Geraldine let out a low, throaty laugh and placed a hand on her chest. “Thank you. I’m almost prehistoric in assistant years.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m actually twenty-three. I was worried everyone would think I was too old.”
“You don’t look a day over twenty-one” was Jodi’s automatic response. I wanted to take Geraldine by the shoulders and tell her she was so young she was practically brand-new. Instead, I took another sip of my wine.
“Geraldine’s at Geoffrey and Turner,” Jodi said, with a significance that I studiously ignored.
Geoffrey and Turner was a small but respected agency for screen and TV writers. A few years ago they’d been the William Jonathan Montgomery & Sons Agency for Screenwriters’ direct rivals. But lately, they’d become the agency of choice for writers looking for prestige, and we had . . . Well, someday we’d get back on track again.
“One of Geraldine’s new colleagues, Ritchie, is an old friend of yours, isn’t he, Evie?” Jodi pressed. Nothing got by her. Since she’d found out I’d known him back when he was plain old Ricky, she never missed an opportunity to dig for more information. My ex was what was known in the industry as a unicorn, i.e., a single man. Putting him firmly on Jodi’s gossip radar. I could have told her that Ricky was the kind of guy who’d make you feel like the luckiest person in the world. Until you were no longer what he wanted. Instead, I kept my smile fixed, as usual giving her nothing.
“Ritchie’s amazing,” Geraldine gushed. “I’m sure he’s going to be made an agent any day now. Everything about him says ‘meteoric rise.’”
“Well, he was hardly going to remain an assistant forever,” Jodi said, then put a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, you’ll get there. You just have a unique situation.”
Jodi wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t what I was upset about. They wouldn’t really promote him yet, would they? My throat tightened.
“Where do you work?” Geraldine asked me. I sighed, snapping myself out of it. She’d find out sooner or later anyway.
“William Jonathan Montgomery and Sons,” I said.
Geraldine’s eyes widened. “Oh, you’re that Evie.”
When you were the longest-serving assistant in the industry, word tended to get around.
It was a relief when they decided they needed a refill and headed back to the bar. I pulled out my phone again, wishing it was next Friday already so my friends could be here. Sometimes the miles between us felt more numerous than I could count.
EVIE: HELP ME I AM SURROUNDED MY CHILDREN
MARIA: where are you?
EVIE: assistant drinks
EVIE: *BY children
JEREMY: is Dicky there?
EVIE: no. He only socializes with agents now
SARAH: it’s good for her. IT’S GOOD FOR YOUR CAREER, EVIE
JEREMY: indoor voices, Sarah
MARIA: you’re an agent in all but name, Evie. You’ve shown your face. Why don’t you head home? Take care of yourself
I tucked the phone away without responding to Maria. As difficult as I sometimes found these events, I had to attend them if I had any hope of one day progressing beyond assistant. Everyone was here with the same purpose: desperate to say the right thing, speak to the right people, make those all-important connections. I used to feel the same way, back when I’d first moved down to London. Just not about agenting.
If my dad could see me now.
He’d be proud, I knew; he’d just be surprised to see me on this side of the business. Wanting to represent screenwriters, instead of being one. He’d wonder what had happened to the girl who’d declared, at the age of twelve, that she was going to be the next Nora Ephron or Dorothy Taylor, who’d acted like writing was as essential as food, or air. Of course, he’d never know what the first agent I ever showed my work to told me.
You just don’t have what it takes.
A small shudder ran through me. Normally I could quell any thoughts about my writing days, but something about this evening had made it harder. Seven years as an assistant. Happy anniversary, Evie. Still, I always told myself I was lucky. I couldn’t follow my own dream, so now I helped other screenwriters follow theirs. It would all be worthwhile once I was made agent. Monty always told me I wasn’t quite ready yet. I just had to find a way to make him see what I was made of.
I squeezed up to the bar beside Jodi to put my empty cup down, just in time to catch the end of what Geraldine was saying.
“I’d never stay in a job for that long.” She spotted me standing there. “No offense,” she added quickly.
“It isn’t Evie’s fault,” Jodi said. “Her boss, Monty, is a bit of a joke.” I bristled at this. Monty was what was known in the industry as the Old Guard. One of the last bastions of the days when most deals were sealed in the bars of private members’ clubs. He could still charm a producer when he needed to, but the world had moved on. The tide of enthusiastic young people entering the industry all came with an innate understanding of content. A word that made Monty break out in hives.
“He’s brilliant at what he does,” I said, knowing I was defending my own experience as much as his.
“We all know your real reason for staying. The work perk.” Jodi pronounced it “werk” and the age gap between us became a gulf. “A certain Oscar-winning screenwriter Monty must have solid dirt on to have kept hold of him for so long.”
Jodi knew about all the poachable writers as a matter of principle. Though there were some things even she didn’t know about Monty’s prize client.
Geraldine’s eyes gleamed. “You’re not talking about Ezra Chester, are you? Oh my God, what’s he like? Is he as hot as he looks on Instagram? It’s so cute he’s dating Monica Reed. She’s like ten years older than him, which is so not something he cares about. How’s his big film coming along? Didn’t he donate half his fee to charity? Tell me everything.”
Ezra had become an instant industry darling after winning a screenwriting Oscar three years ago, but it was only when he started dating Hollywood royalty Monica Reed that he claimed celebrity status. Thanks to his appearing on various gossip pages and hotlists, his Instagram account now had more than three hundred thousand followers. It helped that he looked like he belonged on the screen, rather than behind it.
“I can’t really say much about the film,” I said, smiling to soften my words.
“You’re hilarious, Evie,” Jodi said, and suddenly I was back in high school, being mocked for putting my hand up in class. “We’re all friends here. You can at least tell us if the rumors are true. Does the great Ezra Chester have writer’s block?”