Party Favor Pt. 01

"Yes, it's been all arranged. Of course. Don't you trust me by now, darling?" Angela rolled her eyes for my benefit. "Yes, I have a couple of replacement candidates already screened. One just walked into my office right now and I think she might be brilliant for this, actually. Of course I will, if she works out. Don't be naughty. See you at the gala tonight! Ciao."

"Ahh, Michelle. How lovely you are! Thank you for coming so quickly!"

Angela rose from her desk and greeted me with a pair of soft cheek kisses. She motioned for me to sit in one of the two straight backed leather chairs that faced her desk, before casually leaning against that heavy desk and studying me. There was a measured smile on her face, but I was keenly aware of her sharp blue eyes studying me like hawk might eye a plump rabbit.

I found myself focusing on my posture as I sat, and trying to be a bit more refined in my bearing. Was I simpering? I forced my smile broader, trying to radiate confidence as I steeled myself to not break her gaze.

"It's truly my pleasure, thank you for inviting me, Angela."

I regretted my choice of outfit now that I was in her elegant office. I had quickly thrown on a simple, blue floral-patterned tea dress with matching pumps, accessorized with a tiny Louis Vuitton clutch that barely fit my keys and phone. That little purse was the most expensive accessory I owned, but in glitzy L.A. it felt like something a high school girl might be proud of carrying. Even worse, I realized with a sinking feeling that the purse really didn't go with my dress at all.

I suddenly felt bland and tawdry in the presence of Angela, who appeared to be dressed head to toe in vintage Chanel. Her gray tweed skirt ran to mid-thigh and its matching jacket rested on the chair. She wore a white, sleeveless silk blouse, with a blue accent strip on the neck. The blouse was modestly cut, but instead of hiding the older woman's impressive chest, the high neck and tight fit seemed to make the swell of her breasts beneath even more evident. Those sexy sheer stockings completed her outfit, with the top of one visible as the the hem of her skirt rose up slightly.

Angela was sophisticated, elegant, wealthy, and so fucking assured that I wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear. My career failures loomed large in my head and the depression formed by yesterday's rejection came creeping back. I felt like some underdressed and vapid bimbo from SoCal trying to have a conversation at an expensive gala in London with a celebrated Woman of the Year prize winner. She was simply on a different level of personality, accomplishment, and appearance than I could even aspire to reach. What could I say or do that could possibly interest her, let alone impress her?

I felt all this, yet I knew nothing about her. She had barely even spoken to me directly, in fact.

I struggled to keep my composure and slipped into an acting exercise I used in times of stress. I made up a more interesting and confident fake persona to portray. No longer was I Michelle, the failed actress and sports bra model with no money, I was now Michélle, a devastatingly beautiful temptress that was both beguiling and sophisticated. Even this simple outfit, basic and banal on another woman, was a calculated touch that highlighted my ironic sense of style. Angela should feel lucky Michélle deigned it worthwhile to humor her with this meeting. The older woman should be begging me to join her agency, whatever it was that they did.

Or so I struggled to convince myself as Angela's penetrating gaze seemed to tear my act apart as quickly as I could rebuild it in my mind. Why wouldn't she speak? She was just staring at me with that flat smile and I was getting more self-conscious by the minute.

Everywhere her silent gaze lingered, flaws appeared in my mind unbidden. I probably looked about my age now, not younger. My breasts were maybe starting to sag and she would definitely notice if she saw me out of my bra. Could my thighs and legs be perhaps too muscular from all my crossfit? Did my fake blonde hair look too cheap? I'd started dyeing it myself years ago to save money, so had the roots had started showing somewhere I didn't see easily? Even my hairstyle was boring, straight and limp, compared to her wonderful do-up that used a pair of lacquered, antique chopsticks as pins. I'd rushed my makeup this morning to get over here and I knew it looked haphazard, unlike Angela's perfectly applied layers that enhanced her striking natural bone structure.

Those cutting eyes kept poking holes in my self-confidence, springing huge leaks one after the other in what felt like an already foundering boat. If I was a boat, my hull had more holes than wood at this point. I was sinking fast under her scrutiny and what was left of me wanted to break apart and crumble into tiny, equally useless pieces of junk just to escape her gaze.

As you can tell, I felt more nervous and insecure than I could remember in a while. This was worse than reading for a big role before a room full of critical execs. How could she have this much of an effect on me? It took all my self-control to keep a calm smile on my face.

"So," said Angela at last, giving me a cursory nod that seemed like approval. My heart leapt at that small, positive, and monosyllabic acknowledgement. I found my smile growing inexplicably wide at idea that I had passed some initial screen, even if it was simply not wilting under her gaze. "Let me tell you about the job."

Her perfectly manicured nails rapped on the wooden desk briefly.

"Discretion," said Angela slowly and precisely. "Discretion is your job."

"I understand, completely," I replied, amazed my voice came out steady.

A tic was building on one side of my face, my body's rebellion against the effort of forcing those muscles to stay relaxed. I grew worried that I might have a facial spasm in front of her and felt my eyelid quiver slightly as I fought to stay collected. Her gaze was relentless.

"We will pay you lots of money. Ten thousand dollars for you to help host a party," continued Angela, the words rolling out precisely in her British accent. "The money isn't for your work, but rather for you to keep your mouth shut forever about what happens at our events. And more precisely, who attends our events."

"Of course, for the guests who can afford your fees, I'm sure privacy is truly priceless," I answered, amazed at the smoothness of my reply. Maybe Michélle was holding character? My own curiosity was piqued now. Samantha had mentioned A-listers, but I had naturally assumed she was exaggerating. What if she wasn't? "I know how to be discreet among... famous... people."

"Important and famous guests. Oscar winners, including best actors and best actresses, heralded directors, producers, CEO's, and scores of the upper echelon of Hollywood," Angela continued matter-of-factly. "I run a very exclusive, very expensive, and very discreet service for this clientele. You would be part of the entertainment, darling."

My mouth went dry. That roster sounded above "A list", if such a higher tier existed in the Hollywood pantheon. I dared not speak out of fear that she would hear a loud smack when my suddenly dry lips opened. I simply nodded and waited.

My mind was spinning now with questions. What did she mean by entertainment? Standing around in lingerie or even naked was one thing, but was she implying I might have to do something with them, or in front of them? Outright paid sex was wrong and would definitely cross my moral boundaries. I wasn't a slut like Samantha and even she wouldn't truly be a whore like that, would she?

I should have stood up and left, but I was still magnetized by Angela and, I had to admit, very curious about the kinky details of these parties. I decided to try and find out a bit more, who knows, maybe there was some gray area that could make the job more morally acceptable? In any event, I could always politely decline after I learned some more.

"Your friend Samantha wasn't discreet enough, unfortunately. We found out during our background research," Angela said casually as she reached back across her desk to grab a folder. One knee rose up, her thighs scissored, and a lacy black garter strap flashed in vivid contrast to her pale skin. The peek ended as quickly as it had appeared when Angela settled back and began to leaf through some papers in the folder. "She was unsuitable on several fronts, including physically, but she did give us your name. I must say, you fit the profile we seek perfectly."

Samantha had been rejected by Angela? She hadn't mentioned that fact to me. It made sense to me now that Angela said it, as there was no way Mr. Sleazy's feelings would have stopped her from agreeing to this job given the amount of money being promised, rather she would have left him in a heartbeat. I felt a little surge of pride that I had made Angela's cut and Samantha hadn't. Perhaps this job was more exclusive than I imagined and I felt my interest growing again, despite my misgivings.

It was time to flush out exactly what I would have to do.

"Thank you, but I'm still at a loss. What is the job exactly, and why do you think I am perfect for it again?"

"Darling, don't be thick," said Angela, frowning at me in mild annoyance. I almost apologized, but bit back my words to let her finish. "You know what is expected of you at a party in which you get paid that much money to hostess. We don't need to be vulgar and say it, do we?"

"I understand perfectly, then," I said, but gave her a look of mild distaste as I didn't want her to think I was excited by the prospect. Of course, I still didn't really understand as I wanted the juicy details, but what she said should have been more than enough for me to decide to turn her down.

A strange mix of conflicting emotions flooded me as I considered her words. First, I realized the unavoidable truth that I'd be a whore, fucking Hollywood elites for cold, hard cash. On the other hand, at least I'd be an expensive whore. I'd sold myself all these years for cheap favors and my window was slipping away. The idea wasn't as morally repugnant as it would have been before my birthday yesterday. At least I could earn some quick money and move on. If discretion was truly their priority, there was a chance no one might ever know.

Even more disturbing, a part of me was actually intrigued by this crazy idea. Pretty Woman was one of my favorite movies after all, and I could see myself with Richard Gere, first driving his Ferrari because he didn't know how to drive stick, and then going to his mansion for sensual love making. Maybe he even attended these events? If not him, other hunky and powerful male actors might be there, all paying top dollar to have sex with me!

Michélle the sophisticated temptress working in a high-end escort outfit for ten thousand dollars a night was a much more glamorous role to play than Michelle the poor barista who gave blowjobs to casting associates for free.

Had I lost my fucking mind?!

"Remember, you are acting. Everything you do is entertainment for our clients. You create the fantasy they pay us to bring to life. Never let acting become personal," continued Angela, perhaps in response to my frown. Her logic made sense and I found myself nodding in agreement. I was an actress after all, a better actress than my screen credits would imply, in fact. I wouldn't be a whore, just an actress playing a whore for lots of money. The mental gymnastics were difficult, but I could rationalize this as a method acting role in my head. It would be good practice. She pulled a single sheet of paper from the folder. "As to why you are perfect for this role, I've reviewed your C.V. and I must say you have accomplished nothing of note despite five years of trying. Please don't take that as an insult, I know how hard it is in Hollywood for a young woman, but your career has been a complete waste—"

It was a dirty blow, and I felt my cheeks redden. I couldn't hold her gaze as first embarrassment, then anger flooded through me. Somehow, the latter won out despite the depression I had endured yesterday. What little self-respect I had left flared up and drove me to fight back and defend myself. What did she know about my life in Hollywood? Fuck her and her stupid whorish job! Frappuccinos were at least a morally acceptable work product!

"That doesn't mean I should welcome becoming a whore!" I interrupted, eyes flashing at Angela.

The older woman just looked at me with an annoyed expression. The silence grew and I readied myself to stand up and leave with some dignity. Surely I'd burned any bridges with that outburst? After all, I had shouted as vulgarly as possible the specific duty she wished to avoid saying.

My anger drained out of me and a sense of regret replaced it as I contemplated the slow evening shift at Starbucks ahead. And the next day. Maybe even for the rest of my life. I hesitated. My fingers tensed on the armrests in preparation of lifting my body up. Then I hesitated some more. Why didn't I just storm out?

Angela's stare was akin to a stern teacher waiting for an apology from a rude student. Words slipped out of my mouth as if someone else invaded my head and spoke for me. "I'm sorry, Angela, you just cut a bit close to the bone on something that has been bothering me."

Fuck, I was so weak. I couldn't defy her. I found myself hanging my head like a guilty schoolgirl.

"There, there, darling, I understand," said Angela rising up to lightly caress my cheek. Her thumb brushed a teardrop aside that I hadn't even realize had formed at the corner of my eye. My cheek tingled from her touch and hidden tension drained out of my body, causing me to slump back in relief.

Pleasing her was oddly fulfilling.

I lifted my eyes to thank her, but Angela wasn't looking at me anymore. She had stepped back and hopped onto her desk. She rested half her rear on it, with one heeled toe lightly touching the ground. Her other foot dangled, that knee resting on the edge. The pose made her thighs scissor wider now, providing my strangely curious eyes a vista under her skirt that was cut short right around her upper thigh. That distracting garter strap now stayed in view, making the skin of her thigh look so white. Why was I checking out Angela like this? I wasn't even bisexual, let alone a lesbian. My mind must have been in tatters.

"As I was saying, before you interrupted, your career has been a waste of your talent. That's right, we believe you have some and that Hollywood hasn't noticed yet. Your acting in the Beginning of the End was quite good."

My ears perked up and I looked at her in confusion. That was a short film I'd done two years ago with an indy director for no pay. He'd submitted it to some festivals where it had gotten very positive reviews, but no awards. As a result, no distribution deal ever happened. Had she really been able to watch it somehow?

That movie was also my finest work, in my humble opinion. Not that I had a lot of other quality credits to brag about. I'd been cast as one of two lead females, both of us caught in a love triangle the summer after graduation from high school with a young male teacher. I'd died my hair black for the role and played a scene girl that had turned to cutting and drugs to deal with a dysfunctional family and childhood abuse. The teacher had been my de facto therapist, but now he had fallen for one of my friends. I know this bores you, but I loved that the script showcased my emotional range instead of my breasts or ass.

"Amy's a solid agent, but not imaginative at all," continued Angela. She shifted and a tiny bit of lacy, red underwear became visible under her skirt. I didn't want to look at it, but I couldn't help a quick glance down as it teased the edge of my vision. "Because of her misguided advice, you have typecast yourself into competing for a career dead end role, even if you get a break. The blonde bimbo is the most commoditized talent pool in Hollywood, as you well know, and you've firmly entrenched yourself as just another one. She should have focused your casting search on different types of roles years ago. You also need an image makeover to support such a career repositioning. You'll sign with us via ACA and I'll take care of your career, which is going to progress quite nicely from now on."

I was shocked and stared at her mutely. The rollercoaster of emotions I had been riding this entire interview seemed to be getting wilder by the minute. She wanted to represent me, and thought my career could take off? I had to beg Amy to take me as a client years ago and she'd done it almost as a charity case because I reminded her of her daughter. Now I'd be repped by ACA, or Associated Creative Artists, which was one of the three largest talent agencies in the world? They wouldn't have even validated my parking ticket if I tried to meet with them last week!

"Come, come. Cat got your tongue?" asked Angela, shifting again. I discovered her underwear was red satin, with only a lacy fringe. I wondered if they felt as sexy as they looked? Why exactly was I staring at her panties?! My eyes darted back to her face. It was difficult to keep eye contact with that severe gaze, so maybe that's why I kept looking down. Her crotch just happened to be at eye level, unfortunately. "What do you think of my proposal? I can't promise you that you'll be as successful as other of our top proteges, such as Charlize Theron, but certainly I think you could have a career similar to Hayden Panettiere, Blake Lively, or Sasha Pieterse, who all got their start with us. You'll get your big break, at least. The rest is up to you."

"Are you serious? Those women worked... here?" I finally managed to squeak out. Even her lesser tier actresses loomed like A-listers in my mind. Having a starring role in a small budget movie would be beyond my wildest dreams at this stage in my career. Hell, even a small role in a real movie, or minor recurring roles on TV, would be enough make me a professional actress, not a barista. I knew right then that I would do anything, anything at all, if this woman would really be able to help me. "How can you promise this?"

"Almost everyone needs a break in this town, unless you are born into it with connections already," continued Angela blithely. "Do you really think thirty year old casting directors should get to monopolize all the fresh talent in Hollywood for their enjoyment? No, the real establishment wants to sample a bit of that young flesh themselves, but they need to be very discreet. Reckless ones end up like Harvey Weinstein or Kevin Spacey, disgraced and exiled. Neither were clients of mine, though they begged, but I won't take people that are indiscreet and unable to control themselves. Scandals like we have had recently have made my agency even more important for those true elites that want to enjoy the perks of their status with mutual and guaranteed discretion."

It all made sense. The real power players were held hostage by their own fame. It would be self-destructive to seek the kind of liberties a mid-tier, no-name exec could pull off with young talent. The elites still had their needs, however, and Angela was their broker. She screened talent, delivered it to them in private events to fulfill their fantasies, and in return, they provided the nudges needed behind the scenes to hold up their end of the bargain.

"You are paid for your silence, of course," continued Angela. The cash was almost unnecessary if my career got the boost she promised, but I wasn't going to say that. Plus, I needed to eat and pay off bills! The older woman gave me a meaningful stare. "But, we still worry about a tell all exposé in the future, paid for by some unscrupulous publisher. Hence, we screen our talent carefully and select those candidates with high career potential. Nothing keeps lips sealed better than if both sides have have a mutual interest in discretion. We want talent that will develop a reputation of their own that is worth protecting. We want stars."