind a spacious, mahogany desk, Herman Davis waits.

Mr. Davis is somewhere in his early sixties, with a full head of silver hair, a pair of rimless glasses, and an attitude full of don’t-f*ck-with-me. He looks at me without irritation or lust: already, this is new.

“You’re Young, aren’t you?” he asks.

That’s not a real question about my age. Hopefully.

“Yes. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” I try to keep my voice pitched as low as possible. Otherwise, I come off as the teenage babysitter hoping to score an extra five bucks at the end of the night.

“Brian Sanderson’s an *.” He sighs. “Taking off like that with the star of our show. Idiot.” Poor Brian. He’s a sweet, loveable dork who remembered birthdays and collected Funko POP! characters on his desk, not a sharky Hollywood jackass. I have to resist the urge to stick up for him. “But he told me you’re one of the best assistant producers he’s ever seen.” Davis raises his eyebrows.

Do I take a seat now? I can’t hesitate: in Hollywood, perfect confidence gets you the corner office. I sit down in front of his desk, fighting the urge to smooth my skirt. Nervous habit. He doesn’t say anything.

“Brian always listened to my ideas,” I say, sounding casual. In reality, Brian’s attitude towards women in the workplace was like a golden unicorn: beautiful and impossibly rare.

“Mmm. You were the one who suggested the Yukon expedition for Millionaires in Paradise sweep week.” Davis nods, looking gruffly pleased. “People didn’t expect that; pampered princesses in rugged territory.” He leans back in his leather chair. “Big ratings hit.”

Brian stuck up for me, good man that he was. He didn’t claim my idea for his own. Why the hell did he have to blow everything up like this?

“Let me explain this situation to you.” Davis leans forward again, clasped hands on the shining top of his desk. “We’ve got a gaping hole in the Thursday night lineup now that Millionaires is gone. It’s a hole that needs to be filled at once. I’m accepting emergency pitches for a new show.” He nods. “I want to hear your ideas.”

Oh God, does he mean right now? Frantically, I start the wheels in my brain spinning. Come on. Hot girls find love with gamer geeks? Four families are sent to the bottom of the Mariana trench to see who survives? I’m blowing this.

“You’ve got a week.” Praise Jesus! Davis stands up, and I do the same. A week. Seven whole days. I can work with that. “I want to see if you’re as good as Sanderson told me you were. Deliver me a great pitch, I’ll do more than take it. I’ll let you produce the entire thing yourself.”

I do a great job of not dropping dead on the spot. Produce the entire show? That’s a fast track I never thought I’d be on. That’s a career-making move. Davis clearly sees this is making me too happy, because he adds,