by Thea Dawson
She nods, and I can see her start to relax a little. But only a little. “Okay, you’re right. I'm overthinking the whole thing. So … tell me about acting.”
She kind of pounces on the topic like she’s trying to think of things for us to talk about. I’d like to see if we can get to a point where we’re just chatting spontaneously, like regular people. I kind of doubt we’ll get there in the 20 minutes before my break is over, but this is as good a place as any to start.
“It’s fun. I love it. I couldn’t do anything else.” Now I’m not acting at all. I do love what I do.
She tilts her head at me over her coffee cup. “It’s not just about the fame and fortune? It’s actually about the acting?”
I chuckle. “Feel free to send a little fame and fortune my way, they're always welcome," I answer. “But I do love acting. I wouldn't want to do anything else.”
“What do you love about it?” She looks at me, genuinely curious.
I consider her question a moment before answering. “It’s a chance to be someone else, but you have to figure that person out first if you’re going to do a good job. It’s like putting together a puzzle. It’s a challenge.”
She nods slowly. “Even when you’re doing things like commercials?”
I nod. “Even if the role doesn’t call for it, I try to come up with a background for the character. I come up with a whole life for them sometimes, where they grew up, what they like to eat, what they do for fun. It’s good practice for when I when I get my big break.”
“Your big break?” She’s smiling a little now and looking way more relaxed. “Like in the movies where the understudy gets a shot at the starring role?”
Now it’s my turn to feel a little heat creeping up the back of my neck. Like a lot of actors, I have a Big Break fantasy—to land the role that propels me to fame, to catch the notice of a powerful player in the industry, to be singled out from amongst the thousands of hopefuls and turned into a star.
It’s true, but it’s also childish, and I’m not sure what prompted me to mention it to Annabelle.
But now that it’s done, I cover my embarrassment with a grin. “Exactly like that,” I reply. “But honestly, I’ll always be an actor, even if I never get my big break. But I will get it,” I add quickly. “It’s just a matter of time.”
I’m not superstitious about many things, but I have made a deal with myself never to think negatively about the future. I am an actor, and I’m going to be a very successful one.
Time to change the subject.
“So, speaking of acting, in acting classes, we talk a lot about character motivation,” I say. “Seeing as Thursday night’s going to be one big improv act, let’s dig into motivation a bit. Tell me more about why you hired me.”
She shifts a little in her seat but finally lets out a long breath. “Well … I told you a bit about my family and you'll meet them at the party. They're all … They're really sparkly.”
I can't repress a smile. “Sparkly?”
She nods. "They're all super charismatic and good looking and interesting. I'm like …” She glances at the ceiling, looking for the right words. “I’m like a little brown button in a box full of sequins. I mean, I'm smart, and I'm nice, and I do things that I think are interesting, but I'm not glamorous, and I'm not that good at … fascinating people the way they are.”
I nod. From an actor’s point of view, this is good stuff. I'm starting to get a better sense of what she really wants—which is to not be outshone by her family.
“Okay,” I say. “Thursday night's assignment: help Annabelle sparkle.”
Instead of ducking her head and blushing, which I'm half expecting, she looks intently at me and gives me a little smile.
“Thank you,” she says. “I’m starting to feel more comfortable about the whole thing. I really appreciate you helping me out. You're very kind.”
Now, for some reason, I'm starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Maybe it's that sweet, earnest look in her eyes like she thinks I'm being a hero for having a 20-minute coffee date with her. I'm already a little alarmed by the way she acts around me, like a schoolgirl with a crush. I don't want her to think I'm a bad guy … but I don't want her to think I'm a saint, either.
I smile a little, to soften the words but I say them firmly. “I’m not being that nice. I just want us to do a good job tomorrow night. And frankly, I'm hoping that if I make an extra effort, you'll give me a good evaluation.”
She doesn't stop smiling, but her eyes grow a little guarded. “So you do something nice for me, I do something nice for you?”
I spread my hands out and give a little shrug. “It's the way of the world.”
Annabelle raises her eyebrows. “That's kind of cynical. Couldn't someone just do something nice for you and you say thank you and that's the end of it?”
My only motivation here was to take her opinion of me down just enough for her to realize I have feet of clay like everyone else so that she'd feel more comfortable around me. I didn't really intend for us to start debating our philosophies on life. But now that we’re here, I feel oddly defensive.
“I don't like being in debt,” I tell her. “If someone does me a favor, I'm not comfortable until I've paid them back. Until I do, it's like they own part of me.”
This is the real heart of my outlook on life, and I know there’s no way I'm going to make Annabelle understand; whatever complaints she has about her family, I can tell she was brought up in a far more sheltered environment than I was.
She doesn't know what it's like to feel owned.
She gives me a quizzical look. “So, the universe is just one big balance sheet to you?”
“I guess.” I shrug, feeling a little silly. In the space of a few minutes, I've managed to spill both my dream of getting my big break and my cynical philosophy on life. I’m not sure what it is about this geeky girl that makes me overshare like this; maybe it’s simply that outside of our performance tomorrow night, I don't want anything from her. I don't want sex, or a job, or a place to live. She has nothing to offer me, so I can be myself around her.
Which is stupid, because until midnight tomorrow night, she’s still a client, and I absolutely should not be thinking of her as anything else.
Annabelle breaks into my thoughts. “So … I guess I'd better pay for the coffee.” A slight smile hovers at the corners of her mouth.
I frown. I don’t want her to think I was angling for her to pay. “No. I asked you. I just wanted us to be more comfortable with each other. So we could carry off your party. Professional pride,” I explain.
She shakes her head and gestures at a passing waiter for the check. “Then you're doing me a favor, and I don't want to be in your debt,” she says, a twinkle in her eye.
“It's okay. Really …” I try to assure her.
The waiter comes back with a little brown folder with the check in it. Annabelle snatches it with surprising confidence. I narrow my eyes as I watch her tuck a couple of bills in the folder and set it back on the table. She doesn't know—she can't know—how much I dislike watching a woman pay, even just for a couple of coffees.
On the one hand, I’ve succeeded: Annabelle is smiling at me, looking far more comfortable than she was, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
On the other hand, I can’t help feeling like the tables have been turned against me somehow.
7
Annabelle
Despite the small army of cleaners, caterers, florists, bartenders, and valets that my parents hire every year for this event, it’s still a whirlwind of last-minute tasks and errands. Brianna, naturally, is second-in-command after my mother. She goes over a checklist with the head of the catering company while dispatching me and Carina to make sure that the right centerpieces have been delivered, that the catering trucks aren’t blocking the driveway, that there are clean towels and hand soap in each bathroom, that the bartenders have everything they need, and on and on.
My father, wis
ely, stays out of the way.
Finally, I’m allowed to go upstairs to change, where I take a quick shower and slip into my dress.
It’s a raspberry silk cocktail dress from the 1960s that I found in a vintage clothing store. A sleeveless halter top with a sweetheart neckline, it starts with a fitted bodice that shows off my rather generous breasts and small waist—my best feature, in my opinion—then falls into a draped, sarong-style skirt that makes my hips look more voluptuous than heavy. I had the dress shortened so that the longest part of the hem hits the top of my calf and my knee peeps through the slit when I walk. I add a pair of white pumps and a triple-strand necklace of huge fake pearls, also from the sixties. I look in the mirror and sigh, wishing I’d been born in a different time when clothes were designed for the short and curvy among us, rather than the tall and willowy.
Still, I’m pleased with the result. I do most of my make up then grab a handful of liners and shadows and walk down the hall, hoping to talk Carina into doing my eyes.
On the way, I pass my parents’ room and knock gently at the door. I’ve barely seen my father since dinner last night and, if I’m being honest, I want his approval.
I’m not disappointed.
I find him sitting in an armchair with a book in his lap and a glass of whiskey in his hand. His tuxedo jacket is lying on the bed, but otherwise, he’s ready to go and charm the crowd. He looks up as I come in. His handsome face breaks into a warm smile and he stands up.
“Belle!” he says, using the family’s pet name for me. “You look lovely.” He sweeps me with a nostalgic gaze. “Seems like just yesterday it was all strollers and diapers, and now look at you. It’s hard to believe the three of you are all grown up.”
“Uh oh. You’re starting to sound like mom. She’s hinting more and more that it’s time for some grandkids.”
He nods in agreement. “High time. Tell me about this boy you’re bringing to the party.”
I laugh. Thanks to my coffee date with Archer yesterday, I’m starting to feel more comfortable with the whole rent-a-date scenario. Archer is gorgeous, but he’s less intimidating now that we've shared a little of ourselves, and I’ve decided that the whole situation feels sophisticated and empowering. I’ve got a streak of Brianna’s control-freak nature in me, and I find there’s something nice about being in charge of a situation like this.
“He’s very nice, but we just met, so don’t get your hopes up. I want to get my PhD out of the way before I even think about settling down.” This is not entirely the truth, but I think it sounds like a respectable reason to not have a boyfriend. “You should pick on Brianna. She’s the oldest.”
He looks dubious. He knows as well as I do that Brianna is probably a lost cause as far as producing grandchildren for him and my mother to dote on. She’s far too busy being ambitious.
“Actually, Carina might be your best bet,” I admit.
“Well, plenty of time for all you,” he says, but he sounds a bit wistful. Maybe even more than my mother or Carina, he loves kids, and I have many fond memories from my childhood of him reading me stories, playing games, taking me to parks and zoos and museums, and applauding me at every school event I ever participated in. He’d be a wonderful granddad, and I almost wish I could magically produce a child just to make him happy.
“So, is my presence required yet?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Don’t worry, no one is going to let you forget to come down.”
“More’s the pity,” he grumbles, but I know he enjoys this event as much as my mother does.
“I’m on my way to Carina’s room. Just wanted to come in and say hello.”
“Thanks for checking on your old man,” he says. “Have fun tonight—and make sure you introduce that young man of yours to me.”
I roll my eyes playfully, but the butterflies kick up again. I can only pray the whole thing goes smoothly. I am a sophisticated and empowered woman, I remind myself. “Will do, Dad,” I promise, and slip out the door again.
Carina sweeps me into her room and sits me down, acting like I’m doing her a favor by letting her do my eyes. She wears a flowing floor-length gown in a wispy sea-green chiffon. Spaghetti straps draw attention to her perfect shoulders. Her hair is held back with big fake flower on one side so that shiny brown curls tumble over the opposite shoulder. It’s the kind of style that shouldn’t work anywhere outside the pages of a glossy fashion magazine, but somehow she carries it off.
A few minutes later, she shows me to a mirror and I smile in appreciation at the smoky cat’s eyes staring back at me. I’d never have the nerve to do my own make up this dramatically. The effect is somewhat lessened when I put my glasses back on, but I still look much more glamorous than usual.
Carina frowns at me. “When are you going to get contact lenses? You have such pretty eyes. It's a shame to cover them up.”
I shrug. “Contacts make my eyes itch,” I say, a bit regretfully.
“Well, it doesn't matter,” Carina assures me. “You look gorgeous either way. You’re going to knock this boy of yours on his ass.” She gives an excited little laugh.
“Thank you.” I laugh too, but it feels a little forced. The confidence I felt a few minutes ago is dissipating the closer we get to showtime. Another jolt of nerves shoots through my stomach. Even though I’ve hired him, even though he's gone out of his way to make me more comfortable around him, part of me still wants to make a good impression on Archer.
There’s a knock on the door, and Brianna steps in. She’s wearing a sleeveless white floor-length gown that is almost severe in its clean lines and simple silhouette. As always, she looks stunningly elegant.
“You two ready?” she asks. “People should start arriving in just a few minutes.”
We’ll be expected to help Mom and Dad with the meeting and greeting, especially at the early stages of the party when there are only a few guests. I’ve told Archer to show up at 7:30 so that I have time to help settle in the new guests without having to worry about him.
Even though he won’t be here for another half hour, my heart is starting to race. I can’t tell if I’m anxious that my plan won’t come off or nervous about impressing him.
Sophisticated and empowered, I remind myself. It’s not about impressing him. It’s about … what is this about, again? Reassuring my family that I’m not a total loser, I guess.
I follow Carina and Brianna downstairs just as the doorbell rings for the first time.
For the next half hour, I’m kept busy shaking hands, hugging old friends, directing guests toward the bar or the bathroom, and generally being a dutiful youngest daughter.
As the time creeps closer to 7:30, my heart starts to pound so hard that I’m sure everyone else can hear it. If it weren’t too late to get my money back, I’d be tempted to cancel the whole thing.
Just before 7:30, I run upstairs to check myself in the mirror. I reapply lipstick and fluff my hair a little, just as the doorbell rings.
Although we’re still expecting many more guests, I somehow know that it’s him.
My heart firmly lodged in my throat, I head to the top of the stairs. I no sooner take the first step than I see my father striding toward the door.
I have to restrain myself from running down the stairs to intercept him. Instead, I force myself to slow down and walk casually. My father opens the door and sure enough, there’s Archer. They shake hands, introducing themselves.
As promised, Archer is casual but very, very presentable. He wears a brown leather jacket over a dress shirt and pressed khaki pants. His hair is slightly less styled than it was the morning I met him but still sexy in a effortless kind of way. He looks like a struggling actor who can’t afford a tuxedo but has nonetheless done his best to dress up.
He has not cut himself shaving.
My dad beckons him in and looks around, presumably for me. He spots me, and Archer’s eyes follow his. I’m standing mid-step halfway down the stairs when our gazes meet. A slow,
delighted smile spreads over Archer’s face.
He’s acting, I remind myself. It’s what he does. But the smile is so sincere, so pleasantly surprised, that I’m having a hard time convincing myself.
And then I realize that I don’t have to. This whole thing will go better and be more fun if I just relax and go with it. A gorgeous man looks delighted to see me. Heck, yeah! I’m going to enjoy this.
I smiled back, feeling my cheeks get a little warm, and finish descending the stairs. Archer gives me a light kiss on the cheek then stands back and gives me an admiring once-over. “You look amazing,” he says.
My blush deepens. My dad says something, I murmur some kind of agreement, Archer drapes his arm comfortably around my shoulders as if we do this all the time, and we turn and walk into the crowd.
8
Archer
My pleasure at seeing Annabelle as she walks down the stairs isn’t entirely faked.
She's still got the librarian-chic thing going with her big glasses and bobbed hair, but she's poured herself into a dress straight out of a classic movie, one that shows off her ample breasts and little waist. It’s a relatively modest dress, falling to her knees, but I can see that she has nice calves which are lengthened by the vintage pumps that match the dress perfectly.
She’s not beautiful, not in the classic sense. Her smile is a little too toothy, her cheeks a bit too round, the freckles a little too obvious. But her unusual taste in clothing suggests self-confidence, and her expression as she walks up to me is open and friendly and happy.
She's not my type … but she’s someone’s type.
After a few polite words with her father, Annabelle re-introduces me to her mother, who welcomes me graciously. After a few minutes of chit chat, Mrs. Winter excuses herself to go greet other guests.
“Thanks so much for coming,” Annabelle says quietly to me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”