Page 23 of Sizzle Reel

I get up and turn my camera to her. “Can you repeat that whole thing with the other cupcake while I frame you in moody lighting?”

Romy bursts out laughing. “I’m not even drunk, and yes, I can.” She flashes a V by her mouth. “Eat your heart out, my lady.”

She makes the phrase sound like it was never a cliché.

When Valeria and I meet for our interview, it’s after we both have been in the Slater Management building for several hours straight. She’s got another incredible suit on, this periwinkle linen blazer and shorts, and a necklace chain dips into her shirt. I know she’s trying to impress people, and I come to work here every day and sweat through everything anyway, but god, she makes me want to try harder.

It’s just us in the café, because we’re here past the time most assistants go home. There’s one barista behind the counter, who doesn’t make a fuss when she hands Valeria two coffees. I offered to get the coffees, but Valeria insisted she wanted to move around. So here I am, looking but not really looking at my printed résumé as Valeria glides around in these incredible cream Gucci loafers and a shade of rose lipstick I watched her coat her lips in while she waited for the coffees. There’s so little about her vibe that makes her seem famous, but the designer clothing is a subtle marker—I’m rich; I made this money leading successful movies.

“Do you take your coffee with anything?” Valeria asks.

I just can’t quite reconcile it right now. It’s dangerous, in a way. Like I should go through her Twitter indirects to remember exactly how famous she is, how different we are.

“Cinnamon,” I reply.

She tips cinnamon into both our coffees and returns to the table. And finally, I’m face-to-face with her. The details are just flooding in, and I don’t know what to store in my memory. The sharpness of her nose and the light dusting of freckles across it, the piercings along her helixes and the earlobes that don’t have earrings in them.

“So,” she says, her voice airy and high, like how she sounds in interviews where she looks relaxed, “I took a look at your résumé, and I gotta say—very impressive, but I don’t quite get it.” She flips the résumé around, pushing it toward me. Her nails are short, and just that forms a weird knot in my stomach. “What’s the story? Why do you want to be a personal assistant when all your experience is in production?”

If I could lie my way into this place, surely I can butter Valeria up. “I mean, I know how the industry works. It’s about building connections and being as helpful to people as possible in a collaborative environment until someone wants to help you back. Cultivate talent in the meantime. You seem really cool, and I appreciate your advocacy for underrepresented voices.”

Valeria’s smile shifts to a sort of smirk. “Beautifully crafted response.” She raises a brow. “Let’s cut the BS. I know it’s Hollywood, but let’s give it a shot. What’s your bigger goal? And don’t say ‘personal assistant.’ No one actually wants to be a personal assistant.”

I sip my coffee. Slowly. There’s no way this could go worse than when I told Alice. This isn’t even a real interview. “Cinematographer.”

Her features light up. The sight is somehow so beautiful that a lump is forming in my throat. I take another sip of coffee.

“Trailblazer, huh?” she says. “That’s fantastic.” She glances at a piece of art on the wall. “And explains the art knowledge.”

I shrug. “Fine art is more a hobby, but yeah, there are so few female visual storytellers, especially as parts of features, and I think it’s the kind of position we need that eye in. Plus”—I rub my wrist—“I just…I’ve only been able to tell stories through images.”

“Right, your Toy Story thing.” She shakes her head. “I should’ve guessed.”

“Do you have any formal background with fine art?”

She makes a face. “Not quite. I wish. My mom loved taking us to art museums when my sister and I were younger, though. Parents made me volunteer at the Huntington all through high school to ‘stay out of trouble.’ ” She smiles to herself, as if remembering an old joke. “And then I became an actress and embarrassed their Pasadena sensibilities with my politically radical soft porn and premiere dresses with ‘too much damn cleavage.’ ”

I chuckle. “Oh, come on. They must be thrilled for you.”

Valeria laughs. “Nah. They’re still pissed I spent so much money at Hot Topic as a teen. God knows what they think of what I do now.” She looks to me. “Did you cause your parents trouble?”

I shake my head. “I hardly left the house. Just made a lot of short films.”

“As someone who never leaves her house but doesn’t produce art, I respect that.”

In fact, my parents did and still do brag to their friends about what an easygoing kid I was and what a delightful and hardworking adult I became. Even in this environment, my heart twinges thinking about how they’re probably saying that shit to this day, and it’s all about someone they don’t even fully know. They might stop saying that stuff if they did know me.

But no time for that. I’m with Valeria Sullivan right now, talking work, dreams, my future.

If I’d gotten advice for this meeting/interview, I would’ve been advised against this more than anything else. But it’s not enough that Valeria remembers my name and my lock screen and that I’m bi. Yes, I’ve neglected my art, but my art was once my whole life. I want it to be my whole life again. It’s my hook.

“I would never make you watch a reel, but I’d be honored if you looked at some of my work. Your directorial debut sounds so exciting, and I’m sure you have a great eye too.”

And I swear Valeria Sullivan blushes because of what I just said. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

I open my cinematography folder on my phone and hand it over. Our hands don’t touch, but for a moment I just watch as her slender fingers wrap around my phone case, as bits of her fingerprints plant onto my screen. My photos reflect off her dark eyes as little blots of color. It’s a beautiful shot in and of itself. My heart hammers in my chest.

“Do you have any favorite female cinematographers?” Valeria asks, her voice airy again, almost far away. Like she’s barely aware she’s speaking.

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