Mr. Fluff will run, jump, sit, and cuddle on request. He’s a quick learner, and in just a few hours this magnificent exemplar of Silver Tabby British Shorthair can be trained to perform just about any task. At Le Paw Animal Talent Management Agency, we strive to provide our clients with the perfect animal for any job. We will provide you with expert advice and coordination to make all your productions spectacular.
I click on the casting video that shows Mr. Fluff playing with a plumed cat wand, chasing after a mechanical mouse… Then he eats, jumps, runs up the stairs, and the video ends with a close-up of the cat resting on a white couch while purring loudly. He seems indeed like a wonderful actor.
I grab the landline receiver and dial the agency number.
“Le Paw Animal Talent Management Agency,” a female voice says, picking up on the second ring. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, hello, this is Nikki Moore from KCU Advertising. I was calling to inquire about one of your actors…” And, yes, I feel stupid saying this, but pet agencies can be a tad sensitive, and I’ve learned that if I don’t refer to the animals as “professionals” or “talent” they can get pretty prickly. “Err… Mr. Fluff?”
“Oh, sure, Mr. Fluff is one of our best performers, always in demand. Needs a month’s advance booking at the very least.”
“A month?” I gasp. “You mean he wouldn’t be available this Thursday?”
“As in, the day after tomorrow?” the girl asks, appalled.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, ma’am. He’s fully booked through January. Cats are very popular for Valentine’s Day commercials, you know?”
Yes, I do know. It’s my job to know. “Thank you very much anyway,” I say, discouraged.
Third hole in the water today.
“You’re welcome. And if you ever need our services in the future, don’t hesitate to call us back. Le Paw Animal Talent Management Agency wishes you a purrfect Christmas.”
Did she really just wish me a purrfect Christmas? I smash the receiver on its case three times, imagining it to be the face of the creative who suggested a tabby cat would suit the commercial better than the Russian Blue I’d hired.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m losing a battle with time to wrap up this last-minute job that Teddy—my stupid holiday-loving boss—dumped on me. I’m about to click the link for the next animal “talent” agency when my personal phone starts vibrating somewhere on my desk. I can’t see it; it must be hidden under some sheets of paper, so I ignore its insistent buzzing and let the call go unanswered. Five seconds later the vibration starts again, disrupting my concentration. If I keep ignoring whoever’s calling, then curiosity would just bug me for the rest of the afternoon, slowing my progress even further. So I unceremoniously shuffle the piles of documents aside until I find the phone.
It’s Blair.
Except for my “still alive” texts, we haven’t talked much since she’s moved out of the house, so I pick up.
“Hello?”
“Guess what I’m looking at right now?” she asks.
I sigh. “I don’t have time for games, I’m swamped with work.”
“Oh, what are you doing?”
“Watching cat videos. I’m trying to find a tabby cat that rolls on its back on command. Apparently, a monochrome gray cat doing everything exactly as it was told at every take wasn’t pretty enough for the commercial we’re shooting.”
“You’re watching cat videos and complaining?”
“It’s not the cats; it’s their trainers who drive me mad. Not to mention my creatives. So, are your eyes better occupied?”
“Oh, yeah. Right now I’m staring at the best six pack ever.”
“Is Richard performing a mid-afternoon office striptease for you?”
“No, we hired Diego for the campaign.” A vision of Diego clad only in a white towel flashes before my eyes, and I understand why Blair felt compelled to call me. Diego bare-chested is not an everyday sight. “The moment Angelika Black set eyes on him, it was game over for everybody else.”
“Oh, great.” I’m genuinely happy he got the job, and that, if nothing else, posing as my boyfriend will help his career. I guess one can’t put “played fake boyfriend for a desperate single lady over the holidays” on one’s résumé.
“So…” Blair says suggestively.
“So?”
“You’ve seen what I’ve seen?”
I can picture her waggling her eyebrows.
“Yes, it’s in his portfolio,” I lie. For some reason, I don’t want her to know I had a real-life show. Two, counting the Santa World backstage.
“And?” she insists.
“And nothing.”
“Are you telling me you’re not even tempted?”
“To do what?”
“Oh, come on… You sleep in the candy shop every night, and you want me to believe you’ve never thought of tasting the candies?”
I massage my temples as the first signs of a cat-talent-plus-stupid-questions-from-my-best-friend induced headache start pressing on my skull. “Blair, we’re in a professional agreement. I’m not going to hit on the guy.” As if I had a chance, anyway. No matter what Diego says, guys like him don’t end up with regular women like me.
“Why not? He’s so hot, and he seems like a nice guy; couldn’t you at least have some fun with this crazy pantomime of yours?”
“Why are you suddenly trying to push me into his arms? Only last week you were convinced he was a serial killer.”
“Well…”
I can hear the guilt in her tone.
“Blair, what did you do?”
“Oh, nothing, really. But in order for us to hire him, he had to give us his social security number, and I told you how Richard wanted to meet the guy before we drove home with him… So, he sort of had a PI friend of his run a background check on Diego.”
“You guys didn’t,” I hiss into the mic.
“We did, and you should thank us. Diego is squeaky clean. No criminal record, and his identity checked out. His credit score could be better, but that can be expected of a struggling artist.”
“Oh my gosh.” I close my eyes and intensify the massage. “He won’t find out, will he?”
“I don’t think so. And even if he does, we can always say it’s a standard employee background check we carry out for all new hires.”
“How wonderful,” I say, hoping she’ll catch the sarcasm.
“Stop being such a Scrooge. I just wanted to let you know that I approve.”
“There’s nothing to approve.”
“If you say so. Anyway, that’s not the only reason I called… Richard has booked his flight to London. Do you mind if we leave for home on Sunday instead of Saturday?”
“And skip a day in the torture pit? No, I don’t mind.”
“Okay, then. Richard will drop me and Chevron by the house early Sunday morning before he drives to the airport. Can you rent the car?”
“Sure, I’ll book it when I get home from work.” If I ever leave this place, I add in my mind. “When do you want to come back, on the twenty-ninth or the thirtieth?”
“Twenty-ninth?” Blair suggests. “So we get that extra day to recuperate before New Year’s Eve?”
“Big plans?”
“No, just a party at Richard’s friend’s house. Want to come?”
“Is it all couples?”
“Err… I don’t know. I can check if you want.”
“Yeah, please.” The last thing I need is to be the only sad loser at a party with no one to kiss at midnight. “So, I’ll pick up the car Saturday night and schedule the drop off for the next Saturday.” This way I can shave two whole days off my homestay and blame it on Blair and her British boyfriend with my mom. She loves Blair; she’s not going to hold it against her. “A clean one-week rental. I hope they have discounts for that.” Gosh, a full week at home. Fake boyfriend or not, the thought still makes me nauseous. “Anything else?”
“Just make sure the rental company allows for pets in the car.”
“And maybe that they check their plates before doling out cars.” I chuckle. “Wouldn’t want to get arrested.”
“Ah, ah… very funny.”
“I’m still so sad they didn’t take a mug shot of you,” I say, referring to Blair’s incident with law enforcement last summer. “I really gotta go now. See you on Sunday?”
“Yeah, bye.”
“Bye.”
***
Whenever I imagined low points in my career, delivering a sales pitch on all the qualities of Russian Blue cats never made the list. Nevertheless, the impossibility of finding a replacement “actor” forced me to do exactly that. I had to support my argument with adoption statistics, substantiated research on the most-loved cat breeds, and a small focus group’s—made of the office secretaries—approval ratings for the specific cat performance.
In the end, I convinced the client to keep the Russian Blue. But this job is killing me. I have to treat myself to something, and since Diego and I also need more shared experiences, I ask Melanie to buy two tickets for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I’m sure Diego won’t mind seeing it a second time.
When my assistant delivers the tickets to my desk the next day, she eyes me inquisitively. “Two front-row seats for tomorrow and Friday’s shows,” she says. “Solved that boyfriend issue, have you?”
I instantly regret having shared too much personal information with her. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m going with a friend.”
“Oh, you seemed so much happier in the past week… I thought you’d met someone.”
Happier, me? How, when I’ve been swamped by my usual workload, plus an impossible project, a rogue team of creatives, and had to deal with kitty-gate. I feel more stressed than ever, definitely not happier.
“What made you think that?” I ask.
“Nothing, really, but you seem more lively lately… more energetic. Usually happens to people who are in love.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to deliver everything Teddy asked for.”
“Hey, don’t get defensive, I was only saying you look better. Maybe it’s the hair. Anyway…” She taps the tickets now resting on my desk, taking the hint my happiness level isn’t a topic I care to discuss with her. “Both Part 1 and 2 start at 7:30 p.m. The ticket lady advised getting there a little early just to be on the safe side.”
“Thank you, Mel, that’ll be all,” I dismiss her.
I stash the tickets away in my wallet and take a moment to stare out the window.
I’m not happier.
Why would I be?