Some Assistance, Please!

    By Mortie

    Section I, Next Section

    Chapter One

    Posted on Thursday, 3 March 2005

    Each chapter is broken into two parts, alternating between Marlowe and Steve's point of view.

    E. Marlowe Santia

    I had been staring at the computer screen for hours, wading through the ads at one of those job search websites. Nearly two a.m. and I was no further than I had been when I started. I couldn't tell what I was reading any more. It was time to give up. One last refresh... and there was something new.

    The ad read: "Professional Assistant wanted. Must be willing to travel/relocate. Office and phone experience preferred. Ideal applicants should be efficient, organised, creative and personable." I was to fax a resume and cover letter to one Carlotta Carmela and contact her with any questions.

    Me, I had just quit my very first serious job out of college, had no prospects or office experience, and telephones scared the bejesus out of me. I was certain I would make a good Professional Assistant, and I had nothing to lose by sending in my resume. It was worth a shot. I rattled off a bullpuckey cover letter and faxed the bundle in.

    "I can't believe you did that," my mother said on the phone later. "You don't know anything about that company or what you'll really be doing!"

    "Yeah, well, chances are they won't hire me anyway. I don't have all that much experience," I countered. She wasn't always that supportive. I'd learned to deal with that.

    "Have you put in an application at that bookstore yet?" she continued.

    "No. It's a crazy electronic thing that shut down on me when I got to the end. I'll try again tomorrow."

    I heard her sigh. "You're turning into your father, you know," she said. The words I hated to hear.

    "Let's not talk about that, Mom. I'm at least trying to find a job. I'll talk to you later mom. I gotta go."

    It's not always easy to talk to my mother. That's probably why I didn't live with her once I finished school. I lived with my grandmother, Anne Mitchell, 300 miles away from my mother, who chose to live out in the middle of nowhere. Just a few miles south of Mackinaw City. She sends fudge in care packages. Fudge is good.

    Hi. My name is Marlowe Santia. I am a recovering college student, biding time until graduate school by endeavouring to pay off my student loans. The first job I had, the first real job, was a virtual nightmare. I got out of there after three months of twelve-hour shifts and demonic co-workers. My salvation: a part-time job at Legends, a local department store. I made enough to cover my loan payments and my car insurance, but that was about it.

    So I started looking for a better job. At least one that paid better. I liked working at Legends, since the people were nice, but I needed more than they could give me. I posted a resume online at a few of those job-search engines but didn't have much luck. There just weren't many places hiring an entry-level schmuck with a theatre degree.

    Until I saw the ad from Baumhaus Enterprises. It was a long shot by all accounts, but worth it. I was not expecting the phone call a week later.

    "May I please speak to Miss Marlowe Santia?" the pleasant female said.

    "This is she."

    "My name is Carlotta, and I'm calling on behalf of Baumhaus Enterprises in regards to your resume and application for the position of professional assistant."

    "Oh!"

    "We would like to schedule you for an interview tomorrow at 10 o'clock-" Oh, yeah! Great, wonderful! I had a chance... "In our New York offices."

    Not so great.

    "Excuse me? The ad didn't say anything about New York."

    "It is customary for interviews to be conducted in the home office. In this instance the interviews will be held in a group setting, with all the primary candidates."

    "But- I can't get to New York tomorrow! I live in Michigan. I'd have to fly, and get a room, and food expenses ... I'm sorry, I have limited funds."

    "Miss Santia, are you sincerely interested in this position?"

    "Y-Yes."

    "Then I suggest you find a way to get to New York."

    "There's no way to do a phone interview?"

    I could almost hear her shake her head.

    "With a job of this nature, Miss Santia, it's important to look for compatibility with our client. You have a similar background, and your references speak very highly of your abilities." Carlotta's voice lowered. "I'm not supposed to tell you this, but you are one of the three final candidates under consideration. The chances of your being hired are very good. Come to New York, bring copies of your resume and references, a portfolio if you've got one. If you can't make it, your chances are forfeit. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, sweetie. You wouldn't want to miss it."

    So I agreed to go to New York for the interview. Carlotta hadn't told me who was looking for the personal assistant, saying that it was confidential and I'd find out when I interviewed. The only problem was actually getting to New York for the interview.

    My brother James called just after I hung up with Carlotta. James, who manages bands for a living, who lives ... in New Jersey! So much for Luck Be A Lady, this time Luck was a punk-rock prince.

    "James! My favourite brother!"

    "What do you want?" he asked. "Is Mom home?"

    "No, and why do you think I want something? I can't express feelings of ... favouritism?"

    "I'm always suspicious of you. What's up?"

    "I need to get to New York."

    "Why?"

    "I've got an interview at Baumhaus for a personal assistant job. I'm one of three candidates."

    James whistled. "Whoa. That's impressive. Especially for just-out-of-college you. Baumhaus, that's a big deal. They handle a lot of major celebrities. You sure you're up for it?"

    "I'm up for anything right now. I'm broke. And I want to travel. And there's also the chance that I won't be hired."

    "But first you need to get out here. Right. Well, you can stay with me and Angie if you like, it'll save you some money. Have you checked fares yet?"

    "I just got off the phone. So no."

    There was a pause, and I heard the clicking of computer keys. "You owe me."

    "I know. And I'll pay you back, I promise."

    "Damn right you will. Okay, there's a flight at nine tonight. I'll pick you up and take you into the city tomorrow morning. We'll see where we go from there."

    "Thank you. How much?"

    "Let's not talk about that right now," James said. "Let's get you this job first."

    My mother wasn't pleased to find me shoving clothes into a backpack a few hours later. It was the whole last-minuteness of it.

    "You're doing what?"

    "I'm going to New York for a job interview."

    "When?"

    "James got me a flight out tonight. The interview is tomorrow morning and I come back, I think, tomorrow afternoon. I don't know. James didn't say."

    "What kind of job is it that you need to go to New York for an interview?"

    I explained everything I knew about the job, how I'd sent in my resume on a whim and how Carlotta had called back. How James had called just when I needed the help. How I was one of three candidates for the job.

    "And I need the job, I need the money. I want to travel, I want to work in movies, and this is a good way to start. And if I don't get the job I at least get to see New York before coming back here to work at the Quick-E-Mart for the rest of my life."

    "I can't take you to the airport," Mom said. "I've got that ceramics class tonight."

    "I know. Evan's taking me."

    "That's nice. I like him."

    Ah, yes, the default "Why don't you try dating Evan?" speech. After hearing it for three years straight, I had learned how to derail that train of thought. And now I had a really good reason to say "No, thanks."

    "Mom, I'm going to New York. I have a one-in-three chance of getting this job. I'm not about to start a relationship with anyone until I know where my life is heading." That, and I'm 99.99% sure that Evan's gay.

    I mean, I only know a handful of guys in the theatre who aren't. I love Evan dearly, as a friend, but he's last on my list of guys I'd want to date. Steven Knight, he's first. Drop-dead gorgeous actor, and supposedly a nice guy too.

    But I didn't tell my mother that. I had no idea how she would react. She knew that my friend Harry was gay, and while she didn't discourage me from hanging out with him, she didn't encourage it either. The last thing I needed, aside from more "Why don't you try dating" talks from my mother, was her disapproval of my friends. At the time, it translated to her disapproval of me.

    A car horn beeped outside.

    "That'll be Evan. James is picking me up at the airport. I'll call you when I get in, love you, bye."

    I kissed her cheek and sprinted out of the room, down the stairs, and out the door.

    "Hello, darling," he said, a little peck on each cheek in greeting. "Going to the Big Apple, are we?"

    "Yup."

    "All right! At least one of us is making it. So, what are you going to be in? What're you working on? Any big names?"

    "I think so. I'm interviewing..." I had the whole spiel memorised by then.

    "Oh, so you'll be working with celebrities, then! That's good too. You could always put in a good word for me."

    "Always."

    "You'll be back in time for my show to open, right? I'll need you there."

    "I have no idea what I'll be doing for the next few days. My brother James might sell me into slavery. He's paying for this little trip of mine." I relaxed, leaning back into the seat of his ancient and well-preserved little Tempo.

    There was a shift in Evan's mood.

    "I'll miss you," he said.

    "I'll be gone two days, three at the most. And you're in tech week for Twelfth Night. You won't have time to miss me."

    "No, you're going to get this job and move away and I'll never see you again." He parked outside the drop off area, but I didn't get out of the car just then.

    "That is so not true and you know it."

    "No, it's not! Marlowe, you're my best friend." He turned and looked at me. "Marry me."

    "What?! You can't be serious!" Oh, but he was. "What about Harry?"

    "Marlowe, Harry's gay."

    "I know!" then, a whine: "Aren't you?"

    It was his turn to be incredulous.

    "NO! What- How could you ever think that?"

    "You haven't had a girlfriend the entire time I've known you. You haven't even been remotely interested in any women... You swish when you walk, your wrists look like cooked linguini, you dress better than most women and you work in musical theatre. What other benchmarks need to be made?"

    "Yeah, and you've never had a boyfriend, only just recently became interested in guys; you dress, act, and eat like a boy, and you can strike a set faster than most men. You're not exactly the paragon of femininity."

    "And yet you want to marry me! No. Thanks for the ride, but I gotta go. Talk to you later."

    The plane ride was a joke. Aside from fuming about Evan, I was seated next to a Miss Albertine Raspberry who was travelling with her cat. There I was, trying to focus and keep myself from freaking out about this interview that could make or break my entire life, and this batty old lady was hand-feeding pretzels to a cat the size of Kilamanjaro. That thing was huge! I don't know how it fit in the carry-on bag. And it was freaky ... the cat winked at me. Or blinked ... it only had one eye.

    And once it was done with its pretzel snack, it decided my resume was a good entrée. I don't know why I had it out in the first place, really. I do know. I was obsessing over making sure everything was right. But the cat chewed on my resume, my only hard copy. Sure I had one on my pocket drive, but I didn't know if I'd be able to print off another one.

    "Oh, I'm sorry dear, Jack has a mind of his own." She was a sweet, batty old woman.

    "Um-hmm."

    Thankfully it wasn't a long flight. I wouldn't have made it. After the cat got his mid-flight fibre fix I asked the stewardess for some tea. It isn't hard to guess what happened next. Yup, turbulence. Tea spilled all over my resume, making it look like parchment... at least on the bottom half.

    James was waiting for me as promised.

    "How was the flight, kid?" he asked as he ushered me to the line of cars outside.

    "It was fine. I'm just tired and this freakishly large cat ate my resume."

    "You're joking. You have another copy, right?"

    "Nope." I produced the tea-stained and nibbled-upon document. "I have it saved on my pocket drive though. I can print one off at your house, right?"

    "If only. My printer's broken. You're outta luck, kid."

    I sank into the car seat. I had no chance of winning this job, I knew it. Might as well just stay home.

    "Hey, look at it this way. You got a two-day vacation out of this, and the chance to say you interviewed for a big star while you were here. You got this far, kid. Might as well go to the interview and make the best of it. The worst that can happen is you don't get the job."

    "I don't even want to go in."

    "No. I got you the plane ticket to get here. That cost me an arm and a leg. You're going in and you're going to kick some butt. Then I'm going to take you and get you smashed. You'll be so keyed up you'll need it. I'll introduce you to some of my friends and you'll have some names to drop back at Legends."

    "I owe you my life and ten days," I said. He put the car in park got out.

    "Yeah, well, we'll figure something out. First born child comes to mind."

    "Like that's going to happen any time soon." It was good to be joking again, although there was a note of truth to it. Like Evan had said, I'd never had a boyfriend or any prospects. Me having a kid was in the distant, distant future.

    "Go get some sleep," James said, holding the door open for me. "We leave tomorrow at the butt-crack of dawn. Getting into the city will be an adventure."

    Boy was he right. We left at 6:30 and I was still almost late. It was like everyone in New England was going to New York. Nobody was leaving.

    "Let me know when you're done," James said as we pulled up to the curb. "You got my number?"

    "Yeah." I wasn't moving. Fear had frozen me to the seat. James had to undo the seatbelt for me.

    "Good luck, kid," he said. I nodded. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I wasn't moving. "Out, now!" he ordered.

    Again I nodded and I stepped out of the car, onto the sidewalk and into the building for the interview that could just change my life.

    Steven Knight

    "I don't believe you're doing this to me!" I said. My agent, Ryan Treyvant, was unfazed as he led me down the hallway to the boardroom. "I don't want a bloody assistant. You could have at least told me about it before posting the damn ad. I don't need one!"

    "Your career is picking up. An assistant will help you with everything you're going to be doing. An assistant will help keep your life organised, which you seem to have a problem doing."

    "I do not," I sulked. He was right. I took my cap off and ran my hand through my hair. I probably could use a trim, I thought. Something to have my new assistant do. "And I'm meeting the three finalists in half an hour? I would've shaved if I'd known."

    "You wouldn't have shown up if you'd known," he said dryly.

    "Damn right." I grinned as Ryan rolled his eyes. "Am I interviewing them personally?"

    "Initially Irene and I will be. You'll just watch. Later on you can ask a few questions. Try to put some thought into them, please."

    "I am offended, Ryan. Really hurt." He didn't buy it. My estimation of him crept up a notch and a half.

    "We are trying to find you the best match, Steven." Ooh, my full name. He was losing his patience with me.

    "Do I get any say in this?"

    "Yes. Ultimately you will have the final choice."

    "Small comfort, that."

    The door closed behind us. My co-agent, Irene Dumarc, was all ready there.

    "Hello, Irene," I said.

    "Are you giving Ryan a hard time?" she asked.

    "Isn't that my job? I thought I was supposed to send his blood-pressure through the roof. Anyway, it's my prerogative, the blood-sucking sadistic parasite."

    Ryan ignored me. Good man. I settled into a chair and relaxed, deciding to make this the worst interview any of them had ever had.

    "You don't like this?"

    "Whatever gave you that idea? Will I be paying their salary?"

    "That's something we'll work out later. Are we ready?" Ryan didn't wait for an answer but pressed the button for the intercom. "Carlotta, please show the candidates in."

    My plan wouldn't have worked. The receptionist, Carlotta, ushered in two capable interviewees. One was formidable. She was a larger woman, African-American, and I found myself sitting up straighter in my chair when she looked at me. I was afraid of a reprimand for slouching. She reminded me of my mother.

    The other was a walking stick. A walking stick that swished. He struck me as very efficient, which was good, but something about him just made me uncomfortable. I have nothing against homosexuals. It's not a lifestyle that works for me but I'm in no position to tell someone else that it's wrong.

    I couldn't see either of them being my assistant. To be fair, though, I'd hear them out. Maybe they would prove me wrong.

    "Carlotta, where is Miss Santia?" Ryan asked.

    "I don't know, Mr. Treyvant. She said she'd be here. Okay, she's coming in the door right now-"

    This girl burst into the room, completely frazzled, rumpled, and freaked out.

    "I'm so sorry I'm late!" she said, dumping a beat-up leather backpack purse on the floor and sitting down as gracefully as she could in a chair. "You would not believe the traffic coming into town today! And I'm sorry I don't have a copy of my resume, but honestly, a cat ate it and I spilled coffee on the folder and my brother's printer is on the fritz."

    Ryan made a note and a small noise, something like a snort. The two other interviewees looked at the girl and I could see that they thought they had the job in the bag. The girl looked at me and stopped talking except for one last statement.

    "Oh holy f-! You're Steven Knight!" It was quite impressive how she managed to stop herself from swearing. I would've just said it.

    The room went dead silent. If the other two knew who I was, they were professional enough to be discreet. The girl, Miss Santia, went red from her neck to her hair and looked down at the table. I had to laugh. It was an honest reaction and showed a part of her that impressed me. She knew who I was.

    "I like her," I said. Ryan made another note.

    Things did not go well for the girl. She barely spoke and didn't even look at me for almost an hour out of embarrassment. Because of that Ryan and Irene didn't direct many questions her way, which I thought was unfair, and the ones she did answer they didn't care for. She was way out of her league.

    The other two, Donna and Gary, had been executive assistants at major corporations. The girl, Marlowe, was a year out of university and working part-time at a department store in Michigan. How in the world did she get this far?

    I pulled her resume out from the pile and looked at it. There was the reason. She had experience working in theatre, more than I did. I had started in theatre but had gone into films not long after. There were a lot of "assistants" in that resume. That was how she got the interview: she knew the theatre and could adapt well.

    "Hey, Ryan, let's take a break. I need to use the john."

    My agent looked at the clock and sighed. "All right. Be back in half an hour. If you're late," he said to no one in particular, though he looked at Marlowe, "Don't bother showing up."

    "That was harsh," I said once the interviewees were gone. "It's not her fault she was late."

    "That has nothing to do with it. Her behaviour is completely unprofessional. I don't know what her references were thinking."

    "They know her better. Not everyone is as collected as you are, mate. Once she relaxes I'm sure she'll be fine."

    "You're banking on her relaxing," Ryan said. "I don't think it'll happen."

    "Sure it will. Just go a bit easier on her, all right? I like her. I could work with her. The other two... No. As far as I'm concerned, I've made my choice."

    "What's wrong with Donna and Gary?"

    "Donna reminds me of my mother, which isn't good, and Gary is fruitier than Carmen Miranda's headgear. I'm sure they're both wonderful people, but I couldn't handle being around either of them for more than a few minutes at a time. And so long as I've got a say in who my personal assistant is, I want Marlowe."

    "Why?" he challenged. "She has no experience, is completely unprofessional, and seems just a bit unfocused."

    "I was unfocused too at her age!" I countered. "Look, she's smart and funny, she's got theatre experience, which means she knows her way around a stage and how to handle theatre people, and she's pretty. I don't give a damn about experience as an assistant. She'll learn quick enough. I don't even know what I'll use her for, more than coffee and scheduling appointments."

    "This is a talent agency, Steve, not a dating agency."

    "I'm not interested in dating her! I just want to work with someone that doesn't have a stick up their arse or want to put their stick up mine. Give her a chance. Awards season is coming up, I'll need help dressing. Have them-all of them-find or design me an outfit. She'll have the best one, I know it. Or have them design a webpage or newsletter or something. Whatever." I took the hat off again and scratched my head. Why was Ryan being so damn difficult about it? "You're the one that chose her out of God knows how many resumes. You screened her references. You're the one that liked her enough to get her here for the interview. Obviously there was something there that kept you interested. So what if she's freaking out a little now? Things will work out, mark my words. I want her. Let her prove herself."

    "Fine. But don't come to me when you get in way over your own head. Gary is the best candidate for this job. You're only going to be short-changing yourself in this if you choose Marlowe."

    "I don't think so."

    "I know so," Ryan said. "I've been doing this longer than you have."

    "Bully for you. I'm going on my instincts, and they've done right by me for thirty-five years. Marlowe's the one."

    Ryan sighed. He knew he'd lost. "Don't you have to go to the bathroom?"

    That was the end of the conversation. I hadn't even had to make a threat to switch agencies. It was next if the instinct line hadn't worked. I was beginning to like the idea of having an assistant. I'm not bossy by nature, but come on! Having someone do the fiddly little things for you, making the haircut appointments and picking up the dry cleaning and all that stuff? Who wouldn't want one? In the end I'd have an attractive girl at my beck and call for things of a non-sexual nature. At most I'd have a last-minute date for parties. Speaking of which... I was supposed to be going out with a friend that night. His sister was in town-for a job interview!

    But no, New York is a big place. There are hundreds of job interviews conducted every day, the possibility was small that his sister would be- Then again...

    After the call of nature was well and truly answered I was back in the boardroom. Marlowe walked in first, shedding her coat and purse in one movement. I noticed that both were well worn, the latter moreso and now bulging. As curious as I was, I wasn't about to ask why.

    She sat down, her earlier nervousness gone or otherwise masked. She had replaced the blushing, trembling, near-mute girl with a woman possessing a nihilistic, crap-or-bust attitude. It was amazing what twenty minutes could do. Her back straight, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "Sorry about earlier. I'm a bit of a fangirl."

    She smiled and I returned in kind.

    "Duly noted," I said, "And appreciated. I'm glad someone recognises me."

    "I'm sure they can place your face, but the accent's a bit thick."

    I grinned. This little slip of a girl had affected my heavy Scots accent and pulled it off perfectly.

    "This is how I speak. I'm not going to drop it just because a little fangirl asked me to," I teased.

    "I never asked you to," she said, back in her normal voice. Defensive shields were going up. "I was just pointing out a fact."

    "No need to get snippy with me, girlie," I barrelled right along. She didn't answer, but her eyes narrowed as the others came in. I knew exactly who she was. It was going to be fun working with her.

    "I hope you had a good break. Steven will now be asking each of you some questions," Ryan said. "You will be evaluated on the intelligence and originality of your answers."

    I looked at Marlowe, who stared back. "Donna," I said, turning to her. "Why do you want to be my assistant?"

    All three of them blinked. It was a question Ryan had asked earlier.

    "I believe it would be a challenge," she said. "I've worked in the business sector for twenty years as an executive assistant and would like to try my hand in a new environment."

    Gary answered similarly. Something new, challenging. Meeting new people.

    Marlowe, though, held nothing back. "I need the money," she said, leaning on the arm of her chair. "I want to travel and eventually work in movies. This is a good place to start."

    "Okay. Marlowe again. Why would you be a good assistant? I know why they would be, but what about you?"

    "I answered this question an hour ago," she said evenly.

    "Answer it anyway."

    "Fine. Although my performance today suggests otherwise, I'm really a very organised person. Under normal circumstances I'm always on time or early. My co-workers and superiors enjoy working with me and have said as much, partially because of my outgoing personality, efficiency and confidence. I've often been accused of looking like I know what I'm doing."

    Irene and Gary chuckled; Ryan was unimpressed; Donna was impassive. I asked a few more bullshit questions, each one as off-kilter as the next. What's your favourite colour? Favourite movie? Do you like dogs? Would you dive into a Dumpster after a diamond necklace?

    "Are you quite finished?" Ryan asked. His professional demeanour was slipping.

    "Almost. I have a scenario for you," I said, addressing the three of them. "It's Oscar night, two hours before showtime. My dog just gave birth on my suit-my only suit. What do you do?"

    "I would start making calls right away to find you a new one," Donna said. It was a good answer, but not right.

    "Makes sense."

    "Lend you one of mine," Gary said. Uh, no.

    "Wouldn't work," I replied. "My shoulders are wider than yours."

    "Take care of the puppies first," Marlowe said, "Then haul your ass down to a thrift store and find you something that better fits your personality and personal style than a suit."

    "Bingo!" I said. "I'm satisfied. Thank you all for coming, we'll be in touch."

    Ryan wasn't pleased that I had finished up his interviews, but it was a waste of time. My mind was made up.

    The three of them stood and gathered their things. Marlowe was the last to leave and pulled a bottle of water out of her rucksack. I looked to my agents.

    "Isn't there any water in here for the rest of us?"

    From the corner of my eye I saw Marlowe look at the ceiling, take out a second bottle and slide it across the table-all before the words left my mouth. I grinned. Yep, she was the one.

    "Marlowe, I've got a question for you," I said. She paused. "Is your brother James Santia?" She nodded. "In the music industry?"

    She nodded again.

    "I knew it! He's a good guy. You're hired."

    "What?" both she and Ryan said in unison.

    "We have to talk about this," Ryan continued. Marlowe was no more pleased.

    "I'd like to be hired for some other reason than you know my brother."

    "There are other reasons," I said. I turned to Ryan. "I get my choice, and I choose her. She can anticipate my needs, and that's important. We'll have a contract to you soon. We leave for London in two weeks."

    "Excuse me, a job offer has not been made!" she said. "I don't even know if I want to take it yet!"

    "I just made the offer and you know you want to take it. Rehearsals start in two weeks for Othello in the West End. You've got that time to pack and make your arrangements."

    She was not pleased and stormed out of the room.

    "That went well," Ryan glowered.

    "I'm staying out of this," Irene said. "You two need to work this out on your own. I like her. She has spunk. She'll keep him in line."

    "Not bloody likely," I replied. Ryan admitted defeat. "Deliver her the contract. She'll sign it. See you later."

    She was just climbing into a car when I got down to street level. The door slammed shut as soon as she saw me. James, however, rolled down the window.

    "Hey, Steve! Wasn't expecting to see you here," he said. Marlowe tried to disappear into the seat. "What's up?"

    "Ah, I just hired a new assistant," I said, grinning. James looked at Marlowe.

    "Great! That's awesome. And you were so worried." He directed the last to Marlowe.

    "Can we just get out of here?" she asked. "I'm tired."

    "Sure. We still on for tonight?"

    "Oh, yeah. 10 o'clock, right?"

    James nodded and took off. This was going to be fun.

    Chapter Two: Retail Nightmare

    Posted on Monday, 14 March 2005

    E. Marlowe Santia

    I was walking in a dream after that. Somehow, for some reason I had gotten the job as Steven Knight's assistant. Even though he's hotter than molten steel I wasn't sure I wanted it. What did I know about being an assistant anyway? And he was a jerk, too, making fun of me and all sorts of stuff.

    I waited to put in my two weeks notice at Legends. I didn't go out and party with Steven and James after the interview. My plane left at five and I had a contract in my hot little hands stating that for the next two years I would be in the employ of Steven Knight as a personal assistant. For the next few months I would be receiving my salary from Baumhaus until other arrangements could be made. I was to report to Baumhaus' New York office two weeks from Monday, where I would be given an advance on my salary. From there Steven and I would leave for London, provided I sign and return the contract within 72 hours.

    "Marlowe, you've been lusting after this guy for the past month," Katie said. "Now you get to be around him nearly 24-7. You should be foaming at the mouth. What gives?"

    "I don't know. I guess- Look, I may be leaving in two weeks for London. I'd be working on a personal level for a guy I don't know in a city that I've never been to."

    "Have you signed the contract yet?" she asked.

    I hefted a dozen pairs of jeans onto the counter. "No." She continued to talk while I put them away.

    "Then don't. Stay here forever, never leave and never have any adventures. Don't do anything with your life. Stay safe at home and listen to everyone else tell stories."

    "Gee, when you put it that way. Come on, Katie! This is important."

    "You're right, it is! This is your opportunity to be famous, or at least get your foot in the door. Think about it! You'll get to meet every actor you've ever admired. That's so cool!"

    "You weren't there. He was such an toad!"

    Katie started giggling and looked past my shoulder. "I think you have a customer," she said and snorted.

    An overwhelming sense of dread washed over me as I turned. There he was, five feet behind me, smiling as innocent as an angel.

    "Do you have this in my size?" he asked, holding up a skimpy camisole.

    "No, I'm pretty sure we don't," Katie said, her mouth spasming from holding in loud, loud laughter.

    "What the heck are you doing here?"

    "Now, Marlowe, that's no way to talk to a customer. I might be here for a legitimate shopping reason."

    "You were in New York 24 hours ago. You can shop there."

    "I thought I'd come and spend some time with my new assistant. Get to know her a bit better. Can you blame me? This is someone I'm trusting my life with."

    "I don't blame you at all," Katie said. "I'll leave you two alone."

    "Katie, this is your area, you shouldn't leave. What if a client comes by?"

    "On a Wednesday night?" she replied. I begged without speaking. "He's all yours, babe. This is a good thing. You're worried about not knowing him, here's your chance to fix that."

    "You're no help."

    She smirked and walked away, back over to Coats and Swim. I was left on the walkway between Modern Sportswear and Intimates, with a 32 year old man intently studying the lingerie behind me. I turned around and there he was, staring at a rack of thongs.

    "Please tell me you have a pair of these on," he said, holding up a bizarre black lacy thing with a tuft of marabou in a delicate area. "It would account for your foul mood. I can't believe anyone would wear this."

    "I actually haven't seen anyone buy them," I admitted. "This isn't my area. And I can't believe you would suggest that I would be wearing something like that. I couldn't fit into them."

    "I could fit into these!" He waved a pair in my face.

    "No, you couldn't." I tried to take them away but he held them above my head.

    "How much do you want to bet?" he asked. His eyes, sparkling green. My stomach did the Wave in reaction to his smile. "Dinner tomorrow night? If I fit into them, you make me dinner. If I don't, I'll treat you to the best restaurant in town."

    "You're on. The fitting room's over there. You need to keep your skivvies on."

    "You're assuming I have them on in the first place," he said over his shoulder.

    The last thing I needed to hear, not if I was going to be working for him, and it sent my mind straight to the gutter. I heard him laugh as I screwed my eyes shut and tried to expunge that image from my mind.

    "Did you just send a man into the ladies' fitting room?" my manager, Taynisha, asked. I wasn't supposed to do that.

    "Yes," I said, looking at her. "That man is Steven Knight, the actor, and quite possibly my new boss. He's trying on a pair of women's panties. If he can fit into them I have to make him dinner tomorrow night. If not, he's treating me."

    Taynisha's mouth opened and closed a few times and her carefully groomed eyebrows met in the middle of her forehead.

    "I gotta see this," she said.

    "Oh, don't we all."

    She led the way to the dressing room and I followed obediently. This was not something to miss. Katie saw and followed too, as did half the women on the floor, customers and employees alike.

    "Steven, are you decent?"

    "That's a matter of opinion," he said. We all grouped around the third stall from the left. "How do I look?"

    He opened the stall door and froze. There were a dozen women there, staring at him. The thong didn't fit all that well over his grey boxers, but it was on. Camera phones were out and snapping photos left and right. The pics would be on the internet in moments.

    "I didn't know I'd have an audience," he said, regaining his composure. He turned around, modelling and showing off his assets. "Well?"

    "Not bad," one of the customers said as she gave him the once over. That was kinda creepy, since he was young enough to be her grandson.

    "Thanks. They fit," he said to me. "You'd take a medium. And you owe me dinner. I think you should throw in dessert too, for springing an audience on me."

    "No problem," I said.

    Katie ran up and tossed the matching teddy at him. He tossed it back.

    "No fair!" she whined.

    "You know, you should be discouraging this," he said.

    "I still haven't signed the contract," I replied. "I'm not your assistant yet. And so long as you stay out here in your boxers they're going to stay and stare, bucko. You got great legs."

    He ducked back into the changing room and the women reluctantly dispersed.

    "Be nice to him, Marlowe," Taynisha said, actively reminding herself that she was married with two kids. "He might decide he doesn't want to work with you."

    "Aw, no," he said from behind the changing room door, "With the fight I put up to get her, I'll be damned if I let a little argument discourage me. I'll win her over soon enough."

    "You're a lucky girl," my manager said as she left.

    "Yeah, lucky," I muttered. "I'll be out here cleaning up."

    "Right."

    He took his time changing. I was hanging things back on the clearance rack when he emerged. I saw him hang the thong back on the rack and walk over to me.

    "I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday," he said. "Hi. I'm Steve Knight."

    "Marlowe Santia," I said, shaking his hand. "How can I help you?"

    "I'm actually looking for an assistant right now, and you come highly recommended. Would you like the job?"

    "That depends. What's all entailed?"

    "I'm not totally sure. I was just told that I needed one. I suppose you'd be making appointments for me and making sure I get to them and that sort of stuff. Doing stuff for me when I need it done. Make coffee. I drink a lot of coffee. You'll have to be willing to travel a bit, since I'm an actor, and you'd have to know a bit about theatre and films."

    "What's the pay like?" I asked.

    "Decent, I guess. Has to be better than what you're making here."

    "Fast food is better than what I'm making here. I like it here. My co-workers are fun to work with. What can you offer me?"

    "Well, I consider myself to be a rather fun guy-no mushroom jokes, please. This is a golden opportunity for you to travel and see the world. Work with actors, directors, and producers. Writers. It's an invaluable experience."

    "I'm sure it is."

    All this time I continued working, putting garments on hangers and hanging them on racks, sorting merchandise and putting it away. He followed me, occasionally picking something up and holding onto it.

    "I like working here."

    "Then why do you have resumes posted at every job search engine in the area?" he countered.

    "Because I owe $35,000 in student loans and have been spoiled by my family. I like nice things."

    "I can tell."

    I looked at him and what he held. Everything he had picked up was something I had looked at, checked for price and size. He had over 300 dollars worth of merchandise in his hands, easy. Tommy Hilfiger, Gene Meyer, Kenneth Cole. Clearance and full price.

    "What are you doing?" I asked.

    "Buying you a new wardrobe. You need it."

    "I can't wear that stuff. It won't fit."

    "Sure it will. Come on." He started toward the changing rooms again.

    "I'm working."

    "I'm a customer," he said. "And you're helping me. Come on."

    I rolled my eyes and followed him, glancing at the clock on the way. Still an hour before closing.

    "Why are you doing this?" I asked.

    "Because I can't stand seeing you in those dumpy clothes."

    "I've learned to live with the fact that I look like a boy. I have no hips." I stood in the mirror and stared at his reflection. He rolled his eyes that time and leaned in close.

    "You look like a boy because your clothes don't fit," he snarled, tugging back my shirt to fake tailoring. "You've lost a lot of weight, haven't you?"

    "Yeah, I guess."

    "You guess? Damn, girl, your clothes are hanging off of you!"

    My dress slacks were being held up with a safety pin. He saw it.

    "Touch my pants and you're dead," I said as he reached for it. He raised his hands in surrender. "I can't accept this."

    "The job or the clothes?"

    "The clothes. I haven't made my mind up about the job yet."

    "All right. Think of it this way: I've never had an assistant before. Ryan and Irene are the ones that put out the ad, not me. You answered it, which means you're interested. Is it because of me that you don't want the job? You said you were a fan."

    "A fangirl, yes. Yes. It's you. Not even so much that you were a jerk. You act like my brothers! I've got four of them, I don't need another."

    "Yeah, about that," he said, fiddling with a button on his shirt. "James has always spoken very highly of you. Congratulations on finishing school, by the way. It's quite the accomplishment. He's very proud of you. I knew who you were right when you started talking after the break. He told me you were a good mimic and that you could dish it out better than you could take it. Why do you think I get along so well with him?"

    "He never mentioned knowing you, so I don't know." I picked up a shirt, one that I had been looking at for weeks. Even on clearance it was more than I could afford.

    "Yeah, well, that's not important," he said. "I trust him, and his judgment. He wouldn't lie to get you a job."

    "I know." And that was it. My mind was made up. "Maybe I could try some of these on, just to see how they fit."

    "Not a bad idea."

    He hung all the clothes in the dressing room and walked out, giving me my space. I marvelled at his choices. Mediums, 10s and 12s. The shirt I was wearing was a 20w, a large. The shirt, the one I wanted so bad, was medium. I fully expected to not be able to close it, or if I could, to have it pull.

    It fit perfectly. So did the pants, size 12. My dress slacks were 18. Everything he had chosen fit like it was made for me.

    "Well come on out then, girlie," he said impatiently. "I want to see how you look!"

    I struck a pose in the doorway and he grinned. Again my stomach did the Wave.

    "There now! You look good! Isn't it nice to wear clothes that fit? Here, let me buy them for you. It'd make me feel better, before I have to go back and tell Ryan that he was right."

    "What was he right about?"

    "He said you wouldn't take the job. He at least gave you credit for being intelligent enough to know it wouldn't suit you."

    I bristled. How dare someone who doesn't know me judge me like that? "What does he know? I'll be damn good as your assistant!"

    Right then I knew he had set me up. That angelic smile spread across his face and I knew.

    "He said no such thing. Do you always get what you want?" I asked, anger making me bold enough to poke his chest.

    "Just about. It's because I'm so charming, handsome and persuasive."

    "I'll give you persuasive. I'm not so sure about the other two."

    He hit his chest, as if an arrow had gone straight through the heart. "That hurts, girlie. I was named one of the sexiest men alive this year."

    "So?"

    "You're right, it's just a title. But, you know, I did fight tooth-and-nail to get you the job. Ryan wanted me to choose Gary."

    He shuddered. I felt his pain; I don't think I could have worked with Gary either.

    "You'll take the job, though?" he asked, sincerity and intensity in every look and action.

    A thrill went through me. Here was my life in front of me, and one of the most gorgeous men in the film industry asking me to work for him. Me.

    "Yeah. I'll sign the contract when I go home tonight and send it off tomorrow."

    "Great!" he said. "Thank you. I promise you, it won't be boring."

    "I never expected it would be."

    I was dazed. This guy was something else. I began to look forward to going to London.

    Steven Knight

    I never planned to go to Michigan. But James made an excellent point: "You don't know what you're getting into, man." And after gauging Marlowe's reaction to my job offer, it made perfect sense that I at least put forth the effort to make nice.

    Marlowe's a trip. I've never met anyone as stubborn or opinionated as she is. It has never taken me more than five minutes to have anyone, male or female, eating out of my hands. I've sworn only to use this power for good, since it would just be too easy to use it for evil. It took me half an hour at least to win her over, and I don't think I even got that far. God, that makes me sound like such a pig.

    "Something you have to know about me," she said, draping the armful of clothing over the counter, "Is that I'm very stubborn."

    "Never would've guessed," I replied. She laughed.

    "I'm sorry for how I acted earlier. Lucky for you I don't go by first impressions, or you'd be screwed."

    "Good. Apology accepted, though I wasn't much better. I'm not often like this, either. Ryan and Irene just told me they had some people for me to meet, then foisted you three on me. Honestly, it wasn't my idea."

    "I'll believe it. You don't seem the type to need an assistant." She stepped behind the counter and tapped keys on the register. "Would you be interested in opening a Legends charge account with us? It'll only take a few minutes and you'll save 15%."

    I chuckled. She had the pitch down and probably said it by rote at least twenty times a day, but that time it had a certain amount of irony and sarcasm.

    "No, thank you. I don't shop here often enough."

    "Okay. Now, I have a question for you." She paused while she started scanning the tags and folding the clothes. "You know why I want the job, but why did you, Steven Knight, hire me, knowing that I have no experience?"

    "First off, Steve," I said, pointing to myself. "Only my mother and Ryan call me Steven to my face-and any interviewers that don't know better. My friends call me Steve."

    "So I'm your friend now?"

    "Well, I'd rather you be my friend than my enemy."

    "Okay. But that doesn't answer my question, Steve."

    "I'm getting to it, girlie. Aside from what James has said about you, which I promise is about 90% glowing, you've got theatre experience, you seem to have a great sense of humour-although lately I'm questioning that, given that stunt you pulled in the fitting room-and you're pretty."

    "That's not a good reason to hire someone. For all you know I could be a raving lunatic who'll kill you in your sleep."

    "It's a risk I'll take. A certain amount of insanity is required to be a theatre person."

    "Don't I know it." She looked at the clock. "Ten minutes till closing. Your total is $489.47. How will you be paying?"

    I handed her a credit card and waited while the machine read it. The clothes were bagged up and she handed me the receipt.

    "This is Marlowe in Modern Contemporary," she said into a walkie-talkie. "I have a three star sale."

    "All right!" came an anonymous voice, "I'll be there in a minute. When your customer is gone you can start closing your registers."

    "Okay, thank you." Then, to me. "How did you get here?"

    "Well, I took a plane from Heathrow Monday afternoon, then one from La Guardia to Detroit today. From the airport I took a cab here."

    "So you don't have a car," she said, one eyebrow raising. I nodded. "I'll have to drive you." Nodded again. "Do you have a hotel?"

    "Yes."

    "Good. I ain't taking you home with me. My gramma'd have a fit. She'd think I picked you up off the street."

    I looked down at my clothing. I saw nothing wrong with it; jeans, an old sweatshirt, my favourite baseball cap. But the sweatshirt had a hole in the sleeve near the cuff and the jeans were well-broken in. They were my travelling clothes.

    "I suppose you're right. I'll be sure to dress better tomorrow."

    "What's this about tomorrow?" I heard someone ask. "Has Marlowe got a date?"

    I turned and saw a manager walking briskly up to the wrap stand. She stopped and stared when she recognised me.

    "Ah! Ah!"

    "Frankie, this is Steve Knight. Steve, this is one of my managers, Frankie." Marlowe was amused by Frankie's response.

    "Hello. You're doing much better than Marlowe did yesterday. 'Oh holy f-!, You're Steven Knight!'" I said, matching Marlowe's flat Midwestern drawl. Marlowe rolled her eyes.

    "Steve's my new boss," she added.

    "And she's cooking me dinner tomorrow night."

    "Huh?" Frankie asked, mouth still agape.

    "I lost a bet."

    "I wagered her dinner that I couldn't fit into these," I said, pulling the black thong out of the shopping bag. Marlowe hadn't been paying attention as she rang the sale, and her face went red.

    "Uh-huh."

    "Three stars, please," Marlowe said, holding out a little punch card. Frankie marked it as needed.

    "Thank you," I said. Frankie nodded mutely. She toddled away, still quite star-struck. "Is she going to be all right?"

    "Oh, yeah. She's a big fan. Hazard Wonderland sent her right over. And let's face it, this is Michigan. We've got Tim Allen and Madonna as far as actors go. You just made her month."

    "I'm glad you've gotten over that whole celebrity worship thing fairly quickly."

    "Once I figured out that you're just like my brothers it was over. I'm not going to fuss and fawn over you, I'll tell you right now. You act like my brothers, I treat you like my brothers. Capice?"

    "Capice."

    "Of course, there will be moments when the fangirl won't be silenced."

    "How often will that be?" I asked.

    "Every other day or so, until I get used to you."

    "Pity. I was hoping for every day. It does something for the ego."

    "You don't need any help as far as that goes."

    "You'd be surprised."

    There wasn't any real conversation after that. She had to close the registers and finish putting away whatever leftover merchandise. I was left to wait in the package pick up area with two large bags of clothing, under the careful watch of half a dozen ladies and one gentleman.

    "Are you ready to go then?" I asked as she walked through the open doorway.

    "Patience, actor-san. Gotta get my coat."

    "You're an actor?" one of the spectators asked.

    "Yeah, I've made a few films."

    "Could I have your autograph?" she asked. "For my daughter."

    "Not a problem."

    The woman pulled a strip of paper from the register and handed me a pen.

    "Her name is Marissa. She wants to be an actress when she grows up."

    "Ah, I wish her all the luck in the world then. It's a tough business, but rewarding."

    "Thanks. She's not going to believe Ewan McGregor was in my store!"

    Marlowe choked on her laughter as she pulled me away and outside.

    "Okay, Ewan," she said once she regained some self-control, "What'd you do now?"

    "I was nice to one of your co-workers," I grumbled. "I don't even look like Ewan McGregor!"

    "It's the accent. She'd think you were Hugh Grant if you were British. You've got the floppy hair down."

    "That's it, I'm shaving my head," I replied. "I don't need to be compared to that wanker."

    "Nah, if you keep it combed back you'll be fine. You look good with the long hair. No, not the trunk. It's full of pop bottles."

    She unlocked the car and opened a door.

    "The backseat is too. Do you live on soda?"

    "Just throw the bags in."

    I obliged and took the opportunity to look further. "Damn. Backpack, newspapers, soda bottles. Is there anything else?"

    "Two pairs of shoes, two ice scrapers, and a blanket. It was worse, believe me."

    "I thought you said you were organised."

    "I am. I just haven't had time to take them all back. The wonder of Michigan. They give us a great incentive to recycle but can't fix the roads. 10 whole cents. But it's gas money."

    She started the car and I climbed in.

    "How long does it take to return them?"

    "Half an hour, tops."

    "So why don't we just stop now?"

    "Because it's almost ten o'clock, I've been working all day and my feet hurt. Returning pop bottles requires further standing and feeding them into stupid machines."

    "Machines?" I was curious. It seemed like a bit of a hassle then, to recycle bits of aluminum and plastic.

    "Oh, yeah. We've got ones for cans, bottles, and glass. Keep track of how many you've returned and everything."

    "Your enthusiasm is refreshing."

    "Gee, thanks. Sorry, the heater takes its own sweet time kicking in."

    There was a pause that stretched into minutes.

    "This is a bit awkward, isn't it?" I asked.

    "Just a bit." She looked into the rearview mirror. "I hate when people drive so damn close," she muttered. "The weather's so crappy. I hit the brakes and they'll slam into me, I know it."

    "So speed up."

    "Not on your life. I may know how to drive in nasty conditions but I'm not going to risk my neck to get home quick."

    "Hey, calm down. You want me to drive?"

    She snorted and looked back again. "No. Hold on."

    The car fishtailed as she turned onto a dark road, flipping on the bright lights as she picked up speed.

    "I can't believe this road is open," she said. "It's usually closed when the weather's this bad."

    "Should we be driving on it then?" I have faced many things in my life, professional and private, but now I was scared.

    "It's open. You nervous?" A corner of her mouth quirked up but she kept her eyes on the road, Thank God. "This is nothing. I've driven faster in worse conditions on twistier roads. I'm from Northern Michigan. This is a cakewalk."

    "You wouldn't speed up on that other street."

    "I had to worry about intersections and the yahoos driving through them. Forest Parkway doesn't have any. Trust me on this."

    The next ten minutes were tense. It didn't help that the radio wasn't on, or that Marlowe diverted her attention for a moment to switch it on. The ride ended at a red light and Marlowe braked the car to a gentle stop.

    "Have you ever considered professional stunt driving?" I asked, unclenching my fist from around the door handle. I wanted to be ready to ditch if I had to.

    "Nah," she answered. "I don't think I could handle it."

    "It's nothing," I said. "Training school takes six weeks and you come out with a job, guaranteed."

    "But I've got a job. I work for you."

    I watched her for a moment. This girl was hard to read, at least as far as employment was concerned.

    "Do you want to work for me?" I asked, making careful sure that any hint of joking was gone from my voice.

    She didn't answer for a while, which I expected. In fact, she didn't speak until she pulled up to the curb at the hotel.

    "Yes and no. Like I said, and any number of people that I talked to about it, it's a golden opportunity that I'll never have again, I know. I can get my foot in the door and make connections. I can travel! My passport's been collecting dust for five years. However much it pays will be better than what I make at Legends."

    "But?"

    "But I have no idea what I'm getting myself into. You know as well as me that I won't know what I'm doing. I know maybe two people in London and as evidenced by my spectacular reaction yesterday to meeting you, meeting any other celebrity, no matter how minor, will probably be met with the same response. I don't like embarrassing myself. Heck, I get homesick, which surprises most people because I've always been the independent type. Plus I don't know you all that well, certainly not enough to trust you. And this means that I won't be able to get my loans deferred since I won't be able to go back to school."

    "Right. I'm not going to force you to make a decision right now."

    "I said I'd take the job."

    Despite my precautions I smirked. Damn headstrong woman.

    "Well I don't want someone around me that doesn't want to be there, all right? I don't fancy myself to be that much of an ogre, but negative energy from you would tick me off and I'd become one. If you're uncomfortable, say so and I'll go back to New York and hire a different assistant."

    "I'm not going to like any job I have," she said. "I think I know myself well enough to be sure of that. But I also can't stay home all my life and watch my friends and family have lives of their own."

    "You think too much," I said. "Just relax. Everything will be fine. Do you think your brother would let me out of New York without delivering a lecture? I promise, I'll take care of you. James'll kill me if I don't."

    "Yeah, right."

    "He didn't say as much, but it was implied. Anyway. I'll see you tomorrow night. I'm really looking forward to dinner."

    I hoisted myself out of the car, thinking how nice it would be if it sat off the ground a little more. I could've sworn my rear was grinding against the pavement.

    "I still can't believe you did that."

    "Girlie, you'll find I'll do just about anything where food's involved."

    "You are just like my brothers," she said. I laughed and slammed the car door as she shook her head.

    "Goodnight, girlie!" I shouted to her tail lights. She waved back over her shoulder. I turned the collar up on my coat and shoved my hands deep in the pockets; it was damn cold out and snowing heavily. In a few steps I was inside the hotel and on my way up to my room.

    Chapter Three: Relative Disaster

    Posted on Tuesday, 5 April 2005

    E. Marlowe Santia

    It is impossible for the average person to not like Steven Knight. Maybe that's the wrong phrasing. It's not impossible- Okay, lets' try that again. It is possible for the average person to not like Steve Knight, but it's not probable.

    There, that's better. It's possible for the average person to not like Steven Knight but it's not probable. Reads much nicer.

    Anyway, I consider myself an average person now. There was a time when I didn't, and I'm sure half my family didn't, or doesn't, or something. But now I'm average. I've pegged my initial dislike on a raging case of PMS and a bad first impression, which I can blame Steve for.

    Fangirl Moment #2 (the first being the interview): Just before dinner. Steve showed up on my doorstep at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, with flowers and a good bottle of wine-for my grandmother. On top of that, he was wearing dress boots, jeans, a white button-down shirt (the first two unbuttoned, leaving just enough to the imagination) and a black suede jacket. He even shaved! I just about died.

    I have yet to meet a living, breathing female who can withstand the unbridled charm and sweetness that is Steve. He doesn't even have to try! But Grandma was won over completely and set about arranging the flowers on the kitchen table.

    "Smooth," I said and rolled my eyes, having regained some semblance of composure.

    "I do my research," he said, then sniffed and rubbed his hands together. "It's bloody cold outside. What's for supper?"

    "Chili, baked potatoes and salad. Nothing fancy."

    "Smells good. Need any help?"

    "Nah. Well, if you want to open the wine. Gramma'll want it." I gestured to the silverware drawer.

    "What about you?" he asked, fishing around for the corkscrew.

    "Me? I'll try it, but I don't drink much. Often. I think there's still some Bailey's in the fridge from my 21st birthday."

    From the corner of my eye I saw him grimace.

    "That would be alcohol abuse," he said. "I don't drink often myself. Had a bit of a problem a few years back."

    "I think I read something about that." Recovering alcoholic, more like. He quit full stop during a run of Henry V, his first major stage production. Vomited onstage during the first act and managed to recover quickly enough.

    "Is this something I'll have to watch out for?" I continued.

    "On occasion, perhaps," he said. "I'm sure you'll whip me into shape if I slip, but I'm pretty good about that. Been clean and sober for three years now."

    "Huzzah."

    Without waiting for him to ask I pointed to the cupboard that housed the glasses, wine and otherwise. He pulled down three glasses, wine charms still firmly clipped to the stems. I raised an eyebrow.

    "I know my limits, girlie," he said. "A glass of wine with dinner isn't going to send me off the wagon. Anything you'd like me to do?"

    Wow, what a question. I pondered for a moment-I like that word, ponder-at just what he meant. Was he teasing? Was he sincere? Did he quite realise what he had asked and what that kind of question does to a single, imaginative woman?

    There were so many ways to interpret it! I could be a wiseacre and say "Anything?" with a genuinely saucy look; that would be fun, just to see how he responded. I could be a sweetheart and ask him to set the table, but that wasn't the most fun option. I could be playful with a "Drop and give me 20," (as in push-ups) which I was sure he'd do and I wouldn't mind seeing-that white shirt was tucked in and I'd have a nice view of his assets.

    While I deliberated on my choices Steve poured out three glasses of wine and delivered one to Gramma. Then he was back in the kitchen.

    His innocent-truly!-smile and utter lack of pretence, teasing, or other roguery took all the bite out of my favourite answer, the playful one. I didn't need to be flirting with him, even though he started it. This was a professional relationship bordering on friendship. No romance.

    "There's shredded cheese and sour cream in the fridge and crackers in the pantry, if you could get those out, please."

    "No problem."

    A sleeve of saltines found its way onto the counter, followed by an unopened packet of shredded cheddar and a tub of sour cream.

    "Is that a cheesecake?" he asked from inside the refrigerator. I could hear him salivating.

    "Yes. Dessert, as promised. Marlowe Santia always ponies up when she loses a bet. You want to pull some salad dressing out too?"

    He handed me three bottles from the door without looking away from the cheesecake.

    "This one's barbecue sauce, bucko. Keep the door open and cake will melt."

    "Right," he said, reluctantly closing the door and wiping an imagined droplet of drool from his mouth. "Bathroom?"

    "First door on your left. Wash your hands."

    "Yes, Mummy."

    I rolled my eyes again and acknowledged that I would be doing that a lot in the future, even though I thought I had stopped when I left home. I was surprised my eyes never rolled out of my head, with all my brothers put me through. They were part of the reason I never had a boyfriend. There was also a general lack of interest in dating any of the guys in my high school (little more than Neolithic pigs, them), followed by a severe lack of straight men in my social circle at Smith Union.

    So there was a new possibility: Maybe I'd meet someone working with Steve, someone worth spending my time with, on, or whatever. A cute prop master or a best boy grip-you figure they'd get that name for a reason, right? Someone. Anyone. Before I got desperate or labelled "terminally single."

    London began to look really, really good. And then-Where to? I would have to ask Steve what was on his slate for the next few months. Need to get prepared. Need to get shots, maybe. Vaccinations.

    I shivered at the thought. Needles were not my friends, and the thought of shots was not appealing. But a split second of pain would be worth it, come to think of it. Come on! Europe! Asia! Africa! Canada, even.

    "Boo."

    Steve was right behind me. I jumped a good foot in the air, easy, and sent a potato flying into the living room. Steve retrieved it.

    "Don't do that to me!" I yelped. "Nearly gave me a f-frickin' heart attack! You're lucky I didn't have a knife in my hands!" Good, censor button still working. Gramma was only in the next room.

    "It wouldn't have hit me. Angle's all wrong. Here, have a potato."

    The potato was chucked in the sink.

    "Could so! Hands go up, if I got a paring knife it'll go in your shoulder or worse, your eye. Do you see my point?" I asked.

    "Yeah, it's right here," he said, grinning and poking the top of my head.

    "Ugh, a comedian. Get your plate and bowl and get your food. Said I'd cook, didn't say I'd serve. Besides, chilli is self-serve." I tucked a dishtowel on the rack and brushed past him. Man, he smelled good. "Gramma? Gramma, dinner's ready."

    "Oh? Thank you, Marlowe."

    Contrary to what I had just told Steve, Gramma Mitchell was my grandmother and graciously allowed me to live with her. I had her dinner ready for her on the table before Steve sat down.

    "Hey!" he said, waving at her plate.

    "She's my grandma," I said.

    "I'm your boss."

    "She's eighty. You're thirty two. When you're eighty I'll serve you too."

    "Blatant favouritism," he muttered, bowing his head over his chilli, then looking up at me and grinning.

    Gramma sat down at the head of the table, wine in hand, and looked at the two of us, Steve and me sitting across from each other at the dinner table.

    "I can't remember the last time Marlowe brought a boy home for supper," Gramma said.

    I felt all the blood drain from my face. Steve looked at Gramma mid-scoop, chilli trailing little strings of melty cheese a few inches from the bowl lip.

    "Really?" he asked.

    A dull throb started in my temples. I had no idea Gramma would launch into a "Marlowe is fantastically single" monologue.

    "Oh, yes. In fact, I can't remember her talking about ever bringing anyone home."

    "What, none of her friends from university?"

    "No, I don't think so."

    "I didn't get home all that often," I said. "I was too busy with school and work."

    "Did you go out at all then?" Steve asked, still tucking into his dinner.

    "Not much. I didn't have time or money, or inclination. Like I told Gramma, I'd much rather stay home with a small group of friends and watch a movie or go to a small coffee shop rather than a bar or club." That was my final answer. Steve, however, wasn't finished.

    "That's all well and good, but you need to socialise a bit more, girlie," he said.

    I set my fork down and glared at him. The last thing I wanted was my employer telling me to socialise!

    "I'll make sure she get out there, Mrs. Mitchell," he continued. "Either me or my brother and sister will. We'll make sure she has a good time."

    "What if I don't want to?"

    "Marlowe!" Gramma said, trying to smooth over the building tension.

    "It's up to you, I guess," he replied, "But I'm still taking you out when we get to London. Whether you have a good time or not is your decision."

    I was saved from further argument by my Aunt Sofie and her mastiff, Murphy. They were followed quickly by my very darling mother. Sofie had gone straight for the bathroom and the dog for me.

    "Hello," Mom said, quite confused with seeing Steve at the table. She had no idea who he was.

    "Mom, this is my new boss, Steven Knight. Steve, this is my mother. The dog is Murphy and the other lady is my Aunt Sofie."

    "It's a pleasure to meet the both of you," he said, that sweet, cherubic smile spread across his face. Mom blinked, not expecting the Scottish accent or that he would stand up and offer his chair.

    "Remember that interview I had day before last?" I asked, pointing at Steve. "I was hired. I leave for New York two weeks from Sunday. Finally putting that theatre degree to use."

    "And you're working for- All right. I trust you've thought this out," she said. I could feel Steve watching me, suddenly no longer teasing and certain.

    "Nope. I'm making this up as I go along. But James trusts Steve, so I can."

    And there was the challenge: Let me fall on my face. Let me fail. Steve heard it. Mom did too. So did Sofie and Gramma. Only Murphy didn't react in some way, other than press his snout into my lap.

    "He's a beautiful dog," Steve said. Murphy knew he was being talked about and went to investigate the newcomer. A doggy smile was met with a tousle of the ears and a good scratch on his back. "There's a good boy. You're a handsome fellow, you are. Is he pure?" he asked, looking up.

    "Yeah," Sofie said. "His previous owner couldn't take care of him as well as they liked, so they gave him to me. He's spoiled rotten."

    I snorted in agreement.

    "He's got Marlowe's number all right," Gramma said. Steve's mouth quirked up. "I don't know how many times she's called me asking if she could bring him back from Sofie's when she'd been there checking email or something."

    "Can you blame me?" I gulped. "Look at that face! It's his eyes, I swear. And the ears. Deadly combination."

    "Marlowe's got a soft spot for big eyes and soft ears?" Steve asked, rubbing his own as he thought.

    "On dogs. You are not a dog."

    The beast that had instigated the conversation meandered into the kitchen and found the potato in the sink. Mom ordered him out and followed him with her own bowl of chilli.

    "But I'm like a dog. Cheerful, loyal, energetic. Hardworking and affectionate."

    "A lot like Marlowe!" Gramma said. "She's always compared herself to a dog like that!"

    "And cats, Gramma," I added firmly. "I'm a lot like a cat, too. Independent. Reserved. Intelligent. Clean."

    "Cats and dogs. What an interesting combination," Sofie mused, giving us a knowing look. Steve put his head to one side-he knew what she meant, as did I.

    "Nothing like that, Auntie Sofie. Thankfully my social skills fall under the canine category. Works well with others."

    "What about 'plays?'" Steve asked. "That's an essential part of social behaviour. Can't have one without the other."

    "So long as I get my 'me' time I'll be fine. I'll let you know when I need to be alone."

    "Speaking of plays ... Aren't you supposed to be going to Twelfth Night tonight?" Mom asked. "Evan's counting on you."

    "Oh, crap! I'd forgotten all about that!" I managed to set the new land-speed record for eating chilli without getting any on my shirt, then gave one small, ladylike burp. I mumbled an "Excuse me" and stood.

    "Marlowe!" Mom said, totally horrified.

    "In certain cultures that's a compliment, Miss Mitchell," Steve said, laughter bubbling in his voice.

    "And hey, it's not like I let a Scotty belch. He can make the shingles rattle. I've never been able to properly let one rip..."

    "Not that it's something you've aspired to," Aunt Sofie said dryly.

    "Anyway, I'm going to go get ready. You wanna come with me?" I asked, pointing to Steve and suddenly feeling like an idiot.

    "To the theatre or to help you get ready?" he asked. "If it's the latter, you should know I'm not that good with makeup and all that rubbish."

    "Theatre. It's just regional stuff, not on the scale of the RSC or anything, but not bad."

    "Sure. You paying?"

    There was a pause where I considered a smart answer and thought that he would probably get in free, but ultimately I said "Yeah. But you're getting the soda at intermission."

    Without further conversation I bolted for the upstairs bathroom. The whole scene was so surreal! I had been having a normal conversation with an actor that I admired, mostly for his incredible good looks-I can admit that I am very shallow at times-but also for his acting ability, even though his versatility had yet to be tested. We ate chilli and baked potatoes, and we were going to see a play, just like normal people.

    In twenty minutes I had changed my clothes, washed my hair and applied a quick coat of eyeliner and lipstick. I was presentable and tripped down the stairs to a patiently waiting Steve, whose only comment was:

    "Are we coming back for the cheesecake afterward?"

    Steven Knight

    I don't remember my grandmother. Either of them. They had both passed before I knew who they were, and I had always wished I could have known them. So when James told me that Marlowe lived with their grandmother, I was a bit apprehensive. Would she like me?

    First impressions are important, and I knew I had botched Marlowe's, so I was particularly careful to make the best of this one. I had some insider information at my disposal, coming from a true insider, and I used it to full advantage. No sense going into a situation blind, is there?

    I knew I had chosen the right outfit when I arrived: Marlowe stood and stared a full minute, mouth open and eyes wide.

    "I hope I'm not over-dressed," I said.

    The screwed her eyes shut and muttered, just loud enough to hear, "Bad thought, bad thought!"

    I tried not to laugh, as I was sure she did not intend for me to hear that. Clearly her mind was easily sent into the gutter, which was good thing to know. It would give me plenty to tease her about.

    "Marlowe? Who is it?"

    "It's Steve Knight, the guy I told you about," she said when she regained her composure. "The one I made dinner for."

    "Oh!"

    "And he brought presents."

    I grinned as she took the flowers and wine from my hands, trying very hard to not make contact. My attention was drawn to the woman walking down the hallway from a back room, and it took an awful lot of willpower to keep from going giddy. She fit every imagined appearance of a grandmother, down to an inviting smile and snowy white hair. If Marlowe insisted on treating me like a brother, it made sense that I could at least pretend Mrs. Mitchell was my grandmother.

    "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mitchell," I said, giving a little bow rather than shaking hands.

    "You look familiar," she said. "Have I seen you somewhere before?"

    "Well, I'm an actor. Maybe you've seen a film I've been in or something."

    "Oh, that's right, you're that nice boy from that movie."

    I laughed. She had no idea who I was.

    "Yes, I am," I said.

    "You'll have to forgive Gramma," Marlowe said quietly as she passed on the way into the kitchen. "She only watches the news, football and hockey."

    "Not a problem," I replied. I took my gifts back from Marlowe and held them out to her grandmother. "These are for you, in return for your kind hospitality."

    "How nice of you!"

    There is no need to rehash what conversation there was between Marlowe and myself, or what occurred over dinner. Suffice to say I learned a lot about my new assistant, more than words revealed and more than she could make good chilli and hopefully good cheesecake. But whatever her problems were, I wasn't about to try and solve them. Not yet, anyway.

    There was definitely a resemblance between the generations, something in the eyes and the smile, and a little bit in the build. I knew Marlowe and James were brother and sister: They were about the same height and proportionally similar, though Marlowe was thankfully distinctly female. I don't think I'd like her as much if she looked just like her brother.

    "Yes, we'll come back for the cheesecake," she said once she was ready to go.

    "Good. I'd hate to think you went through all that trouble just to have it go to waste."

    "Trust me, it'll get eaten."

    "But you made it for me," I said, playing hurt.

    "You're not going to eat the whole thing," she shot back. "You'll get sick. It's pure fat and sugar."

    "Two of my favourite things."

    She finally laughed. I like teasing her, part of being the big brother.

    "Come on, let's go," she said, shrugging on her coat. "Gramma, we'll be back later. I promised him dessert."

    "That's a nice outfit, Marlowe. Where'd you get it?"

    Marlowe blushed at her grandmother's compliment and following question. I couldn't tell if it was because of modesty or reluctance.

    "Steve bought it," she said. It was reluctance.

    "As a gift," I added quickly. "I figured she wouldn't spend the money on it herself. I can't have a frump working for me and I fully suspect she'll pay me back as soon as she can."

    The Miss Mitchell that was her mother said nothing but raised an eyebrow; I may have just caused her more problems than I had hoped to solve.

    "Tell Evan Hi for me," Marlowe's mother said in lieu of comment. "He's counting on your being there."

    "Thanks, Mom," she replied. There was an odd bit of tension in her voice that Miss Santia didn't hear. I didn't comment on it until later.

    "Is there something I should know about this Evan bloke?" I asked as Marlowe backed her car out of the driveway. "He your boyfriend?"

    She shook her head. "He's just a friend of mine. Mom thinks I should date him, but I'm not really interested. And hey, I'm leaving the country in two weeks, so it doesn't make much sense to start a relationship now, does it?"

    "No, it doesn't."

    The ride was short to the New Civic theatre. The car heater didn't even have time to start working before Marlowe put it in park and hopped out.

    "Time's a wastin', buddy," she said as she wrenched the passenger door open. "It's not going to get warmer sitting there thinking about it. The play's inside."

    "And here I was hoping it was a drive-in."

    I don't think I was recognised in the theatre, or if I was, no one made a fuss over it, which I was glad for. I was rarely recognised at home in London, it was just in America that everyone seemed to know me. If I couldn't escape from that in Michigan, which was as close as I've ever been to the middle of no-where even near Detroit and Ann Arbor, I'd be sore to find any peace.

    Tickets were purchased and seats were found. The theatre was about half full, which I expected, but there was still half an hour before curtain. I read the program while Marlowe said hello to the people sitting a few rows on any side, whom she apparently knew.

    "Is there anyone in this town you don't know?" I asked.

    "Um, those two up there, and a few back there, and that usher."

    "You know you're a wiseacre, right?"

    "Yup."

    She continued to look around, finally springing up from the nice and cushy seat and scrambling over my knees. Her destination was the aisle, where she assaulted another, equally pretty young lady.

    "Maggie! I thought you'd all ready be here!"

    "Yeah, well, the guys got out of practice late. It wasn't my fault for once."

    The woman was definitely a relative; the eyes, the build, the smile were all the same. Maggie was shorter but no less curvy, and if it were possible she was more prone to smiling than Marlowe. The reason for that was most likely the gentleman who walked up behind her and placed a hand on her hip. There was a ring on her finger, she was off-limits.

    Marlowe suddenly remembered I was there and started to introduce us, but Maggie beat her to it.

    "Are you-?"

    "Yes. Steve Knight, if that's who you mean. I've all ready been called Ewan McGregor this week and I'd rather not perpetuate that idea."

    "Steve Knight. Right." No fuss was made, thankfully, and she quickly absorbed the shock. "I'm Maggie Campbell. This is my husband Brian and our son is somewhere. How long are you in town?"

    "I honestly don't know. As long as I'm welcome, I guess."

    "Oh, God, he'll never leave! Gramma practically invited him to move in," Marlowe said.

    "Well then, I may have to pull out of Othello. Wouldn't want to disappoint the lady."

    "Gramma has a habit of adopting strays," Maggie said.

    "It's how she got Kit." Brian spoke, and his accent took me by surprise.

    "You're Irish! What're you doing here?"

    "You're very quick. I'm a literature professor at the university," he said.

    "We're moving to Ireland next summer. Brian starts teaching at Trinity in the fall. It's going to be interesting." Maggie's hand found her husband's and gave a squeeze.

    "We may have to visit you," I said. Marlowe looked at me. "If that's all right."

    "That'd be great!" Maggie said. "I'm going to know precious few people over there, and by then you'll know your way around, Marlowe, and you could show me. And Regan!"

    "God help London," Brian muttered. "I don't want to be around when you three get together."

    "God help the single men," Maggie corrected. "We'll be out trying to find a guy for Marlowe. You probably know some, right?" she asked me.

    "A few," I said, laughing. "Half the UK's male."

    "Like I'll have time to date!" Marlowe said. "Remember who I'm babysitting."

    I pouted while Maggie and Brian laughed.

    "Your reputation precedes you," he said.

    "Apparently! But that's a double-edged sword, girlie. I'll not have a third wheel when I go out, so you know I'll be setting you up with someone. My brother's engaged, but he'll suit if needed. Give up. You're not going to win."

    Marlowe slid down in her seat, sulking, while a young man bounded up to Maggie and Brian. He saw Marlowe but didn't spare me more than a glance.

    "Lights are going out in the lobby," he said. "Show's about to start. Hey, Marlowe!"

    "Hi, Dylan."

    "Dylan, you recognise the guy sitting next to her?" Maggie asked. Now I warranted further study.

    "Cool! I thought only James knew famous people!"

    Marlowe put one finger to her lips in the international symbol for "Shut it, kid." A few other playgoers looked our way but didn't see anything interesting or anyone noteworthy, apparently, and returned to their conversations. The lights dimmed to half.

    "And that's our signal to sit down. See you at intermission?" Maggie asked. Brian had all ready started for their seats, a few rows in front of us, with Dylan reluctantly in tow.

    "Yeah."

    "No getting up to any hanky-panky back there, you two," she said over her shoulder. "This is a family show."

    I placed a hand over my heart and feigned innocence and shock at her suggestion. In reality, I had no intention of 'getting up to any hanky-panky' with Marlowe. She was too much like a little sister, though very pretty, and on top of that, my assistant.

    "Right back at you," Marlowe hissed.

    "Your cousin?" I asked. The pre-show music picked up volume but the curtain didn't open and no actors emerged from the wings. We still had time to chat.

    "Yeah. Her dad is my mom's brother. One of many."

    "Like you and James?"

    "Like me and James," she sighed.

    "How many of them are you?"

    "I have four brothers, if that's what you mean," she whispered. "James, Scott, Byron, Austen and me."

    I chuckled. To most people not of a literary bent, that list of names is fairly innocent and innocuous. To those of us who grew up in the UK and read more than Danielle Steele and James Patterson, those names set the gold standard for literature.

    "Yeah, Brian thought so too," she said.

    "So why aren't you named Shelley or something? Another Romantic author."

    "Because Mom was reading Dr. Faustus when she had me, not Frankenstein. And it could be worse. I'd never have made it out of school with a name like Cowper."

    "Probably not."

    Finally the curtain rose and the buzz of conversation dulled to silence as the company took the stage in full force. Many of the actors were good and had a good handle on the language; Shakespeare is not easy even for the most experienced actor. Two, even in the first act alone, struck me as exceptionally talented. I watched them with renewed interest after that and found their names in the program as the lights went up at intermission.

    "Is this your Evan friend?" I asked. "The one playing Sebastian?"

    "Evan Turner, yeah."

    "Hmm."

    "I know most of the cast, remember. Majority of them are from Smith Union."

    "And this Christopher Caesar person?"

    "Uh-huh. They're both graduate students in the acting program. Smith U was tired of losing so many students to other schools for their MA's, so they started their own. They're done this May."

    "That's very interesting. Stage acting, though, right?"

    "Yeah. I know Evan's interested in film, but- What are you getting at? Are you-?"

    "Well, yes and no. Baumhaus handles both, but someone would have to come out here and see them in action. I don't know if they'll do that."

    "Then you probably shouldn't say anything. Evan would get over it, but Caesar would be crushed," Marlowe said. The lights flickered and she offered the rest of her soda to me.

    "I'll call Ryan tomorrow morning. How long is the show running? This week and next?"

    "Yeah. They're that good?"

    I nodded and downed the last of the soda, pitching the can into a dustbin. The rest of the play confirmed my instincts. Christopher Caesar and Evan Turner were destined for greatness, and I knew I would be part of their 'discovery.'

    "You think they'd want to meet us for lunch tomorrow?" I asked near the end.

    "Do you remember who you are?" she replied in a hiss. "And what's this about 'us'? I have to work."

    "But you know them better than I do. It would be weird, don't you think, for a random person to ask two other men to lunch to discuss their career."

    "You are not a random person. You are Steven Knight and a respected actor for all your short career. They will jump at the chance to meet you, forget about having lunch with you. And if you pay it'll be better. Remember, they're poor college students too."

    "I'm not so far removed from university life, thank you, girlie. I can remember how much a free meal means."

    After the actors took their bows at curtain call and the lights came up she lead me backstage, waving to her cousins in passing. Most of the cast had shucked costumes and were in civvies, makeup running down faces, and were greeting friends and family. Brian, Maggie and Dylan were standing with the man who had played Malvolio, a Max Parker, and his family.

    Of the two actors I was looking for, only Christopher Caesar was visible. It was hard to miss him, easily 6 feet 4 inches tall with flaming orange hair, tufted out in all directions, part from opening night jitters and part from the character. He was still dressed as Feste, the motley, fraying patchwork of cotton and leather hanging off his lean frame. Upon seeing him, Marlowe took off, straight for him. I followed.

    "Marlowe! Did you hear? Jeremy Northam was here tonight!" he said, visibly trembling. "I wonder if he liked it."

    "I didn't see him," she replied. "But I do know someone who was here, and he wants to meet you. And Evan. Have you seen him?"

    "I'm right here," the man in question said, stepping up from an underground dressing room, fresh as a daisy. "Is it true? Colin Farrell? Here?"

    "For one thing, Northam and Farrell are English and Irish, respectively. I'm Scottish. For another, I'm nowhere near the same league as them. Got a bit to go yet."

    "Ahhh!" Both men screamed like little girls and clutched at each other. "Steven Knight!"

    "Shush!" Marlowe hissed, shaking each in turn. Caesar continued to tremble and they both stared, along with everyone around them.

    "If you can contain yourselves. I was impressed, and I'd like to meet you for lunch tomorrow and maybe discuss your careers. If I can help I'd like to."

    Caesar's mouth opened and shut a few times and Evan just stared, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. They slowly looked at each other and screamed again.

    Marlowe looked at me. "That's a yes. I'll arrange it. I gotta get used to doing this stuff now, I guess. Let's go. There's a cheesecake at home with your name on it."

    "Woohoo!" I really wanted that cheesecake.

    "Thank you, Mr. Knight," Caesar said finally, extending his hand. I shook it.

    "Steve," I said.

    "Steve. Right. Thank you," he said. "Um, I'm going to go change."

    "A good idea. See you tomorrow, then."

    I watched him stumble down the stairs under the stage.

    "Well, that was interesting," I said to no-one. Marlowe had disappeared, and Evan.

    After a bit of searching I saw her with her cousins near the door. They were just inside the door that lead out to the parking lot where other theatre goers and cast members were enjoying their cigarettes. It had been too long since my last and I was feeling it. That and a few more people staring at me.

    "Hello," I said, nodding to the assembled group. "I'll meet you outside, Marlowe. It was a pleasure meeting you, Maggie, Brian. Kid."

    "It's Dylan," the boy said, pretending to be offended.

    "Don't get in a snit with me, boy," I replied and played along. "I'm bigger than you are."

    "And Brian's bigger than you are."

    "I'm taller."

    "He's wider."

    "And that's where this conversation ends," Brian said, looking down at the ground.

    "And I agree," I said. "I don't want your husband to kick the crap out of me, Maggie. I hope we can meet again sometime."

    "Well, how about you come to dinner tomorrow?" Maggie asked. "Brian's cooking salmon. We'll have plenty."

    "I was going to take him to Tony's for burgers. Can't come to Michigan and not have Tony's burgers."

    Maggie glared at her cousin, who sulked a bit but glared back. I decided to help out.

    "It's Lent, girlie. No meat on Fridays. You know that."

    "Kit doesn't eat fish," Brian said. "Which is why I'm terribly adept at making grilled cheese."

    "I can cook too," Marlowe sulked. "You just keep inviting me over."

    It was time to steer the conversation back to the original question, answer it and get the heck out of the theatre.

    "But yeah, I'd love to come to dinner," I said. "Right now I've got to get going. We've got to get going. I want my cheesecake." And a cigarette.

    "Go on outside. I'll meet you." Marlowe rolled her eyes

    "Thank you, you are a goddess!" I said, shaking her hand and nodding to her cousins. "See you tomorrow night."

    And I was free! The first drag was wonderful. There were three left in the pack, and I thought I had been doing pretty well. It had been full the day before. A month ago I was at nearly a pack a day. Now I was down to half.

    "I thought you were quitting," Marlowe said, appearing at my side and pulling on cheap gloves.

    "I am."

    "Doesn't look like it."

    "I've been trying to quit for years, and I think I'm finally on the way."

    "Good. No smoking in my car. Come on."

    The heater still took its time warming the car, finally getting comfortable as she pulled into the driveway.

    "Did I do the right thing?" I asked as she put the car in park. "With those two? I probably should've talked to Ryan first."

    "Probably. But I'm sure that regardless of what Mr. Treyvant says, you'll find a way to help them out. You made the offer and you're buying them food. At the very least they get to say they had lunch with Steven Knight and they talked about acting with him. For those two, life doesn't get much better."

    "Thanks."

    "You're welcome. Now, I'll let you call Mr. Treyvant. I'll call the boys tomorrow morning before work and make reservations at Fitzsimmons Salads. All natural food, good stuff. I work from 11 to 4, which will give me time to change before dinner with Maggie and Brian. Any questions?"

    I looked at her, stunned. "No. Can we have cheesecake now?"

    "Yeah."

    "Hey, Marlowe," I said, "I think you'll do a good job."

    "Thanks." She smiled and cut the engine. "Let's go get that cheesecake."

    Continued In Next Section

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