eBook
Related collections and offers
Overview
The compulsively readable and sinfully gossipy tale of five Hollywood personal assistants who band together to turn the tables on their celebrity employers—written by a former personal assistant to a star.
In this wicked, laugh-out-loud debut novel, five miserable souls struggle to make their mark on Hollywood, the city of the soulless.
Rachel, a starry-eyed and clueless Texas transplant accepts a position as assistant to an aging television diva. Michaela has spent years on the casting couch, and the last pilot she almost got, a decade ago, went to that little nobody, Lisa Kudrow. Jeb has been fired from more assistant jobs than he cares to count, and he currently teeters on the edge of insanity under one of the sleaziest agents in Hollywood. Griffin assists a crass A-list manager who has a tanning bed in his office. Kecia, a no-nonsense Pisces pining for love and Krispy Kremes, works for a hot teen heartthrob who is always looking for the next good party—until his ex-con brother shows up at the front door.
Once a week, the assistants meet to commiserate. When the system spits them out, they must learn to succeed through sheer determination, hard-won industry savvy, and luck.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061738203 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins Publishers |
| Publication date: | 10/13/2009 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 693 KB |
About the Author
Robin Lynn Williams managed to survive twelve months as a personal assistant to several Hollywood luminaries. When not in therapy or suffering reoccurring nightmares, she enjoys not having a pager, cell phone, or Blackberry attached to her. She is an English/Creative Writing graduate from UCLA and her work has appeared in Biography and the New York Times Syndicate. She lives in New York City.
Read an Excerpt
The Assistants
A Novel
Michaela
I feel like I'm in an Old Navy commercial. You know, the ones where there's a bunch of hip minors dressed in similar outfits, dancing around merrily -- as if their lives actually had meaning? Except here, nobody's dressed alike, nobody's dancing, and I'm the oldest one in the room -- by more than a decade.
"Michaela Marsh?"
Everyone in the waiting area turns around and gawks. I raise my hand. "Right here."
Standing up always presents a challenge because the black slim skirt I'm wearing is very short and very tight, so tight I have to sit on the edge of my seat with my knees pressed firmly together to avoid giving away the goods. You see, the skirt is about the size of a washcloth, and it gives the illusion that I'm taller. At a whopping five-two, I need all the help I can get.
I extend my hand to the casting assistant. Stunned by my professionalism, a strange look appears on her pockmarked face. It's obvious that no one ever wants to shake her hand. After all, she is just the assistant. She offers her hand anyway and shakes mine limply. She definitely has to work on the handshake.
What's even more disturbing than the limp handshake, however, is that the assistant looks sixteen. In fact, everyone at this casting call seems extremely juvenile. They belong in a tenth-grade geometry class if anywhere, certainly not here, competing with me.
I can't help shuddering when I think of my own age, but then I quickly put it out of my mind. Bad vibes. I won't let anything distract me. This audition for Coral Gables (or The CG, for those of us in the know) is way too important. I hand the assistant my head shot and résumé.
"Follow me," she instructs, leading me into a barren windowless office that's ablaze in fluorescent light. Great. I can't begin to tell you how horribly pale and decrepit I look under this light. The few tiny lines on my face -- and I stress few -- probably look like they were drawn with a Sharpie fine-point. To make matters worse, one of the bulbs is flickering like a strobe.
A woman and two men sit behind a conference table. In the middle of the room, a young tan guy with highlighted curly hair sits in a chair, flipping through slides. Directly facing him is an empty chair. I study it, trying to figure out how I'm going to ease in and out of it in my tight skirt.
"This is Michaela Marsh," the assistant announces as she hands over my headshot.
"Hello, Michaela," the panel murmur in unison, glancing at the photo. When they look up at me, I smile a perfect I'm-not-desperate smile. And I'm not desperate. Not even a teensy bit. I have classic Southern Californian looks: tan, with blue eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair. Traveling southward, I have perky breasts and a flawless, rock-hard body. I'm basically a midget Tai Bo Barbie. It's definitely too much perfection for one person. Too bad I'm completely man-made. Only the best for daddy's little girl.
The woman clears her throat. "My name's Erin Malone. I'm casting this pilot. On my right is Jason Carr, the executive producer of The CG, and on my left is Bill Bond, head writer."
Both men nod their heads and smile. I smile more broadly -- a perfect, toothpaste-commercial smile filled with white, bonded teeth. And it has the added benefit of stretching my skin just enough to hide the few lines in my face. I had to practice in the mirror for several days to get it just right.
"This is Brandon East, who plays Rico, the lead of this show," Erin continues.
Brandon's legs are stretched out in front of him and he looks bored, stoned, or both. He gives me a nonchalant "Hey."
I hold that winning smile, trying to convey that I'm perfect for the show, which is about a bunch of twentysomething students at the University of Miami. But I'm also nervous, admittedly. I met this same casting director many years ago, at the early auditions for -- gulp! -- Beverly Hills 90210. Will she remember me? Suddenly I feel like Grandma Walton.
"Which part are you reading?" Erin asks. She looks like a Jenny Craig client who cheats. "Celeste or Simone?"
"Either one," I say with a confident smile. "I've memorized both roles."
Impressed, Jason Carr and Bill Bond nod their heads, then the three of them huddle together to discuss the situation. I stand there politely with my hands at my sides and right foot turned outward. This is the classic beauty contestant stance. I learned it when I Jon Beneted my way through the Miss Southern California pageant. Please don't get me wrong. I believe, as strongly as the next educated person, that pageants are unnecessary, demeaning, and extremely cheesy. And I'm almost sure Michelle Pfeiffer felt exactly the same way. But look what pageants did for her.
Every few seconds, the threesome look at me in wide-eyed wonderment, then return to their discussion. Now I'm really freaked. They're trying to decide if they've seen me before. That could be because I'm a working actress, as opposed to nonworking, thank you very much. My credits include guest shots as Jerry's girlfriend on Seinfeld, a district attorney on Law & Order, Hooker #3 on NYPD Blue, and a host of commercials -- including Denny's, Pizza Hut, Miller Lite, and Playtex. I hate to rendezvous in the Land of Negativity, but there should be something else on my résumé that's not. It's too painful. I costarred in a little TV pilot once. I had been in countless pilots already, but NBC actually picked this one up for thirteen episodes, and everyone knew it was special. Here's the part that sucks, though. Two weeks before the season premiere, the producers told me they were going in a different direction -- which in L.A.-speak means, Bend over, this is going to hurt. They said they envisioned another "look" for the character. They wanted someone taller, with longer hair. So I had to call everybody I've ever known and tell them I wasn't playing Phoebe on a new show called Friends. A week later I was on Prozac ...
The AssistantsA Novel. Copyright © by Robin Williams. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.