Hollywood Girls Club Read Online Free PDF Page B

Michelle (the responsible one according to their mother, Mitsy), and begged her to wire money so she could come home.
    The dream was dead.
    After nine years of bartending, selling shoes, answering phones, walking dogs, and finally, her miserable attempt at waiting tables, Mary Anne Meyers had dreamed her last Hollywood dream, written her final word, and accepted her fate of returning to the safe (if frigid) confines of her hometown, St. Paul, Minnesota. She’d hocked her computer four weeks before to cover rent, and now the computer, the money, and the apartment were gone.
    As Mary Anne lay on Sylvia’s pea green couch staring at the cracks in the ceiling, her mind drifted to thoughts of her first week in L.A. Not much had changed since then (except her age)—nine years before, she’d been homeless and broke, too. Then the phone rang. Not Sylvia’s phone but Mary Anne’s cell phone—she had service for one more day.
    “Mary Anne Meyers, please,” said a crisp voice on the other end of the line.
    “This is Mary Anne.”
    “I have Lydia Albright for you.”
    Mary Anne’s eyes opened wide and excitement clutched her. She sat up, bumping her head on the oversized thrift-store lamp and knocking her water glass onto the floor. Lydia Albright? The Lydia Albright? Mega-movie-producer-with-over-one-billion-dollars-in-box-office-grosses Lydia Albright?!
    “Please hold one moment,” the crisp voice continued. “Lydia will be right on the line.”
    There was a brief pause. Mary Anne’s heart pounded against her chest.
    “Mary Anne, this is Lydia. How are you? Nice to meet you over the phone.”
    “Yes,” Mary Anne—her mind jumbled she fought to find words. “You, too. Fine. Thank you.”
    “Listen, I read The Sky’s the Limit and I loved it.”
    “You did?” How had Lydia Albright gotten a copy of her script?
    “I think you have an amazing voice on the page. You’re able to capture the essence of what is real in a story. Your writing, well, it’s just extraordinary.”
     “How did you—”
    “We get everything,” Lydia answered before Mary Anne could complete her question.
    “Everything,” Mary Anne whispered.
    “Mary Anne, I have this other script, and if you’re not too busy, I was wondering if you’d give it a read. See if you can come up with a take for the story. It’s close, but still needs a little work. I had dinner at the Four Seasons with Weston Birnbaum last night, president of production at Worldwide, and I told him that I think you’re the writer to fix it. It’s called Seven Minutes Past Midnight . I think you can make the script work. Weston and I would like to go into production once this draft is complete.”
    “Too busy …” Mary Anne mumbled, in shock.
    “Dammit, you are? Because I really—”
    “No! No. Yes, send it. I’m not too busy. I’d love to see it, read it, help. Please, yes.”
    “Great! Where should I send it? I’ll messenger it over now.”
    “Urn …” Mary Anne scrambled over the cat and the couch cushions to the desk by the front door and grabbed the Wells Fargo envelope with Sylvia’s address. “It’s 6615 Franklin, apartment 303.”
    “Fantastic. You’ll have it in an hour. Listen, Mary Anne, if you want it, the rewrite job, it’s yours.”
    “Yes. Oh, thank you, Lydia. Thank you.”
    “No problem. You’re the one with the talent. I’ll have Worldwide Business Affairs call your agent to get your writing quote.”
    “Okay,” Mary Anne paused—fear bumped away the excitement in her belly. Her agent? She didn’t have an agent! Could she get an agent? Would Lydia still hire her if she knew that she was unrepresented?
    “Mary Anne?” Lydia interrupted Mary Anne’s scrambled thoughts. “Who does your deals? Who represents you?”
    “Oh, aah … My, aah, I, aah .” Mary Anne hung her head, shame and sadness replaced her fear. So close—and yet the dream was still dead. “Lydia, I don’t have an agent.”
    “For fuck’s sake! I