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And, of course:
“NO!”
That last “no” had been hers. Delivered just that afternoon at the end of another fruitless casting session, when the studio people tried to convince her to let Lala Grinada play Monica. Lala had the limpest blond hair Pandy had ever seen, and she looked like someone who would starve herself under the slightest bit of pressure. And she was British.
No, Pandy thought. Lala Grinada was not going to play Monica. She leaned out the window and, by craning her head sharply to the left, discovered that she could just catch a glimpse of The Girl on the billboard.
And then, as if it were a sign from the Hollywood gods themselves, the buzzer rang and Pandy rushed downstairs, breathlessly opening the door to discover a waiter holding a tray with a bottle of champagne. Propped against the glittering condensation on the silver ice bucket was a gray envelope bearing the name PJ Wallis. Written in block letters and underlined twice.
Pandy shook off the droplets and ripped open the envelope. Inside was a single heavy card, on which a note was written in the same block lettering: Hope you’ve enjoyed your stay in LA so far. Looking forward to our meeting tomorrow! It was signed with two letters: PP.
Peter Pepper, the head of the studio that was making Monica.
Who calls himself PP—Pee-Pee? Pandy wondered as she slid the letter back into the envelope.
PP, she knew, wanted to talk about casting.
This was good. She wanted to talk about casting, too.
The part of Monica had been offered to several well-known actresses, all of whom had turned it down for various reasons. One claimed she didn’t understand the character. Another was worried that Monica wasn’t likable. Yet another insisted she couldn’t use bad language, take drugs, or be rejected by a man on-screen.
No actress who was any good wanted to play Monica. And the ones who wanted to play her weren’t good enough.
Pandy picked up the phone. “Can I have two vodka cranberries with ice and a bacon cheeseburger, medium rare?”
“Just one person,” she clarified. Then: “One person. Two drinks. I’m thirsty.”
Pandy put the phone down.
“I need that girl,” she said aloud.
* * *
The next morning, before the meeting with PP, Pandy risked her life crossing Sunset to get to the newsstand across from the Chateau. The road forked oddly, and anything in the intersection was potential roadkill. Pandy darted, stopped, darted. She imagined herself as John Belushi in Animal House.
She bought a pile of magazines and two packs of cigarettes, just in case.
* * *
“I hear you haven’t liked anyone so far,” PP said, leaning back in his conference room chair.
PP was a squarish man with a squarish head and smooth dark hair that resembled the sort of plastic coif favored by action figures. He had thick, blocky thighs that strained against the fine fabric of his black suit pants. He always sat with his legs apart.
“If you’re referring to Lala Grinada, you’re right,” Pandy said boldly.
PP—Pee-Pee—scanned the faces around the conference table, taking his time to pause at each one before he said, “Lala Grinada would never be right for this. Whose bad idea was that?” He tilted back in his chair.
“The agency,” someone said.
“Actually, there is someone I’d like to see,” Pandy interjected. “She looks right for the part, anyway.”
“Looks are something,” agreed one of the other executives—a second- or third-in-command, Pandy guessed. “Who is it?”
“Her.” Pandy laid out the array of magazines, turning to the pages that featured The Girl in a variety of ads—lingerie, fine jewelry, and perfume.
“Her?” someone asked incredulously.
“Is she the one with the—”
