The Second Assistant by Clare Naylor, Mimi Hare Read Free Book Online Page A

Bean, so by the time I arrived, my palms were sweating so much that it was a struggle to read my shopping list. As I stepped into the cool shade of the shop, I tried to remember who wanted what. Green tea was Courtney, right? When I looked up, I saw a group of six people—two guys and four girls—all about my age, in identical clothing to mine, in the corner, sipping lattes in silence, until a cell phone began to vibrate on the table in front of them. They all looked at it for a second or two, and finally one of them, a guy, picked it up.
    “Hello?” he inquired nervously. Then what sounded like a muffled explosion issued from the earpiece of the phone. He moved it away from his ear with a look of pain on his face. “Okay. We’re coming,” he told the person on the other end of the phone. And with that the group rose to their feet in silence and one by one filed past me, leaving a table strewn with shredded napkins, half-full coffee cups, and a one-dollar tip.
    When the door had closed behind them, I looked around and saw that the coffee shop was empty. Except for a cute guy behind the counter who was looking at me in anticipation.
    “What can I get you?” he asked.
    “Oh, er . . . well, I’d like . . .” And I reeled off my list of requests. Positive that most of them were wrong but suddenly much more concerned as to how much this little haul was going to cost me.
    “That’ll be twenty-eight dollars,” he said. I blinked at the guy and began to count the dollars out of my wallet. Shit.
    “Do you accept credit cards?” I asked hopefully.
    “Sure.” He took my AmEx, which I figured might just prove flexible enough for eight hot drinks.
    “You work at The Agency?” he asked as he ran my card.
    “Yeah.” I nodded, nervously watching the till for hissing or spitting noises as it choked out my card.
    “New, then, huh?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Figured.” He nodded intelligently.
    “What does that mean?”
    “Well, you looked at those guys who were in here a minute ago like they were Martians. But really they’re just like you. ” He opened his eyes wide as though narrating a horror movie.
    “They’re new, too?” I asked.
    “They’re poor abused assistants.” He handed me the slip to sign. “They come in here once or twice a week. They work for Mad Max.”
    “Mad Max?” I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
    “Max Fischer. Head of Fischer Films. Huge production company. Their building’s next door to The Agency. He has six assistants, and sometimes, when he’s done throwing things at them, after the last Rolodex leaves his desk and there’s nothing left to hurl, he’ll fire them all.”
    “You’re kidding?” I watched as he expertly packed my entire food budget for the next week into a cardboard egg box–type thing.
    “No. It happens about once or twice a week, like I said. They’ll come in here, and sometimes a couple of them will by crying. Or bruised. Once one of them was bleeding from her right temple, so we had to mop her up.” He didn’t look as though he were lying, so I decided to sip my own latte and hear him out. “And they’ll sit there for about forty minutes until the phone rings and Max says ‘Get the fuck back in here.’ Usually with a few more ‘fucks’ thrown in for good measure. And the rest . . . well, you saw for yourself.”
    “Why don’t they go and complain to Human Resources?” I was aghast, and slightly disbelieving.
    “ ’Cause they want to keep their jobs.” He laughed.
    “Why would anyone put up with such abuse?” I asked innocently.
    That’s when he looked at me and smiled. “I’m Jason Blum. And you, I noticed from your credit card, must be Elizabeth.” He held out his hand and shook mine.
    “Good to meet you.” I put the receipt between my teeth and picked up the tray of drinks with the other hand. “Thanks.”
    “I’m a writer, director, and all-around good guy. If I do say so myself.” He swung over