sharp . . . have a spark. She offered a quick smile and a ready hand. But it hadnât worked, and as the minutes passed, sheâd seen the interviewer slowly drift away, then rise, mutter a quick âThanks for coming in,â and escort her to the door. Nor could she blame these people for not hiring her. She was in her late thirties, a woman with no experience, her résumé a blank page. They had seen it in her eyes, seen through the sparkling mask that in some indefinable but alarming way she was at loose ends, would be trouble down the line. She knew that they couldnât guess the force that drove her, but that didnât matter. They wanted someone relaxed, someone easy, someone who believed that if you did everything right, things would work out, someone with experience but no past, a blank slate they could write their companyâs logo on. They did not want a woman who answered their questions quickly and added nothing, a woman in whom they could hear the aching groan of a tightly wound spring.
She thought of the man whoâd interviewed her for the job of receptionist in his hair salon, the way heâd looked at her hair, like it was a nest of squirming snakes,
Thank you, weâll be in touch.
Then there was the woman at the attorneyâs office, dressed like a man, who talked like a man, and whose flinty gaze said
Now youâre sorry, right, for wasting your life, well, too late, sister.
The final job was located on Avenue C, a neighborhood Sara remembered well from her days in New York. Back then it had been a dangerous place, but now, as she moved down Sixth Street, she marveled at how much things had changed. There were young professionals on the street, along with the usual tradesmen and delivery people. Tompkins Square Park, once a mire of drug addicts, was now both park and playground, a well-tended expanse of green where children scurried in all directions while their well-heeled parents looked on.
Addison Film Works was located just off the park, the building a bit more dingy than the ones around it. There was no doorman, only a spare foyer with walls painted institutional gray and an ancient elevator that creaked and trembled as it rose to the fourth floor.
The door was at the end of a corridor stacked high with cardboard boxes and black towers of videotape. The name of the company was printed in block letters on frosted glass. A single name was written in the lower left corner of the glass:
Art Gillman.
A stubby, overweight man in a dark double-breasted suit greeted Sara as she came through the door. âIâm Art Gillman,â he said. His hair was a lackluster brown, very thin on top, parted low on the left side and then swept over to cover spaces that would otherwise have been bald. âSorry for the mess. I just got back from L.A.â He shrugged helplessly. âWhen Iâm out of the office, things go to pot.â
Sara smiled weakly.
âSo, what do you go by?â Gillman asked.
âGo by?â Sara asked.
âName.â
âSamantha,â she blurted out before she could stop herself. âSamantha Damonte.â
Something registered in Gillmanâs eyes. âThatâs good. I like that. Samantha Damonte.â He stripped off his jacket, hung it on a wooden hat rack, then dropped heavily into a seat behind a cluttered metal desk. âYou work in the film business before?â
âNo,â Sara admitted.
Gillman nodded toward the single empty chair that rested in front of his desk. âHave a seat.â
Sara did so.
âIt takes a little getting used to,â Gillman added. âBut most people catch on pretty fast.â He glanced about, as if looking for an assistant. âMildredâs supposed to stay till five, but she cut out early, I guess.â He eyed the small wooden cabinet to the right of his desk. âYou want something to drink?â
âNo, thank you,â Sara replied.
âHow about
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SO
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