Page 2 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

Desdemona, on the other hand, is a cross between Meryl Streep inThe Devil Wears Pradaand Cruella de Vil. She’s not in it for the rug burns.

But as I slowly navigate my way around the pool toward Desdemona’s new mark, I get it. If she talks to him, and the next role he accepts comes from Arista or Jenny Wolfgang or any of the other casting directors that Desdemona considers her rivals, she looks like a chump.

If I fail, well, blame the lousy assistant for botching the deal.

I know the drill.

Before I can wade through the crowd surrounding the booze, someone bumps my arm. I turn to see Zachery, who also works for Desdemona, holding two fresh glasses of champagne.

My heart leaps a smidge, even though it shouldn’t.

“You look like you need this,” he says, passing me a plastic flute.

I clutch it like a dog with a favorite toy. “You are a lifesaver.”

He smiles with the single dimple that got him decent parts before his career dried up. He could have taken it hard a decade ago, washed up at twenty-six, and disappeared from the industry. But instead, he invested his money wisely and nurtured his network.

Now, like me, he gathers actors for Desdemona.

And at this moment, he’s exactly what I need.

I lean in close to him. “The Demon wants me to nab that guy in the Diesel jeans.”

“What project?”

I shrug. “She didn’t say. She might just be collecting.”

Zachery’s wearing a simple white button-down (Burberry, $800) and navy pants (Santorelli, $250), and he smells so good. He can layer colognes like a chemist. Sometimes I sit next to him at auditions to get a good sniff. If somebody bottled Zach No. 5, I’d sell my car to buy some.

But work proximity is as far as it goes between us. He’ll never be mine. He’s your classic Hollywood playboy, and his ability to charm up-and-coming leading ladies into attending premieres is legendary.

And undoubtedly the source of his usefulness to Desdemona.

“You want a wingman?” Zachery asks.

“Totally. We can’t have a repeat of Plumeria Drive.”

Zachery frowns. “My knuckles have never recovered.”

I lift his hand to kiss them. He punched a guy who tried to get up my skirt at a premiere party earlier this year. “My hero.”

Too bad he’s not “my” anything. But we’re like this all the time. Jester, our casting associate who schedules auditions, has dubbed us “the old married couple.”

And we are. There would be no way to survive Desdemona without each other.

We both love Jester. Zachery and I sometimes fantasize about hanging our own casting shingle, dumping the Demon, and hiring Jester right out from under her.

But this business is built on threats and promises, and Desdemona is one of the hubs. I sometimes regret the day I applied to be her assistant. I should have gone with someone more easygoing. Most casting directors are.

But here I am. Zachery and I often realize we’re stuck in this web, right up close to the spider in the center of it all.

Speaking of which, Desdemona has moved into our sight line, frantically pointing at our mark. He’s already speaking to Glen Jacobs, who everyone knows has been tapped to cast a new superhero series. If Jacobs pegs our guy for something, he might get too busy for us.

And Desdemona will be pissed.

I glance at Zachery. “I’ll take the mark. You take Jacobs.”

“Got it.”

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