Dreaming of Manderley Read online

  “Go on.”

  My words come out in a nervous rush, a powerful stream of consciousness and raw emotions I usually keep contained behind a shy smile and nondescript attire. Not that there have been that many people lining up to hear my most inner emotions. People in Hollywood don’t do deep. They do air kisses and narcissism-fueled cocktail parties at the Viceroy on Friday nights.

  “I work for Olivia Tate,” I say, as if that explains everything. “I am her assistant, editor, brainstorm partner.”

  “Who is Olivia Tate?”

  He takes a sharp turn and I have to hold on to the door handle so I don’t slide sideways into him.

  “Olivia Tate. Love’s Requiem. Postmodern.”

  He shrugs.

  “A Quaint Milieu?”

  I wonder if he is feigning obtuseness or if films made beyond the borders of the center of the universe aren’t worthy of note for a French film actor.

  “Olivia Tate is a screenwriter. Her screenplay, A Quaint Milieu, was nominated for the Palme d’Or.”

  “I am sorry, but I don’t make it to the theater that often.”

  “Then, you’re not an actor?”

  “Non.” He chuckles, a deep, rich laugh that rumbles in his broad, muscular chest. “What made you think I was an actor?”

  Your impossibly large ego. Your breathtaking, leading-man good looks. Your luxury sports car that costs three times the average American’s annual income.

  I shrug.

  “So, you are an assistant to a Palme d’Or–nominated screenwriter. What made you choose that career?” He glances over his shoulder at me, his gaze moving from my high ponytail to my shabby espadrilles. “You don’t appear to be the sort of woman attracted to that lifestyle. Do you have dreams of making it big in Hollywood?”

  He clenches his jaw and grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn as white as the eyelet lace on the hem of my sundress.

  “Olivia Tate is my best friend.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. It surprises you that a famous screenwriter would be friends with someone like me?” Someone plain. Someone shy. Someone in dirty espadrilles.

  “I am surprised you would mix business and pleasure. I would never employ a friend. Ever.”

  “Olivia sold her first screenplay to a major studio the week after we graduated from college. Her career took off after that first sale. She needed someone she could rely on, a life preserver in the shark-infested waters of Hollywood.”

  “And that is what you are . . . a life preserver?”

  I think of all of the people who rely upon me and sigh. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

  “What happens when too many people cling to a life preserver?”

  “Disaster,” I say, rubbing my hands over my bare arms.

  “Exactement.” He flicks the turn indicator and steers the Jaguar off the busy Boulevard de la Croisette into the driveway of the Hôtel Le Majestic. “Wouldn’t you rather be a shark?”

  “Me?” I laugh. “Sadly, I don’t have the teeth.”

  He pulls to a stop and looks at me. “That is not sad.”

  A valet hurries to open Xavier’s door. “Bienvenue, monsieur,” the valet says.

  Xavier hands over his keys and walks around the car, opening my door and holding out his hand. I step out of the car and am blinded by flashes of light. The paparazzi have been camped outside the hotel since the beginning of the Festival. When they realize I am not an A-lister, they focus their attention on the next car pulling up to the valet stand.

  Xavier places his broad hand on the small of my back and leads me through the revolving door and into the opulent lobby. Even though the Festival officially ended last night, the lobby is buzzing with activity. We move through golden halos of light created by the crystal chandeliers hanging overhead, past plush velvet sofas and marble replicas of classical Greek statues, until we arrive at the elevators.

  He jabs the up button.

  “Thank you for the ride and for seeing me into the hotel, but I will be fine from here.”

  A wry smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I am sure you will be fine, but this is where I am staying.”

  “Oh.”

  The elevator doors slide open and we step inside.

  “Floor?” he asks.

  “Three, please.”

  He jabs the round number three button and then the number six. Lawd! The sixth floor is where the hotel’s most exclusive suites are located. The Christian Dior suite includes a butler, swimming pool, and furniture designed by Nathalie Ryan, interior decorator at House of Dior.

  The elevator dings, announcing our arrival on the third floor, and the doors slide open.

  I don’t want Xavier to remember me as a hopeless case, even if we never meet again. It’s not because he drives a Jaguar F-Type convertible and stays in the Christian Dior suite at Le Majestic. I can’t explain why, but I have an inexplicable need to leave him with something more than the memory of me weeping and sniveling about my problems.

  “Thank you for driving me back to the hotel and for listening to my problems,” I say, turning around, my back to the hall. “It was very kind of you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  I look up into his eyes and forget what I had been about to say. The doors start to close and he sticks his hand between them to keep me from being crushed. I catch another whiff of his citrusy cologne as his arm brushes my shoulder and my breath catches in my throat.

  “Au revoir, Life Preserver, don’t let the sharks drag you down.”

  “I’ll try,” I murmur.

  I turn and step out of the elevator. Xavier pulls his hand back and the doors slide shut.

  Chapter Two

  Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:

  Check out Tara’s latest Instagram post. Does that Proenza patent leather trench she’s wearing look familiar? It should. It’s mine! Would you please, pretty please, tell her to stop stealing my clothes? You’re so much better at dealing with her. Thanks a mill. Kisses.

  “Are you seriously telling me a Leo rescued you from falling off a cliff and gave you a ride back to the hotel in a car straight off the set of a James Bond movie and you didn’t get his phone number?” Olivia takes a sip of her Grande Dame, one of Le Majestic’s signature cocktails, made with verbena-infused water, gin, and champagne, and looks at me through her false eyelashes. “And he had serious designer stubble?”

  “Yes.”

  In Olivia vernacular, a “Leo” is a man who possesses enough charisma and good looks to play the leading man in almost any film. As in, Leonardo DiCaprio. “Designer stubble” is closely-cropped facial hair intended to give the actor a majorly macho appearance. Jake Gyllenhaal, Colin Farrell, and George Clooney are famous for their designer stubble. Harrison Ford worked the stubble in Raiders of the Lost Ark and Leonardo DiCaprio in Blood Diamond. Olivia can deliver a lengthy monologue on the history and success of designer stubble. To her, male supermodel David Gandy is the poster boy for designer stubble, while Brad Pitt and Joaquin Phoenix are quintessential examples of chin bush gone bad.

  We are sitting in Le Majestic’s Bar Galerie du Fouquet’s, a sumptuous Art Deco cocktail lounge decorated with black velvet armchairs and gilded fixtures, while we wait for a reporter from Variety to arrive to interview Olivia.

  “You should have asked him to join you for cocktails tonight.”

  “I couldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not?” She grins, her full, red-lacquered lips curling up. “The Festival is over, which means we have a month of men, Moët, and Monte.”

  Olivia loves the film To Catch a Thief, starring Cary Grant and Grace Kelly, and wants to visit Monte Carlo so she can find her own debonair jewel thief. She probably will, too. Olivia is a force. Hurricane Olivia doesn’t let anything—or anyone—stand in her way of following the path to happiness. It’s one of the things I admire, and envy, in her.

  “I am not as bold as you, Olivia.”

  “Bold,
schmold,” she says, dismissively waving her manicured hand. “Not all men desire a bold woman, Mandy. You are pretty, loyal, and damned clever. Monsieur X would have probably jumped at the invite.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  An image of Xavier behind the wheel of his convertible flashes in my mind. The strong, leading-man profile, the designer stubble shadowing his jaw, the wind ruffling his dark hair.

  “You didn’t see him, Olivia. If this were Gone with the Wind, he would be Rhett Butler and I would be pale-faced, mealy-mouthed Melanie Hamilton.”

  The waiter appears bearing a silver tray laden with two Grande Dames. He places one in front of Olivia and the other in front of me.

  “There must be some mistake,” I say, sliding the heavy crystal glass away from me. “I didn’t order a drink.”

  “C’est bon,” Olivia says, sliding the glass back.

  The waiter bows and backs away.

  “I don’t drink when I am working.”

  “Fiddle-dee-dee, Miss Mellie,” Olivia simpers. “Step out of those stiff petticoats and have a good time. We are in Cannes, for Scarlett’s sake!”

  She glares at me until I take a sip of my drink. My daddy was a gin drinker. Hayman’s 1850 Reserve and a splash of tonic every night after dinner. I shudder as the alcohol burns a path down my throat. When it comes to gin, I am not my daddy’s girl. I would rather gargle sea water.

  Olivia smiles at me over the rim of her cocktail glass. “Do you know what I think?”

  “No, but I have a feeling you are going to tell me.”

  “I think you work awfully hard at being plain and unmemorable, but deep down you have an inner sex-kitten, clawing to get out.”

  I snort.

  “Me-ow,” Olivia purrs, raising her hands like claws. “Let it out, Mandy. Let your inner sex-kitten out.”

  I push my glasses up my nose and snort again. “I do not have an inner sex-kitten. I have a fat, boring, dependable calico that hides under furniture because it is frightened of its shadow.”

  “Bullshit!” Olivia hisses. “If I were in Monte, I would place all my chips on the bet that you have a fierce, feral, inner sex-kitten. The right catnip will lure it out.”

  My cheeks flush with heat.

  “Maybe you need a dose of French catnip!”

  She laughs and the heat spreads from my cheeks down my neck, fanning out over my chest. I reach for my cocktail, and that’s when I see Xavier striding through the bar, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit and crisp white shirt, open at the neck to reveal a tantalizing V of tanned skin. My hand bumps my glass, tipping it over. The cocktail spills onto the table, my lap, and the floor.

  “Mandy? Are you . . .” Olivia follows my gaze and gasps. “Yowza! That wouldn’t happen to be your—”

  Xavier stops at our table and pulls a monogrammed hankie from his pocket.

  “Mademoiselle Maxwell,” he says, handing me the hankie. “I believe Emanuele intended for you to drink his cocktails, not bathe in them.”

  “Emanuele?”

  “Emanuele Balestra. Le Majestic’s Chef Barman.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  Of course he would know the Chef Barman.

  I use the hankie to dab gin from my skirt and hand it back to Xavier.

  “Keep it,” he says, smiling. “It would appear you have more need of it today.”

  He bows slightly, nods his head at Olivia, and strides away, joining an older, paunchy man in a private booth at the back of the bar.

  “Well done, Mandy!” Olivia stares at me through wide eyes. “I think you found your catnip.”

  I am spared from responding as a waifish blonde holding a slender notebook, an iPhone, and a small pocket recorder, approaches our table. I recognize her as the Variety reporter.

  “Good Evening, Miss Tate,” she says, thrusting her hand at Olivia. “I believe we have an interview. I am Lana Legend with Variety.”

  “That is not your name!”

  The reporter frowns and looks at me. I properly vetted Lana Legend before approaching Olivia with the interview request. I read her clips to make sure she hadn’t penned any hack pieces.

  “This is definitely Lana Legend,” I say.

  “What a fab name!” Olivia claps her hands. “Is it your real name or a pen name?”

  “Real.”

  The reporter takes a seat in the empty armchair between us. Olivia introduces me as her best friend and assistant extraordinaire, orders another round of Grande Dames, and the interview gets underway.

  I listen to the first few questions—softballs about Olivia’s childhood—but am too acutely aware of Xavier’s presence in the bar, and his hankie lying in my lap, to focus on anything as mundane as a Hollywood interview. I try not to stare, but my gaze keeps drifting from Lana Legend to Xavier.

  About an hour into the interview, Xavier stands and shakes hands with his companion. I watch him leave the bar out of the corner of my eye.

  “This might be a good place for us to stop,” Lana says. “Our photographer is waiting on the upper deck so he can get a few pictures of you for the piece. You don’t have to worry about a thing though, we have a stylist and a makeup artist.”

  “Just give me a minute,” Olivia says. “I will be up after I have a word with Manderley.”

  “Sure,” Lana says, gathering her notebook and recorder. “Take your time.”

  Lana hurries out of the bar.

  “You don’t have to stick around for the photo shoot if you don’t want to,” Olivia says.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I know how much you hate photo shoots. I hate them, too.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “No, I don’t,” she says, laughing. “Go, have some fun. I will meet you in the room later. Maybe we can go for a swim and plan our adventures in Monte.”

  Olivia drains the last of her cocktail, swipes a slash of red lipstick over her lips, and blows me an air kiss.

  I stand to leave when I notice Reed Harrington headed my way. Several other personal assistants trail behind her. Reed is a personal assistant to three-time Academy Award–winning actor Alec Elkins, star of A Quaint Mileu. She gives the impression of being quiet and demure, but don’t let her purring fool you. She is a panther. If you cross her, she will rip your heart out with her claws, feast on your carcass, and use your bones as toothpicks. I sit back down, whip out my iPhone, and pretend to be absorbed in a text. If I am lucky, they will walk right by me.

  “Manderley!” Reed purrs. “Is that you?”

  I guess I am not lucky.

  “Yes.” I say, standing quickly. “Hello, Reed. How are you?”

  “I am fab, just fab. Sit back down,” she commands, claiming the seat beside me. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m not?”

  She shakes her head and her long, glossy red hair spills like molten copper over her shoulders and down her back. The other assistants situate themselves around Reed, like sycophants paying court to a monarch.

  “I know for a fact that Olivia is having her picture taken by a photog from Variety, which means you are free to join us for a drink.”

  Reed knows everything. She is a major authority on the industry, with contacts stretching from Hollywood to Bollywood. She arrived in Los Angeles when she was sixteen with her best friend, popular teen singer/actress Jessie Lee. When Disney Darling Jessie was caught by the paparazzi snorting cocaine in a club, Reed ditched her BFF and took a job as one of a legion of assistants to a major director of action-adventure flicks. Alec Elkins starred in one of the director’s films and was so impressed with Reed he lured her away.

  Apparently, loyalty isn’t Reed’s thing.

  “What are you drinking?” she asks, gesturing to my cocktail glass.

  “Grande Dame,” I mumble.

  A waiter appears. Reed orders champagne for everyone and introduces me to her friends. There’s Josh Harrell, personal assistant to an A-list
actress famous for her toothy grin and long legs; Loren Knight, executive assistant to the president of a major production company; Gillian Davis, personal assistant and tour coordinator to a pop diva/actress; Reilly Altmann, personal assistant to a network chairman, and Sköda, a personal assistant who tells me she is “contractually forbidden from mentioning her employer by name.”

  I sit quietly, listening as Josh talks about his desire to one day direct movies. Gillian shares her ten-year plan for “conquering Hollywood.” Loren confesses working as an executive assistant is merely the first rung in her climb up the production company ladder. Reed wants to be an actress—a “serious” actress.

  Hollywood should be renamed Wannabe, because it is filled with people who wannabe something more than they are. Waitresses who wannabe actresses. Secondary actors who wannabe leading actors. Celeb husbands who wannabe producers. Second directors who wannabe lead directors. Visual effects editors who wannabe visual effects supervisors. Stunt performers who wannabe stunt coordinators.

  Personal assistants? They are the queens and kings of Wannabe. They wannabe close to power players. They wannabe famous. They wannabe rich. They wannabe married to a celeb.

  Most people don’t know it, but a celebrity’s personal assistant wields a lot of power. They are the gatekeepers to the Golden Ones. Nobody gets to Angelina Jolie or Brad Pitt without first speaking to one of their assistants.

  Sure, it is an exhausting, oftentimes demeaning job. Hollywood personal assistants must be willing to sacrifice their personal lives because they are required to be available 24/7. George Clooney’s assistant even lives in a house on his property! They spend their days catering to the whims of A-listers and power players. They charge cell phones, make Starbucks runs, administer enemas (true story), arrange childcare, book meetings, deal with bat-shit crazy agents, hustle to get tables at the hottest new restaurants, procure prostitutes . . . the list is endless.

  But every once in a while, a PA gets a big payoff. Scooter Braun, the music mogul who discovered Justin Bieber and Carly Rae Jepsen, promoted his assistant to a supervisory role within his record company. Sarah Jessica Parker gave her assistant an associate producer credit on Sex and the City. Jessica Simpson’s assistant, CaCee Cobb, became a popular Hollywood party girl before settling down with an actor.