The Break(61)

Harrison stiffens. And then Kai walks away, swaying her hips dramatically like she’s trying to make a point.

“You know, it’s funny, that part is right from my audition section,” I say to Harrison.

He adjusts his tie, a perfect royal-blue number. “You’ll do great,” he says.

“Did you used to want to be an actor?” I ask. Does everyone?

“A long time ago, yeah,” he says, “but I also wanted a paycheck.”

He’s trying to make a joke, but there’s a look that passes over his face that tells me he doesn’t like not getting what he wants. I’ve met a few of these failed actor types at WTA who became other things—writers, casting directors, costume designers—and they seem to go a few ways: with some of them, you can feel it like a boil beneath the surface, the wanting of a thing that never came to pass. Others seem to move on to something else and not look back.

“Tomorrow then?” he asks.

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“Dinner?” he asks.

“Lunch?” I ask back.

“Oh, right,” he says. He snaps, then points an index finger at me and says, “Glacial pace.” We both laugh, and it feels good. His eyes are twinkling again and I do like him; I have to remember that.

An hour later Louisa shoos me out of WTA so I can make the 6:20 audition in Park Slope, Brooklyn. By 5:28 I’ve refreshed my makeup in WTA’s bathroom, and now I’m waiting by the elevator bank. When the doors open, out steps a striking woman I recognize from Louisa’s social media pictures as her psychologist-friend Sylvie Alvarez. Louisa talks all the time about Sylvie, almost like she’s some kind of guru: Sylvie says this; Sylvie says that. Sometimes I think the stuff Sylvie tells Louisa sounds like crap, but if it works, if it makes Louisa feel even an ounce better about not being pregnant yet, then I’m grateful for it.

“Hi, Sylvie,” I say as she’s about to walk past me. We have a backdrop of movie posters and closing silver elevator doors, and it feels like something out of a meet-cute. I know I’m gonna miss the elevator by standing here, but the thing is, Sylvie’s not on Louisa’s calendar today, and Louisa has a five thirty appointment with an actress who makes WTA tons of money and can be really demanding. I don’t want Sylvie knocking on Louisa’s door during the meeting—it’s too possible it would annoy the actress. And I’m not there to stop Sylvie from doing so, because Louisa did me the favor of letting me go early.

Sylvie looks at me and it’s obvious she has no idea who I am.

“I’m June, Louisa’s assistant,” I say.



Sylvie puts a hand to her chest. “Oh! I’ve heard all about you,” she says, with a warmth that makes me sure she’s heard good things. It lights me right up.

“Louisa’s in a meeting at five thirty,” I say. I don’t mention the actress’s name, because I’ve learned that being discreet is one of the keys to being successful at WTA.

Sylvie loses her smile. “Oh,” she says. She comes off as so statuesque even though she’s only an inch taller than me. “I was hoping to take her out tonight,” she says, as though I’ve said something that would prohibit her from doing so. She puts a hand toward her mouth and leans toward me like she has a secret. “You know she’s turning forty tomorrow, right?” she asks.

I gasp way more dramatically than I would have liked. But I can’t believe Louisa is almost forty—she looks younger—and I can’t believe I almost missed her birthday. I’ll have to figure out something I can get her tonight. Sylvie leans back and smiles; it comes off a little evil—like she’s happy to have known this fact when I didn’t. But the truth is that Louisa never makes anything about herself, so there’s no way she would have mentioned a birthday to me, because she wouldn’t have wanted to make me feel obligated to make a big deal about it or purchase something.

“I’m so glad you told me,” I say, which is a grand understatement. I admire the delicate gold triangular studs that mark Sylvie’s earlobes; she’s wearing the kind of floor-length floral wrap dress that Saks sells for one of my paychecks, and she looks like a million bucks in it. She kind of comes off like a grand dame mixed with a mean girl. “But still, Sylvie,” I go on, because another thing I’ve learned is that to placate anyone with an ego it helps to use a first name. It’s almost as if they like the sound of themselves so much it’s a balm to their ears. “I wouldn’t knock on Louisa’s door, okay? I’d wait for her in the lobby and have Kai at the front desk send her an email that you’re waiting for her. This client can be higher maintenance than some of the others.”



Sylvie’s back to smiling, but this time it looks forced. It’s been sort of enjoyable telling her she can’t do something. I bet that doesn’t happen a lot.

“Thanks for the advice, June,” she says. It comes out kind of condescending, but maybe I’m just being sensitive. And who cares either way, because I’d bet twenty bucks she’s no longer planning to interrupt Louisa.

I smile back. “You’re welcome, Sylvie,” I say.

Sylvie stares at me a beat too long. Then she proclaims, way too wisely for my liking, “At your age, it feels so good to finally be able to wield some power, doesn’t it?”