Free The Second Assistant by Clare Naylor, Mimi Hare Page B

a faintly alarmed way, as though I might be a crazed fan girl, and hurried off with Esther Hartley toward the melee of guests and laughter. He hadn’t even recognized me.
    I might have collapsed into a miserable heap had one of the waitresses not chosen that moment to walk by with a tray of Malibu Mules. I hastily grabbed one, and before you could say “drunk in charge of aclipboard,” I had necked it back and let thirty people who weren’t on the list into the party. I was far too fair-minded to leave the masses out. Especially as they were the invited masses. So, as a gesture of defiance to the detestable Ryan, I just kept on letting them in. Until the room and garden behind me began to pulse with life and it began to seem like a party you might want to crash, rather than an opening at a very important but sublimely boring art gallery where you couldn’t afford anything.
    The combination of crippling disappointment, fear, and vodka began to well and truly kick in at precisely the moment that Lara emerged beside me from the swirling crowd.
    “Hasn’t that shitty little pumpkinhead sent anyone to replace you yet?”
    “Who, Ryan?”
    “Of course Ryan,” she said.
    “Lara, does Ryan have a problem with me?” I asked.
    “Ryan has a problem with everyone. He hates without discrimination. But in your case, Daniel hired you, so he probably presumes you’re being groomed for success.”
    “Well, that’s bullshit,” I said. “Daniel’s forgotten me.” Clearly I was less than memorable all around. I let in Marilyn Manson, who was never on the list in the first place because he once stole Daniel’s girlfriend from him, which—let’s face it—is not flattering.
    “Ryan’s twisted.” Lara took the clipboard from me and handed it to Nick. She gave him an imploring smile, and he took over happily. Unsurprising, as she was looking more stunning than I’d ever seen her, and certainly more relaxed. She had a man’s tux jacket slung over her porcelain-white shoulders, and her hair looked very déshabillé, very fucked in the bushes.
    “Who’s the lucky man?” I asked, pointing to the jacket.
    “You wouldn’t want to know.” She slipped her arm through mine and led me into the thick of the party. “Oh, and by the way, great party. Scott and Daniel are thrilled.”
    “No, you’re kidding! What about the strippers?” I asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
    “Yeah, nice touch.” Lara laughed. “When I first saw them taking off their gold costumes, I thought you’d lost your mind hiring them. Butwhen everyone saw how awesome George thought it was and what fun he was having, even Daniel got into it.”
    “Honestly?” I asked.
    “Sure,” Lara said.
    I was so relieved. This was a death-row pardon, and I couldn’t have been happier. I’d deal with Ryan later. My Crazy Girls were tiptoeing around a cigar-wielding Jack and his cronies in their G-strings, not an oversize nipple in sight, and the lush foliage of palm fronds and orchids seemed to be alive with kissing strangers, deals being brokered, and asses being kissed. Hollywood was definitely a jungle. I caught a glimpse of George chatting to a very cute guy with black hair and groovy schoolboy sneakers on—in defiance of the black-tie dress code, I might add.
    “Who’s that?” I asked Lara as we weaved our way poolside.
    “Luke Lloyd!” she yelled, too loud for my comfort. “He’s a hottie and actually not a gross-receipt-obsessed moron like most producers.”
    “Oh, he’s a producer.” I kissed the idea of him good-bye and began looking for cute waiters. It wasn’t that I was afraid to incur Lara’s wrath anymore, just that she’d been proved right with her warning about dating industry men. I hated being the talk of the office, and I hated even more turning the next corner and seeing Esther Hartley sitting on Jake’s knee. Her long arms were draped around his shoulders, and whatever she was saying was making him laugh. And if I had