“Where’s Ruby?”

I heard the demanding words coming from outside the dressing room. I was hiding, trying to stop sweating after the events of the previous few hours, and practicing my American accent into the round mirror—playacting some of the greats, the actresses from the 50s that I had imitated when I was younger.

“I just saw her a few minutes ago.” This was one of the other production assistants—a guy I sincerely detested, named Jeremy. “She was carrying some of the props. Looked like she didn’t know where she was going.”

“Does that girl ever know where she’s going?” That was my boss, Martin, who lorded over the production assistants, bossed us around, tossed us left, right and center, and had made me drive all the way across Los Angeles and back that morning.

Frankly, I was exhausted. Tired of being toyed with. Tired of being a production assistant, in a city that knew, just by looking at me, that all I wanted to do was become an actress.

“Well, if I can’t find her in the next five minutes, just let her know she’s fired, okay?” Martin scoffed.

With a lurch, I stepped back from the mirror and adjusted my black dress. I heard Martin leave the hallway, then I bolted out, finding Jeremy there, undoing a large pile of Christmas lights for the cheesy, Christmas themed rom-com we were working on. I couldn’t resist rolling my eyes.

“Oh, there you are, Ruby,” Jeremy said in mock surprise. “Martin was just looking for you. Think you should find him as soon as possible, don’t you?”

I glared at him: at his stupid, smug smile, at his blonde highlights. Despite being in his late twenties, he looked like a high-schooler, and had gotten several roles already: football player number four, the love interest in episode five of a teen drama, and the list went on. He’d told me recently that he’d just taken the production assistant job so he could “meet some of the higher-ups,” which disgusted me. I needed this job. Without it, I would be destitute, living on the streets of Silver Lake and wondering if I’d ever see England again.

Being broke wasn’t as exciting as I’d always thought.

“Run along and go find him,” Jeremy sighed, turning his eyes back to his Christmas lights. “We all know you haven’t bought new clothes in years. Losing this job wouldn’t exactly help you.”

Glancing down at my dress—which did have a few small holes along the seams, I turned back down the hallway and all but chased after Martin.

Huffing as I approached him, he spun, gave me a bored look, and said, “There you are. Listen, I need some caffeine from Silver Lake Coffee. And I need it yesterday.”

I balked slightly. I’d already been to Silver Lake, Echo Park, and back to downtown that morning, and I didn’t want to make the drive. But Martin only drank the coffee brewed exclusively at Silver Lake Coffee. And his eyes—almost black with anger—told me that if I didn’t get into my car, and go grab him an Americano, I would be on the streets in mere weeks.

“All right,” I said, giving him a nervous smile. “I’ll be back in about 45 minutes.”

“Make it 40,” Martin snapped, turning his back to me.

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, I ran toward the exit, through security, and back toward my little red pickup-truck: scuffed and dark with dirt. It had been one of my first purchases when I’d moved to Los Angeles four years ago. Back then, I was a bright-eyed English girl with aspirations and dreams about where my life would go.

I was positive that I would be a famous actress by the time I was 22. I would have my own sitcom, or at the very least, I would play “best friend” roles in silly rom com movies. The fact that I was 24 and still working as a production assistant to pay the bills didn’t help me sleep any better at night, but I suppose life didn’t always turn out as you planned. Most of the time you find yourself upside-down, flailing, just trying to make ends meet.

The traffic was bad. It was always bad. I cursed to myself, skidding to a halt in downtown, still miles away from Silver Lake Coffee. My phone began to buzz in my pocket—a welcome distraction—and when I picked up, my mother’s almost too-British accent blared into my ear.

“Darling, it’s your Mum,” she cried.

“Hi, Mum.”

“You’re sounding more and more like an American all the time! You’re losing your accent!”

“Mum, I’m literally around Americans all day. What did you think would happen?” I asked, suddenly exasperated. Why had I answered the phone? After a brief sigh, I continued. “How’s old Coventry these days?”

She fell into it immediately, complaining about my hometown and about how the ladies at her church behaved in most un-churchlike ways. I stopped and started through downtown, easing toward Silver Lake, and counting the seconds until the end of the day.

“…And you won’t believe what she said about my baked goods,” Mum continued, her voice now high-pitched. “Sweetheart, when are you going to come home for a visit? It’s been years.”

This question always came up. I didn’t want to reveal what a failure I was, and so I always lied.

“Well, I have so many auditions coming up, I don’t think I can bear to miss weeks in the city. Maybe at Christmas?”

Maybe by then, I’d have my first gig. Maybe by then, I’d be “somebody” and I could walk through Coventry with my head held high, hearing the whispers of my classmates behind me.

“That’s her. She went to L.A. and her career just took off—like that!”

Ha.

I was almost at the café, finally, and I rushed my mother off the phone, knowing that she could rattle on for days if I didn’t stop her.

“I’ll call you later, Mum, all right?”

It was nearly ten at night—an eight hour time difference—and I needed her to get some rest. When she didn’t take care of herself, she grew more anxious, more apt to call me in the middle of the night and recite to me everything her doctor had recently told her about low-sodium diets.

“Just remember what I said, darling. You’d be welcome for a visit any time. All right?”

I muttered something affirmative and ended the call, diving out of the car and running into the café.

Silver Lake Coffee featured three baristas who all seemed to shop at the same second-hand shop, wearing vintage shirts and sweaters and tight jeans, with one opting for a proper three-piece suit vest, the stuff of old black-and-white movies. The one at the register had a sculpted mustache, which curled up on either side.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes. Hi, I need an Americano. Large.” I could feel sweat dripping down my neck.

“Any milk with that?”

“No.” That had been a mistake once, bringing the coffee back with milk. Martin had been outraged, informing me that those who drank their coffee with milk were “weak-minded.”

I watched as the barista worked away at the espresso machine, whistling along with the indie radio station, before sending the paper cup back toward me. I paid the ridiculous five dollars (the same thing would have been no more than a two quid back home), and then fled the café. It was two-thirty, and I’d been gone for about a half-hour.

Time was ticking.

Ducking back into my car, I cranked it back toward downtown. The coffee remained safe in my cup holder, tilting slightly back and forth with each turn. I sang along to the radio and rolled down my window when I realized I was still sweaty.

“Yes, sir,” I began, practicing my American accent once more. I had an audition the following day for a period piece—a young housewife who awaits her husband’s return from the war while living with a sick child in North Carolina in the 1940s. “I waited up for you, day-in and day-out, hoping and praying that you’d appear on this very doorstep. I knew, no matter our distance, that you’d return to me.”

The script was shit, but despite everything, I would have killed for the role.

Twenty minutes later, my car zoomed into the parking lot and I rushed toward the entrance, greeting the security guards with a brief smile. Martin was still on set, helping a few of the other production assistants with prop set-up.

When I walked up, he was scolding my friend Jeanie, saying, “In what world would you choose this kind of lamp for this set, Jeanie? It won’t look good on camera. I mean, can you imagine, flicking on the television and finding yourself looking at this lamp? You’d think it was hideous, but more than that, you wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else.”

I glanced at the lamp—a 1950s-era thing with floral edging. It was a perfectly fine lamp. Sometimes, when Martin got it in his head that he hated something, he vomited his hatred onto anyone nearby and there was no escape.

Jeanie glanced towards me, her green eyes wide and frightened. Martin followed her gaze, marched toward me, and swiped the coffee out of my hand. He took a drink immediately and then spluttered. I felt like I’d been slapped.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice soft.

“Cold, you idiot,” he coughed, swiping his hand across his mouth. “Freezing cold. How could you bring me something like this?”

“It was a long drive back—” I began, feeling suddenly defensive. “Silver Lake is miles away…”

But he refused to listen to reason. He began to mock me, thrusting the coffee back into my hands. “I get it; our little British girl thinks it’s too tough to drive across L.A. Little British girl couldn’t make it in big, bad Los Angeles. Little British girl needs to run home across the pond back to her fancy British world.”

My nostrils flared. As my lips parted, preparing to toss him a number of insults in return, Jeanie shook her head, almost imperceptibly at me. “Don’t,” she mouthed the word.

But Martin wasn’t done. He scoffed at me, and then pointed toward the door. “You’ve made a mockery of yourself today, Ruby. I think you should go home for the day, since you can’t even seem to accomplish a single, simple task. Coffee should be the simplest of all. And don’t even get me started on lamps.”

My eyes shimmered with sudden tears. I turned away from him, running towards the staff room and finding my things. I still held the cold coffee in my hands, deciding that letting five-dollar coffee go to waste was one of the worst things I could do. Sipping it grandly, I turned towards the exit, trying to hold back my tears.

Jeremy waved his fake-tanned hands in my face, spewing, “All right, Ruby, have a swell day! Too bad your job here is meaningless, huh?”

Fuck him. And fuck this job, I thought, ducking through the door and out into the bright California sun.

I knew I was better than this. A better actress. A better type of woman. But I couldn’t seem to find the strength to climb the Hollywood ladder. I felt as though I was doomed to do nothing more than retrieve coffee forever.