Play Right
Manhattan Bachelors Book 2
Matilda Martel
Copyright © 2020 by Matilda Martel
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For all of us. Far and wide. Stay safe.
Contents
1. Ajax
2. Georgia
3. Ajax
4. Georgia
5. Ajax
6. Georgia
7. Ajax
8. Georgia
9. Ajax
10. Georgia
11. Ajax
12. Georgia
13. Ajax
14. Georgia
15. Ajax
16. Georgia
17. Ajax
18. Epilogue- Two Months Later
About the Author
Also by Matilda Martel
One
Ajax
Everyone wants a happy ending. We all want to see two soul mates ride off into the sunset, confident that true love conquers all. We’re simple creatures. Who doesn’t want a heartwarming story that makes you feel good about spending $300 on Broadway tickets? I understand perfectly. But that’s not reality.
And I write reality, not romance.
Love stories are my calling card. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl move in together, then girl winds up dumping said boy flat on his ass. Sometimes the boy has it coming. Sometimes, the girl meets boy number two and he reminds her what a cheap, charm-free, inconsiderate ass she’s been shacking up with for the last year. It’s almost always the man’s fault, because as I said, I write reality.
I tried other genres, but none satisfied. Relationships have a bit of everything you want in a good story. There’s the psychology, neurosis, head games, betrayals, compromises and, of course, passion. Real romance isn’t smooth, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth tackling. There are good and bad times Not everyone stays together. Love is messy. Sometimes love gets ugly. Ask anyone who’s ever had more than one partner in their life. Anything that ends will almost always end badly.
Or why would it end at all?
This is my fifth play on Broadway, and this is the only time I’ve written from personal experience. Names are changed. Events are altered. My heroine is romanticized, and the hero makes better decisions than I ever did. There’s no happy ending. It’s sad and reflective, but honest. This story means a lot to me, and despite what people want or expect, I will do it my way. With four hits under my belt, they should trust my judgement.
“Right by the curb, please. By the coffeehouse.” I gesture to the building on the right and my driver groans with displeasure. He could argue, but he’d rather deal with honks and profanities than me. He gives the steering wheel a quick jerk and cuts between a row of cars to make it happen. I should have given him better warning, but my head is in the clouds. I can’t think about anything but today’s meeting.
This always happens. The first cast is the most important, and no one ever agrees on the first round. The producer wants a big name, someone from Hollywood, but those rarely work out. The director wants the actress I suspect he’s dating, but I’ve seen her, and she doesn’t fit the character. My heroine is Hispanic, and I want a Hispanic actress to play her. I don’t want someone who can pass. I want the genuine thing. At least for the original cast.
I have a few suggestions, and final say, but I don’t want to be a tyrant right out of the gate. That time will come. It always does.
In the meantime, let the games begin.
Clutching my coffee, I stride into the empty theater and spot Ryan, the producer waiting in the lobby, twiddling his thumbs and wearing a suspicious grin that makes me uneasy. As soon as I see him, I walk faster and dart towards the elevator.
“Did you get my messages?” His voice sounds too enthusiastic. Ideas are churning, and that’s never a good thing.
“I did.” My voice remains steady. I’m giving nothing away.
“Did you listen to them?” He knows I haven’t.
“I did not.” I walk out on the third floor and head towards his boardroom.
“Ajax, this is important.” He whines and follows closely. Too close. I don’t like him invading my space.
“It always is. We’ll discuss this in a few moments. Give me a sec to pull up my notes.” I avoid giving him eye contact while I power on my laptop, enter my password, and peruse my emails. There’s no getting around the inevitable. I can only imagine the long list of rejects he’s about to unload.
“Listen. Hear me out.” His eyes dance with excitement, but I’m too flustered to care.
“Did I miss anything?” Tabitha, my assistant, stumbles through the door carrying a heavy bag on each shoulder.
“For Pete’s sake, what on earth do you have with you?” I rush to give her a hand before she twists her ankle and I’m forced to carry her home.
“I have your fresh edits, the notes from last night, my laptop, my purse, some snacks.” She dumps everything on a chair, brushes the hair off her face and wipes her chair down with a sanitary wipe. It’s a ritual. “You said we’d be here a while.”
“Edits? So soon?” I thumb through her bag while she struggles to sit comfortably. She’s not handling pregnancy well. Besides the moods and constant snacking, she’s convinced herself her pregnancy is undetectable in the right outfits. If I mention any difference, she pouts for days.
“Good morning! Hope I didn’t keep you two waiting.” Alfred, the director, rushes in and takes his seat.
“Well?” I give Ryan an icy glare. “What the hell were you going to say?”
He nods and takes a quick glance at his watch. “We should start. This will take a while and Ajax never makes this easy.”
I accept my shortcomings and ignore his comment.
“Let’s begin.” I hand each a person a freshly printed copy of my suggestions for the two lead characters and I’m immediately met with a slacked jaw, a groan, an enthusiastic clap from Tabby and a few clenched fists.
Ryan makes his first impressions known. “No surprise. Everyone here sucks.”
This will take all week.
Two
Georgia
“Theater? Theater!” The suggestion is outrageous. I toss a throw pillow against the wall, clench my fists into tight balls and march into the kitchen. I need a drink. A big one.
When you ask the woman contracted to take 10% of your livelihood, you expect better advice than . I assumed she’d give me something good. Something easy, like a fake affair. Maybe even fun, like a sex tape. Not that I’d do something so horrid, but between theater and a sex tape, I could be convinced to try the latter.
I can’t do theater. I did it in college and that was enough.
“Georgie, everyone does it. Nicole Kidman did it. Annette Bening did it. Hugh Jackman loves it. It makes people take you seriously. I thought that’s what you wanted.” Alva, my manager, snatches the wineglass out of my hand, chugs it like a tequila shot, and then pour herself another.
I really need to get her into a program.
“Nicole Kidman did it before she won an Oscar. I have an Oscar, thank you very much. I lost weight for that role, goddammit. Do you know how hard it is to lose weight when you’re already underweight? I couldn’t eat bread or sugar for nine months!” I reach for the discarded pillow, fluff
it up and place it back on the couch. I hate leaving a mess for the maid. Next time my mother comes for a visit, she’ll ask her for an update on my habits and Lila never holds back.
“You said my roles would get better. You promised I’d stop getting these mindless, big-boobed bimbo roles and start seeing three-dimensional leads.” I angrily flip through a stack of scripts and hurl them one by one on the coffee table.
She shakes her head, grabs a script and shoves it in my face. “What about this one? You’re a nuclear physicist in this one. The director asked for you personally.” She scrambles off her feet and staggers into the kitchen. I know I make her crazy, but she knows what this means to me.
For the sake of appearances, I pretend to look it over once again, shake the script furiously and throw it back into the pile. It’s the same as the others. It’s so mind-numbingly terrible, I cried tears of pain.
“It’s asinine. I’m twenty-five years old. Do you know how long nuclear physicists go to school? You and I both know what this role entails. They’ll squeeze me into a hot little dress and some fuck-me heels that are completely inappropriate for lab work. To top it off, they’ll give me a pair of dark frame glasses to make me look smart. That’s insulting. I have a triple digit IQ. I don’t need glasses to look smart. This poor girl is nothing more than the long-suffering girlfriend of the male lead. It’s lame and she’s not even funny. You know I want a funny role.” I pout, then bend over and straighten the scripts.
Clutter makes me nervous. It’s a nasty habit I got from my mother. She’s ten times worse than me.
“But Georgie, this is an Ajax Easton play. Do you know Ajax Easton? His plays are hilarious.” She pours herself another glass of wine and fills it to the rim.
Is it me? Have I driven her to drink? Jesus, I don’t need this on my conscience.
Before the glass reaches her lips, I swipe it away and pull the bottle out of her desperate hands.
“Of course, I know about Ajax Easton. I’m a New Yorker. Everyone knows him. But I don’t think his stuff is funny. Personally, I find his work infuriating.” I march back into the kitchen and toss the wine in the sink. I’m won’t enable her habits.
She feigns shock. “You? You don’t like something? I don’t believe it.”
She rolls her eyes and plops her ass onto my couch. “How can you dislike his plays? He’s a genius. He’s has a Tony for each one.”
I curl into my loveseat and tuck my leg underneath my behind. “All his plays end badly. No one ends up together and you leave the theater pissed because you were rooting for the couple for ninety minutes. I don’t want to be in his stupid play! Think of something else, Alva. You’re my manager! You’re supposed to represent me and look out for my best interests!” My whines are over the top. Dramatic. Bratty with a dash of sorrow and a sprinkle of righteous indignation.
I didn’t win the Oscar for nothing.
She gnashes her teeth in a fitful rage and reaches for her purse. “Listen, I’ve spoken to Ryan Forrester. He produces all of Easton’s plays. He thinks you’d be perfect for the role and he’s almost certain Ajax will agree.” She pulls a thick envelope from her oversized bag.
“This is the play. Read it tonight. Think about it. You could use a break from the screen. You’ve done too much too quickly and you’re in danger of becoming overplayed.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. My brain explodes. My stomach flips and bile rises into my throat. “What the shit? Who says I’m overplayed? Why would you say something like that? You know that’s my one of my worst fears.”
She stands to leave. “It’s a vibe, Georgie. Just a vibe. My assistants scour social media and there’s been a lot of eye roll emojis following your name on posts. Remember what happened with Anne Hathaway? She won an Oscar too. And she sang. You couldn’t carry a tune in the shower.”
She wags her finger while she insults me.
“Anne? I love Anne. Everyone’s always so unfair to her.” I pout as I fight to steady the beat of my racing heart. Overplayed? What the hell? I’m still new. I’ve only been in this business seven years and the first few don’t count. No one cared about me when I was a teenage model. Those were throwaway years.
“You’re not there yet, kiddo. But maybe you need to break away from the screen. The theater gets you out of L.A. and creates a bit mystery. You’ll be near family. Maybe you’ll meet a nice man. That’s always good publicity. You want to get married, don’t you? You keep talking about how much you want a big family. You’ll need a man for that.” She winks and heads for the door.
“I haven’t mentioned that in months. I don’t have time for men. I don’t have time for me. How the hell would I make time for babies?” I whine while I rearrange the scattered pillows she left behind and then follow her out. My baby fever was a passing thing, a side effect of my sister’s pregnancy. She knows I have trouble with relationships. I’m self-aware. I know no one wants to marry someone as difficult as me, and I’m not changing for man.
“We make time for the important things. Read the damn script. I think this would be good. Make yourself unavailable to the vultures out here. You just won the Oscar. You’re hot stuff right now. A break from Hollywood makes you seem mysterious and aloof.” She shoves the script into my chest and marches off to her car.
I glance down at the envelope in my hands and read the title, The End of Love. Figures, another downer. Why can’t this man do romantic comedy? I’d be so good at romantic comedy.
As I head back inside, I tear it open and flip to the first page.
All right, Mr. Ajax Easton. This better be good.
Three
Ajax
“She’s late.” I glance at my watch and then discreetly check my pulse. It’s out of control. I don’t know how Ryan talked me into this. No, I know why. It’s Georgia Madrid. Georgia Madrid. My muse.
No one knows how long I’ve harbored this secret obsession. It’s too dark. Too devious. Too humiliating. I’m ashamed to admit it out loud. Seven years ago, I came across her photograph in a magazine. She must have been eighteen years old and there was just something about her. I knew she’d be a star. She was different. Striking. Mesmerizing. I was hooked.
For years, I carried her photos everywhere I went, creating the character of Veronica based on her look, her smile, the shape of her luscious body and so much more. Veronica’s voice is her voice. Her personality is the personality I imagine her to have. But you shouldn’t meet someone you objectify into a character. I’ve idealized her into my perfect woman.
Georgia can’t live up to it. No one is as good as my Georgia. Whoever walks through that door will surely disappoint me.
How could she not? No one can live up to my impossible expectations.
“She’s not late. I spoke with her agent. She left her hotel over thirty minutes ago, but she’s stuck in traffic. Don’t mention her tardiness. She’s got a thing about being late. It embarrasses her.” Tabitha fixes my collar and unravels my tie.
“What are you doing?” I grab her wrist to keep her from pulling it off.
“You look like a Baptist minister. Relax. You’re a playwright with multiple Tonys. Besides, she’s my age and you don’t want to look old enough to be her father.” She winks, yanks it off, then pads to the other side of the room to tuck it in a drawer.
“Father? I’m forty-one. Do I look like someone who had sex at sixteen? I couldn’t get laid to save my life. I didn’t have sex until I was well into college.” I glance at my watch again. This is a bad start. I’ve read she’s prompt and professional. Apparently, I am not afforded this simple courtesy.
“This is my work. I don’t chase after my leading ladies.” My stomach grumbles with anxiety. I’ve hardly kept food down in the past week. Georgia Madrid. Fuck. What if she sucks? What if she thinks I suck? But what if she’s wonderful? I could fall in love with a woman I have absolutely no chance of winning. She might cringe, see right through me or assume I’m gay. I don’t think I give off tha
t vibe, but it’s a writer thing. I don’t typically care enough to make any corrections.
I’m so screwed.
No, I need to think. This is already starting out poorly. She should have factored for New York traffic. She’s from Brooklyn. She should know better. As much as I’m looking forward to meeting her, I don’t think this will be a good fit. Georgia Madrid has minimal experience in the theater. A few plays at UCLA Drama School doesn’t prepare you for Broadway.
This is all wrong.
I hear snapping fingers. “You’re doing it, aren’t you?” Tabby snaps her fingers in my face. “Cut it out. You’re Ajax fucking Easton. So what if you jerk off to this woman every chance you get? You think she knows that? She’s coming here to meet you. Pull yourself together.”
“You. Are. Not. Helping.” I hold her shoulders and move her aside.
“Time is money and she’s late. She doesn’t value our profession. All these Hollywood types are the same. They don’t give a damn about writers. They’re used to working with executives. Where the hell is Ryan?” I cross the room and stare down into the street. It’s too high to see anything in focus, but the line of cars pulling up to the front gives me hope that one might be her.
“He met with her last night. This is supposed to be a one on one with you. I don’t’ know why the hell I’m here.” She waddles towards her favorite chair and falls in, covering her belly with a throw pillow.
“Why do I sense some discomfort with your condition? You didn’t have to get pregnant right out of the gate.” I chuckle. Her husband is huge. I’ll bet money that baby winds up weighing eleven pounds.
Play Right: Older Man Younger Woman Romance (Manhattan Bachelors Book 2) Page 1