Picture Perfect

‘Dylan, it’s Maggie Hall. Have you still got those shoes of mine?’

Dylan froze then looked around, waiting for Ashton Kutcher to come out and say, ‘Punked.’ Thank God she hadn’t sold them, she thought.

‘Yes, I do, would you like them back?’

Maggie laughed. ‘No, sweetheart, but I was wondering if you were busy right now?’

‘No, I’m at the library,’ said Dylan.

‘The library? Good for you,’ said Maggie, sounding sort of pleased or proud of her, which was totally weird but Dylan wanted to hear more.

‘Yeah, I’ve been working all morning,’ she lied.

‘Isn’t that great? Now listen, Dylan, do you have an hour to meet with me? I’d like to discuss a job I think might be good for you.’

Dylan did a triumphant fist pump in the air and then realized she looked like a complete idiot.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said casually, but with a hint of deference.

‘Great, meet me tomorrow at Culina at seven,’ said Maggie and before Dylan could answer Maggie had hung up.

Dylan typed Culina into the search engine and saw it was a bar at the Four Seasons Hotel. Jesus, she thought, she had nothing to wear that was close to good enough for either the venue or Maggie Hall.

Perhaps she should call Addie back and get her to FedEx the T-shirt, she thought as she quickly packed up her things and left. But at the door she stopped, rushed back to the table to pick up the book and checked it out using her mom’s library card.

The following evening, at exactly seven o’clock, Dylan was sitting at the bar in the simple black dress she had worn to graduation, paired with Maggie’s shoes, when she felt the energy in the room grow charged.

Turning, she saw Maggie approaching the bar. She was wearing a white jumpsuit split to the naval and silver heels. With her blond hair slicked back showing off her cheekbones and silver dangly earrings showing off her long neck, she looked like she was off to Studio 54 to chill with Jerry Hall.

Maggie kissed Dylan on the cheek and nodded at the barman, who immediately walked them to a private booth.

‘Dylan, how are you?’ said Maggie as she slid into the booth.

Dylan felt the eyes of all the other bar patrons on them, and wondered if Maggie even noticed the attention any more.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She wiped her sweating hands on her dress.

Maggie smiled at her and Dylan tried to relax, clenching and unclenching her toes as her father had taught her, but all it did was make her feet hurt even more in Maggie’s shoes.

‘Is your thesis going well?’

Dylan frowned and then remembered her lie in the bathroom at the Oscars party.

‘Well, it’s mostly research at the moment, I haven’t got onto the writing part yet,’ she said.

‘Ah, good, so you write as well?’ Maggie leaned forward and Dylan saw the edge of some tape that was making sure the jumpsuit didn’t gape open.

Dylan nodded. ‘A little,’ she said.

Maggie looked up at the waiter who had appeared at the table.

‘A soda water with lime, thanks. Dylan?’

‘Same, thanks,’ said Dylan, trying to emulate Maggie’s casual body language.

‘Are you twenty-one yet?’

‘Nearly nineteen,’ said Dylan, hoping this wasn’t a problem. ‘I finished school last July and took some time off, before I came out here.’

Maggie nodded, but didn’t seem especially interested in Dylan’s past activities.

‘Well, as I said, I have a job I need to talk to you about. It’s not a long-term thing, it may be just for a few months, but I thought it could work with your college schedule.’

Dylan paused, wondering whether to spill the beans about college. Then she remembered the lone packet of noodles sitting in her soon-to-be-vacated apartment. She needed this job. Beside, she justified to herself, she was going to college next year…

‘And if I were to get the job, what would I be assisting you with?’ she asked politely, as though she was offered jobs by movies stars all the time.

‘Ah, well, you see, you wouldn’t actually be working for me,’ Maggie said, and Dylan felt disappointment wrap around her like a shawl. If Maggie noticed, she didn’t say. ‘It’s for a dear friend of mine, who wants to write a book,’ she went on.

‘Oh,’ said Dylan. She didn’t know how to write a book, and if she lied, she would be found out in a heartbeat.

‘My friend has been sick, and he’s kind of an introvert,’ Maggie added.

Dylan watched Maggie as she spoke. Dylan had grown up watching that beautiful face on the screen. Maggie had starred in so many movies, mostly ones about love, and she was still adored. She was the woman every girl wanted to be best friends with, and the woman every man wanted to marry. Dylan didn’t want to let her down, but she knew she had to tell the truth.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how I can help your friend. I’m not a writer,’ she said apologetically.

Maggie laughed. ‘Oh no, Dylan, I don’t want you to help him write it. I want you to help get him out of the house! ‘

Dylan frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Maggie paused. ‘He had a heart transplant and it’s kind of knocked him around. He was sick for a long time before the new heart and we all thought the heart would make him excited to live again, but he’s depressed.’

‘Why doesn’t he try therapy?’ Dylan asked, thinking of her father.

‘He doesn’t need therapy,’ Maggie snapped. ‘Taking about his feelings isn’t going to help anything; he needs someone his own age to help him engage with life again. You know, to take him out to see friends, concerts, movies, go shopping, just to do stuff with him.’

She threw her hands up as she spoke, as though tossing confetti into the air.

Dylan was worried. ‘I don’t know if I can look after someone who’s had a heart transplant.’

‘You don’t need to nurse him,’ laughed Maggie, ‘you need to show him fun things to do.’

‘I don’t know LA that well yet,’ Dylan explained. ‘I’ve only been here eight weeks and I have to find a new apartment and I have no idea where to even start looking,’

Disappointment flooded through her that this wasn’t the opportunity she had hoped it would be. Everything about this person that Maggie wanted her to help sounded difficult. An introvert heart transplant patient who wanted to be a writer? Hell no.

‘Did I mention it’s a live-in position,’ said Maggie, ‘with full use of a car? The salary is a thousand dollars a week.’ She paused for effect, then said, ‘Cash.’