Early one morning in the cozy Hollywood neighborhood of Beachwood Canyon, a tiny, one-bedroom guesthouse sat nestled by winding, steep roads leading in every direction and a two-hundred-step staircase. It was dwarfed by the infamous Hollywood sign, which shined like a second moon over a neighborhood of homes from Hollywood’s golden era.
Lauren was almost thirty, clean-cut, and in decent shape for a single dad. He had no time to work out but was vain enough to keep it all together. Lauren slept on a futon in the living room, which he shared with his five-year-old daughter, who slept in the bedroom. She had all the sparkle and energy you’d expect for her age.
Lauren woke and discovered that she had set the breakfast table with the formalities of an elegant dinner.
“What time is it,” Lauren asked.
“It’s late. You overslept.”
Lauren examined the beautiful breakfast table and noticed that the bowl of cereal was drowned in milk and soggy.
“You are quite the over-achiever. What time did you wake up?” Lauren asked but was interrupted by a car honk.
“That’s my ride,” she grabbed her backpack and opened the front door, letting in the foggy Hollywood air and the sounds of kids laughing and traffic.
“What about your breakfast,” Lauren asked.
“I already ate. Remember, it is Thursday. Mom is picking me up,” she kissed her father on the cheek and dashed.
Lauren reexamined the Thanksgiving-like table setting and his bowl of soggy Cheerios and smiled.
Lauren worked as a graphic designer in the advertising department at Capital Records in Hollywood. He loved working in the infamous building, designed to resemble a stack of records with a huge turntable needle pointing to the sky.
Lauren was seated on a mustard loveseat in one of the common spaces behind a gold and marble-topped coffee table. Behind him was another marble table where other employees talked and drank coffee. After five, they might be seen drinking some other beverage.
KG, Lauren’s friend and coworker, was a curly-haired, good-natured young man with a magnetic personality. He sat on the right side of the loveseat, holding a guitar, playing a riff, and looking at an oversized board of a music ad campaign. There was also a messy plate of food. Lauren joined KG on the left side, carrying two coffees.
“Are we going to work this morning, KG? We have a deadline.”
“What are you doing tonight? A bunch of us are going out. Do you want to go?”
“We have a deadline tomorrow,” Lauren returned.
“We’ll come back tonight and finish. Come on.”
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of work.”
“Come on. I know you’ve been home every night this week.”
Lauren silently but caved and agreed.
KG smiled and played a guitar riff for the room.
Later that night, just up the street, at a rooftop restaurant overlooking Hollywood and the Capital Records building. The restaurant was a small European-style place with flowers dangled from trellises over colorful contemporary furniture.
Lauren was seated with KG and several of KG’s friends. They were midmeal as the table was crammed with empty drinks and plates. The waiters brought more food and beverages, and everyone dug in.
Lauren, bored with the conversation, scanned the outdoor space and examined the people seated around them. He loved to people-watch. He saw a couple on a date arguing. The woman threw down her napkin and exited. The guy ran after her but momentarily stopped to eat a piece of chicken off a recently vacated table. He saw a young man glance to see if anyone was looking before slipping the check for dinner into his jacket pocket to avoid paying the bill. Then he spotted a woman watching him watch others, and she smiled.
BOOM.
In walked, Nikki, around forty, entered the restaurant with a strut that exhumed so much confidence, you’d think she owned the place. She owned every room she ever entered. She was also polished and sexy as well. She hit this restaurant guest like a bolt of lightning, catching everyone’s attention. Lauren couldn’t breathe.