by Roz Bailey
Hailey laughed. “He’s not mysterious. Just sex-starved.”
“Wheeeew!” Rory and I squealed.
“He’s totally different in private,” Hailey went on. “Much more relaxed. Whenever we’re in public, he clams up. I don’t get it.”
“Can’t be sure,” Rory lowered his voice and motioned us close, “but I suspect it’s about Diva Deanna.”
“What?” Hailey croaked. “They’re not an item. Deanna is married.”
“Like that’ll stop her,” Rory scowled.
“Did they have a thing?” I asked.
“Off the record?” Rory nodded. “About two years ago, and the diva is very possessive of her exes.”
“How could they have had a thing?” Hailey seemed baffled. “She’s married. I didn’t read about it.”
“Hailey ...” Rory shook his head. “Sometimes you just can’t take the Wisconsin out of the girl.”
I tinkled my fingers good-bye, limbering them up for later. “Wish me luck. I have a good feeling about this audition.”
“See you later,” Hailey said forlornly, obviously thrown by the revelation about Antonio and Deanna.
“Break a leg, doll!” Rory crowed. “No, make that a fingernail!”
I glared at him.
“Oh, just go and wow them with your stuff!”
My plan, exactly.
31
Hailey
“Maybe I should have that line,” Deanna said. “It just sounds Meredithy, don’t you think?”
“You already have so much dialogue in this scene, Big D,” Percy said. It was his day to direct, and I sensed that Deanna was wearing away his aura of cool with her relentless changes and demands. “Don’t want to bog you down.”
“It’s not a problem,” Deanna insisted. “Have I ever had trouble remembering my lines? Look at me. You don’t see me walking around with a script, do you?”
That’s because one of your peons carries it for you, I thought.
“What’s the line?” Percy asked.
“ ‘I knew the real Skip,’ ” Sean read. “ ‘I knew his heart and soul.’ ”
It was supposed to be my line, but Deanna wanted it, along with the emotional drive of the scene. She was trying to rob me blind, but I knew better than to fight her on it. Around here, you did not argue with Deanna and live to see the next sweeps week.
Percy made a mark on Sean’s script and frowned. “Fine, give the line to Meredith. OK, people are we ready to roll tape? Tell me we’re ready. I need you to be ready.”
“Ready!” Deanna crowed proudly.
“People, take your marks,” Sean shouted.
On my way to my cue outside the door to the inn, I passed Rory, who was to be positioned at the piano.
“Hey, doll, do you even have any lines left in this scene?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I may have to learn sign language.”
“Are we rrrready?” Percy asked.
“Ready, Percy,” I called.
“Yea-huh!” Rory signaled.
Sean counted it off, “In five, four, three, two ...”
Deanna opened the scene with a long monologue in which she spilled her feelings about the supposedly dead Skip to Stone, the sympathetic piano player. I tried to listen for my cue, but much of the dialogue had changed and, honestly, I was rattled by my earlier discovery about Deanna and Antonio. Yuck! How could he have had a thing with her? Personally, I didn’t want her anywhere near his thing, but I didn’t want to make a big deal out of something long past.
Anyway, I was trying to focus, but Deanna’s lines were pretty repetitive now. Stuff like “I knew Skip so well,” and “I loved him, I really loved him,” and “It was a once-in-a-lifetime love,” and “You know how it is when you meet someone you feel you’ve known forever?” It was hard to tell where she was in the script, especially since her voice was so mellifluous. Through the scenery, it sounded like “Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah. Blah-blah-blah, blah-blee-blee-blah-blah.”
As I stood there, anger at Deanna roiled inside me. I was so frustrated, I wanted to cry. What was this scene about now, anyway? That Meredith was the best? That she had loved Skip more than anyone? And that my character was just some interloper who wanted to torture poor Meredith?
Sean pointed at me—my cue.
I opened the door and walked in, spied Deanna sitting by the piano, looking the victim.
As I crossed to her, my eyes stung. I couldn’t help it. I just burst into tears, letting out a sob as I paused before the diva.
Rory’s eyes popped with surprise. Deanna seemed a little disarmed, too.
“I know what you’re saying about me,” I sobbed, trying to calm myself with a deep breath. “I know how you felt about Skip.”
“I knew the real Skip,” Deanna said passionately. “I knew his heart and soul.”
“Then hold on to that,” I said, veering away from the script. “Cherish that memory. But please, I’m begging you, leave a few scraps for the rest of us.”
On her look of shock, I doubled over sobbing, and Percy yelled, “Stop tape!”
I sank to the floor, too emotionally overwrought to worry that I’d botched the scene and that we would have to tape it all over. Deanna was wearing me down; I had succumbed in front of everyone, and I wasn’t quite sure how to pull myself back together.
“Fantastic! Fabulous!” He gave a thumbs-up to Deanna. “Hey, Big D! Your script changes worked beautifully. Wunderbar scene. Let’s move on, people.”
Deanna stepped on my dress as she walked by, but didn’t say a thing. Pissed, I guess. Oh, well.
“Where’s my Diet Coke!” she yelled, and two of her peons emerged from the crew to follow her to her dressing room.
Rory extended a hand to me. “I don’t know what you did, kid, but you done good.”
Sean stood beside him, extending a box of tissues. “Thought you might need one of these.”
“Thanks.” I pressed two tissues to my eyes, then laughed. “What a roller-coaster ride.”
“You’ll get used to it,” Sean said kindly.
As Rory headed off to his next scene, Sean said, “Can I ask you something?”
I nodded.
“Would you like to grab a cup of coffee sometime?”
I smiled. “That sounds great.” Sean had been nothing but supportive and fair during my time on the show.
He bit his lower lip, nodding. “Good. How about next week?”
I was about to agree, then I wondered how that would look. What would Antonio think? Would I appear disloyal, like I was cheating on my boyfriend?
“Um ... let me check my date book,” I said cheerfully.
“Yeah, sure.” Sean’s smile was tentative, as if he could read my doubts.
I’m so sorry! I thought as I headed back to my dressing room. Why was it that the sweet, smart, kind guys only came out of the woodwork after you hooked up with someone else? Sean could be a friend, but I was totally in love with the sexiest man of the decade, and I wasn’t about to do anything to jeopardize that passion.
32
Alana
Wouldn’t you know it, the crosstown traffic moved along at a good clip, and I found myself at the Soho address with forty-five minutes to spare. Not wanting to appear too eager, I ducked into a Starbucks and decided to splurge on a latte. I hadn’t had caffeine for two days now, and I missed the buzz.
From my window seat, I had an anonymous view of people on the street. The handbag vendor, a Hispanic man with wary manner. The buttoned-down editorial grinders in pleated skirt and denim jacket. The clueless hetero male in T-shirt and Gap jeans. The freelance artist with wide leather portfolio. And the endless leagues of students or displaced personalities with piercings and tattoos and tutus and sculpted, shocking pink hair.
I’m sure they all thought they dressed just fine, but watching them walk past, I had to wonder, Who dressed these people? What a shame that Mayor Bloomberg didn’t institute a
mandatory course for third graders— because you can’t start too young—called “Finding a Fashion That Fits You.” I would help him design the curriculum, with special attention on the diverse fashion needs of various body types, skin tones, lifestyles, and seasons. With, of course, a compulsory exam at the end of the year that each student would be required to pass in order to go on to fourth grade. (Really—the course is a prerequisite for life, so anyone who cannot pass the final exam must repeat it until they get it right!) Because, looking at the people of New York, I am so sorry to say that even down here in funky Soho, they’re getting it wrong.
At ten-twenty I crossed the street to the building of converted lofts and climbed the stairs (since the caged elevator was frightening) to the second floor, where two women sat on a carpeted hump.
One of the women looked up from her magazine to tell me, “You’re supposed to sign in.”
I leaned over the empty desk and wrote my name on the clipboard, astutely noting that Claudette and Pucci were ahead of me. Taking a seat, I eyed the competition. The girl by the window seemed withdrawn and dazed, as if lost in some Buddhist chant. Was it some trick of the hand-modeling trade? From here, I couldn’t see her tools, but I would have ventured a guess that her fingers were long and slender, like her legs.
The girl with the magazine was a type A, thrill seeker, risk taker. How did I know? Any hand model willing to chance a paper cut moments before an audition. . . well, let’s just say, those hands belong in another profession. Might I suggest sugar cane farming or diamond mining?
A harried girl with little twisty barrettes all over her head came out of the studio. “Oh, hey, did you sign in? We’re running a little late. Be with you in a minute.”
How hard could it be to review a pair of hands? How long could it take? Palm side now. Just the pinkie! Flex the thumb ...
“Oh, and there’s coffee in there,” Barrette Girl said.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat on the hump to read the covers of the magazines. I checked out the ceiling tiles—mundane. I wondered what the studio was like inside and knew I could turn this waiting area into a comfortable haven. Or a sleek, hip meeting place. What would it cost? For starters, there would be the demolition crew ...
Claudette was called, and the dazed girl fell out of her trance and loped into the studio. Then there were two.
I sipped the surprisingly strong coffee and yawned. How was I going to keep my audition energy up with this delay. Were they examining Claudette’s index finger yet?
Pucci yawned too. I imagined Barrette Girl emerging from the studio to find Pucci and me asleep in each other’s laps.
It was after eleven when I was finally called into the studio. After the wait, my expectations were high, but it was a boring space, functional and bare, stripped down to the brick and support beams and lined with lighting equipment, backdrops, and a scaffold for lights.
“Hi, Alana! I’m Nadine.” A young woman in a black knit tank and scarlet print skirt greeted me from a distance, and I noticed that she didn’t offer her hand. Rule number two, never touch the hand model. “Right this way.”
Following her, I noticed that she had two-inch cuts on the backs of her ankles. Big ouchies. What could those scabs be from? Boots that didn’t fit? A shave with an old razor? A fall down the stairs? Or worse ... maybe she was a cutter, one of those girls who mutilated themselves as a way of owning their own bodies.
I blinked. Why was my mind racing ahead like a toy truck?
“Right here.” Nadine stood beside a table draped with blue velvet and placed her hand on the cloth to demonstrate. “We’re going to do five shots. One open palm. One back of the hand. One fist. One wearing the bracelet. And one holding the necklace. OK?”
“Got it.” I smiled and stepped into Nadine’s place by the table. “Piece of cake.”
I placed my hand on the velvet and tried to exude energy through my palm.
The photographer looked through the lens. “Could you lift the hand, please? Above the cloth. Don’t rest on the table.”
I pulled my hand up and held it there. Shaking.
“It’s OK,” the photographer said. He glanced up from his camera and smiled. “No need to be nervous.”
But I wasn’t nervous; I had a case of the caffeine shakes. I jiggled my hand a little, tried to gain control, tried the shot again. The camera snapped twice.
“Next shot.”
I flipped my hand over and tried to hold it steady. My blasted ring finger quivered like a baby chick in the snow.
“Can you hold your hand steady?” Nadine coached.
“I’m trying. But you know what? I think I drank a little too much coffee today.”
“S’OK.” Nadine nodded. “We’ll get you next time.”
“Why don’t I come back tomorrow? Or maybe later today? I’ll detox with water.”
But Nadine was already trying to walk me to the door. The photographer walked away from his camera to talk on his cell. Clearly, my time was over. “We’re about ready to wrap up here, but thanks for coming.”
At the door, I caught Nadine’s eye. “Look, I’ve been counting on this job. Can’t you help me out here?”
“Sorry,” she said sadly. “It’s really not up to me. But you have very nice hands. Ease up on the coffee and try again next time.”
Try again next time.
It sounded like the booby prize at a rinky-dink arcade game—unacceptable for someone accustomed to winning the giant stuffed bear. Totally unacceptable.
33
Hailey
Antonio caught me as I was heading into my dressing room.
“Hey, you! What’s going on with you, honey? Alana was so excited about meeting you, but I could tell you weren’t interested.”
“May we step inside?” He pointed to my dressing room. We stepped inside and he closed the door behind him.
“You can sit in Susan’s chair,” I offered, since there were only two places to sit in the cramped space. “She’s off today, and she won’t mind.” As I sank down in my own chair a heaviness overwhelmed me.
“Hilly? Are you all right?”
“I’ve been better. Look, Antonio, I heard some things today that didn’t sit well with me. About you and Deanna.”
“Aah.” He glanced down, nodding.
“And then, when you acted so weird with Alana. And in the month that we’ve been together you’ve never come out to meet my friends. And come to think of it, we don’t go out as a couple much.” And when we did, it was to obscure little places—Antonio’s favorite Argentinian restaurant on East Thirty-sixth Street or a dark hole-in-the-wall spaghetti place in Hell’s Kitchen. “Antonio ...” It hurt me to voice the question, but I had to ask. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“No, Hilly. No! Don’t think that. It’s just that I work hard all week, and when the work is done, I’m not much in the mood for going out on parade.” He kneeled down before me and rested his head on my knees. “Don’t you know I love to be with you?”
“But why do you hold back? Why don’t you want to be seen with me? And, I’ll be honest with you, it was very upsetting to hear about you and Deanna.”
He lifted his head, chin on my thighs. “I know. Sorry. It was a long time ago.”
“But she was married. And she has kids.”
“I know. It happens. But it’s over with her. At least, I have no feelings for her. Deanna, what can I say? She likes to keep a grudge. Which is one of the reasons I want to keep you a secret. She might be terribly mean to you just to get back at me. I have seen her do these nasty things, and I can’t let that happen to you, Hilly.”
His hand cupped my knee, then slid up along the inside of my bare thigh, his fingers fond and hungry at the same time.
I fell back against the chair and sighed, wishing I understood Antonio. So open and communicative when we were together, he became an indecipherable enigma when I stepped away—like the stranger who had greeted Alana in the hall this morning. Did
I know him at all, or was I simply seduced by fingertips working their way up my thigh, eager to give me pleasure?
“I love to pleasure you, Hilly. And it’s my job to protect you.”
“But she can’t hurt us,” I said, rubbing my hands along his arms. “Don’t you see? If we’re together, if we’re strong, she doesn’t have a chance against us.”
His dark brows lifted, his eyes sad. “I don’t want you to be in danger. Even if it’s only danger of harming your career.” He reached forward and ran his fingers over the scalloped edge of my panties, down along the g-string to the most erotic zones.
“Antonio ...” I closed my eyes and fell into the fantasy of danger and escape and passion, allowing him to coax me to sweet satisfaction.
34
Alana
Disappointment is not good for my soul. Some people seem to wallow in it as if it’s a warm fuzzy blanket on a winter night. But me, I have no patience for bad feelings, and as soon as something like that hits me, I run fast till the stink of it wears off.
Of course, if you’re running through the cosmetics section at Saks, the stink wears off that much faster.
That was where I started my therapy after the bad audition—first floor Saks, accessories and cosmetics. A girl can’t have too much face cream.
Then, I did a big naughty. I strolled right down Fifth Avenue in the bright July light, turned right at Fusion’s holographic door, and rode the elevator up to three, where I stepped into the very chic, close-your-eyes expensive, appointment-only Fusion boutique that featured clothes from the newest, craziest designers.
“Alana!” Vespa has a shrill, nasal voice that she cracks like a whip. “I didn’t know you were coming in today. Welcome! Sit! Let me get you a coffee. Sumatra or Black Sultan’s Roast?”
“No coffee, no, thanks. I need a ...” I dropped my shopping bags down beside the green-velvet couch and sought to put words to the longing in my soul. “I need ... something special.”