When I arrive on set for my first day of shooting, I immediately regret the decision of signing up for this thing. I’m already having a bad day. Ariel called early this morning in a fit, demanding that I drop everything and look for her Cartier diamond necklace. Apparently, she couldn’t find it anywhere, and it’s somehow my job to look for it.

“I took it off at your house. I remember that precisely,” she hollered into the phone.

I look around the bedroom and the bathroom. I check the dresser and the closet. It’s nowhere to be found.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. “I don’t see it.”

“C’mon look harder! It costs over fifty grand.”

“Well, I hope you had it insured. ‘Cause it’s not here.”

“Fuck you!” she yelled.

“Maybe you should call Chateau Marmont and check if maybe you left it there,” I said and hung up.

This was not the way I wanted to start the day. As much as I try to put her out of my mind, I’m still fuming over the whole thing when I arrive in North Hollywood, and my mood does not improve when I see the set. The bungalow is fine enough, but the crafts table is rather small, and there are clearly not enough trailers to accommodate the entire crew.

Tim shows me to my trailer.

“Thank you so much again for joining our production,” he says over and over, nervously, cracking his knuckles. What an annoying habit!

“Yeah, sure. I love the script,” I say. At least that part is true.

I don’t bother to go into the trailer and instead head straight to the crafts table. I need some coffee and maybe a Greek yogurt in my system if I have any hope of getting a fresh start on the day.

Bam! Splash!

Before I realize what’s going on, some girl’s orange juice is all over my brand new Calvin Klein shirt and my grey Marc Jacobs slacks. Perfect. Just perfect.

Her phone falls to the floor, and I’m sure that she was walking and texting.

She starts to apologize profusely, but that just pisses me off more. I put on these clothes precisely so that I didn’t have to be fitted by wardrobe for some cheaper clothes that won’t work as well. I’m supposed to be a drunk asshole celebrity and, given the look of this place, I’m not really certain that they have it in their budget for $1000 pants and a $500 shirt. That’s probably how much the director’s getting paid.

After she disappears, I debate whether I should go to my trailer and freshen up or just head straight to wardrobe and get them to find me something to wear.

“Hello? Excuse me? Is this wardrobe?” I ask, knocking on the door of the trailer on the very end. Who’s bright idea it was to put wardrobe so far away from the rest of the set is beyond me, but whatever.

“Yes, it is,” I hear a girl’s willowy voice coming from inside. “Come in, come in.”

When I open the door and step inside, I see a girl looking away and wiping her eyes as much as she can to hide the fact that she was crying, but her eyes are bloodshot and her mouth is red around her lips. Sure signs of tears.

Oh shit. It hits me. That’s her! That’s the girl who spilled the orange juice on me!

“I’m sorry, I can come back later, if you want,” I say, hoping that she will just let me go.

“No, no, I’m sorry. Please come in.”

“Is the main wardrobe person here?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I’m pretending that I don’t know that she has been crying, but both of us know that I’m not doing a very good job of it.

She looks straight at me with her piercing hazel eyes.

“I am the wardrobe stylist,” she says furrowing her brow. Oh crap! I’m just making this worse and worse. She puts her hands on her hips. Her eyes are dry now and she does not look happy.

“I’m so sorry,” I finally say. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Yes, I think so too,” she says. Neither of us says anything for a moment. I take the pause to admire how stunning she actually is. She’s dressed in a tight black skirt and ruffled blouse with polka dots (not what she was wearing earlier) and her light brown hair sparkles in the sunlight. She doesn’t look older than twenty-two, though she could be thirty or more. This is LA, who the hell ever knows? She’s about five foot five and average weight. Not too tall or skinny, like Ariel and other girls that I’m used to. When she tucks hair behind her ear, I see that she’s wearing dangling Tree of Life earrings. They glisten and catch my eye, bringing me back to reality.

“Let’s start again, okay? Hi, my name is Finn Dalton, and I’m a total jerk for getting so upset with you for absolutely no reason.” I extend my hand to her.

She smiles and her whole face lights up.

“Hi,” she says, taking my hand. “My name’s Chloe Nichols, and I should not walk, text and carry open containers of orange juice with me because I’m a total klutz. And I’m really sorry that I spilled it all over your gorgeous Marc Jacobs slacks.”

“So you do know clothes,” I say.

She shrugs. “I work in wardrobe, don’t I?”

“Well, yes, you do. But you’d be surprised,” I say.

“I’m really sorry again about the orange juice. And I’m actually even more sorry now, because we don’t have anything nearly as nice for you to wear to replace those pants.”

“Oh, that’s okay.”

“Let me take them to the dry cleaner’s to make this up for you, at least.”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” I say.

“Please, I’d like to.”

“You really don’t have to,” I say. She looks disappointed, so I cave and let her do it.