Kiss me under the Hollywood sign

Chapter 6

Stevo definitely wasn't wrong about the view from up here. I stepped out of the elevator holding down a half-eaten yogurt-covered pretzel that Veronica offered me( so nice of her), doing my best not to get any on Veronica's tight skirt-suit. She ushered me towards the doors with a smile so fake it looked like it had been spray-painted on.

Walking into Daniel Hunter's Penthouse was like zooming into one of those dioramas at the Natural History Museum, the ones where they rebuild a cave or jungle scene in miniature. Only instead of plastic plants and ants made of yarn, this place was stuffed with so much gold leaf and marble even Midas would think it was too much. The space was bigger than my whole apartment building and about as homey and welcoming. Something told me this Hunter guy wasn't big on clutter. Or colors other than shades of white.

The crystal whatsits hanging from the ceiling caught the morning light like a disco ball on steroids. Dots of rainbow danced all over the expensive stone floors. A wall of windows looked out over the city below, putting my itty bitty view of skyscrapers from the hallway to shame. It made me wonder what else this place had hidden in its closets that were bigger and shinier than everything I'd ever seen. All I knew was there was no way I was leaving here without feeling very, very small.

"This is the outer office," Veronica announced with an icy crispness that matched her wrinkle-free white pantsuit a little too well. "Mr. Hunter rarely holds meetings out here, but occasionally uses it for...what he calls 'private conferences.' By which he means trysts with his bimbo of the month." She raised a sculpted eyebrow in a way that made me wonder if she kept a shiv hidden in those tight cuffs.

Private conferences indeed. No doubt that's where he worked on his secret handshake with the mysterious brunette from the tabloids. I tried not to picture what went on under the glass-topped conference table as Veronica led me past the fully stocked bar - which put the alcohol selection at my local Donut Emporium to shame. "That hidden panel dispenses more than just bottle service, if you know what I mean," she whispered.

Next on our tour was the gym, putting my rinky-dink college rec center in the dust. According to Veronica, the yoga instructor was "very flexible" in more ways than one. Finally, we reached the home theater that would put the local Cineplex out of business. But the plush recliners and leather sofas told me this was less a screening room and more a love den for Daniel and his paramours.

"And here we are...Mr. Hunter's inner sanctum," Veronica announced with a grand flourish, as if presenting me with a basket of kittens instead of just another office. Mr. Hunter must enjoy the dramatics.

When the doors swung open, my jaw nearly hit the floor. If the outer office looked like an Ikea catalog exploded, this inner sanctum was the royal suite at the Ritz. A plush white rug, so fluffy I feared falling in, spread from wall to wall. It looked perfect for doing somersaults when the boss wasn't looking.

And the furniture! Leather thrones masquerading as armchairs lined the edges. Even the mahogany desk got in on the excess, decorated with so much gold trim it must shed flakes like a molting canary. No expense spared to flaunt Mr. Hunter's wealth, it seemed.

But the pièce de résistance had to be the balcony view, with a telescope poised like a sentinel to peer into the lives of the rich and famous below. No doubt Mr. Hunter whiled away idle hours, binoculars in hand, chuckling over the foibles of his Hollywood neighbors.

"He even has a telescope," I blurted in wonder. No filter between my brain and mouth, as usual.

Veronica gave a knowing snort. "That's the least of it," she teased. No doubt this room had hosted more drama than an episode of Dynasty. One can only imagine the scenarios such opulence and isolation might breed after hours. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "This room has seen its fair share of... action."

My mind immediately conjured an unwanted image of the "private conferences" Veronica had mentioned earlier. A scene from my disastrous freshman year at college flashed before my eyes. It involved a suspicious fruit punch, a lewd interpretive dance performance by the art history professor (who shall remain nameless to protect the innocent), and a bean bag chair that still haunts my nightmares.

I gave myself a good mental slap and prayed that Mr. Hunter's private conferences didn't involve the reenactment of past mistakes. The last thing I needed was to relive the bean bag incident of '03.

"But listen," Veronica continued, her voice regaining its professional edge, "your main job is to keep Mr. Hunter on schedule. He can be forgetful, and believe me, you don't want to be the one reminding him he's late for a multi-million dollar movie premiere."

"Noted," I said, trying to absorb the sheer amount of information being thrown at me.

"And one more thing," Veronica added, leaning in so close I could see yesterday's mascara residue under her eyes. "He hates mornings. So if you see any signs of life before noon, I'd consider it a personal favor not to disturb him."

Hating mornings, private conferences, and who knows what other surprises lurking behind closed doors. This was definitely shaping up to be the strangest, albeit potentially vivid, start to a new job I could imagine.

With a final briefing on the finer points of the espresso machine (apparently, Daniel had very specific requirements for his caffeine fix) and a puzzling warning about a "particularly demanding" wardrobe assistant who had "met an unfortunate accident" (Veronica's words, not mine), I was left alone in the luxurious, slightly intimidating office while Veronica takes a phone call.

I perched nervously on the edge of the plush armchair, afraid to sit back for fear of leaving behind an irreversible butt imprint in the luxurious leather. The office was impressively large, but cluttered with embellishments that screamed "look how much money I have." Gold-leaf wallpaper, a bookshelf bowed under the weight of thick volumes that were doubtless untouched since the day they were shelved. And of course, mounted heads of animals so rare they were almost mythical adorned the walls. A snuffly-nosed creature stared down at me with glass eyes, and I wondered if it had met its demise at the hands of Daniel Hunter himself, or if he had outsourced the labor like everything else in his life.

"Don't judge me, buddy. We all have our first days," I muttered.

As long as I steered clear of any critiques of his wardrobe choices, I figured I just might make it to 5 o'clock in one piece.

What could possibly go wrong?