by Lisa Rinna
“You mean—he’s going to represent you?” Tally asked.
“Well, not exactly. But right there in front of me, he fired his assistant, who had gone to the restaurant to find the phone and come back empty-handed. He told the guy he hadn’t looked hard enough.”
“That’s too bad,” Mandy said sympathetically.
“No, not really. I mean, if the dude had found the phone, I wouldn’t have had the chance to meet Josh Gold, would I?”
Shocked, Tally leaned back in her chair. “But Sadie, the poor guy lost his job!”
“Tally, this is a tough town. It’s like you said last night: we just need a little luck.”
Tally shook her head. “So, what, Josh Gold was so appreciative that he just offered you the gig, right there on the spot?”
“Something like that. After he yelled at the guy to get the hell out of there, he offered me a hundred-dollar bill, as a reward. I told him to keep the cash, because I wanted the assistant job instead.”
Mandy looked suspicious. “How does waiting tables qualify you to work at the ICA Agency?”
Sadie’s smile faded. “It doesn’t. But my degree from UCLA does. As does my typing, which is close to ninety words per minute. But what impressed Josh the most was the fact that I asked for the job.”
Tally frowned. “You know, he’s got a reputation for eating his assistants alive.”
“We’ll see about that.” Sadie sat up proudly. “The three of us have spent ages struggling for even one tiny break. Well, this is mine. At ICA, I can find out how this industry works from the inside. And who knows? As my new boss gets to know me better, maybe he’ll consider it an honor to represent me.”
“You know we’re proud of you, Sadie,” Tally said, and squeezed her hand. “But be honest with yourself: those jobs are ball busters, and they don’t pay very much. Is that really what you want to do?”
Sadie’s smile wavered but only for a second. “Yes. I need to pay my rent—not to mention come up with the cash for these classes—and working at an agency seems as good a place as any to try to break into Hollywood.” Her grin disappeared altogether. “Mandy, Randall is pointing at you. I guess you’re up.”
“You’ve inspired me, Sadie,” Mandy said as she stood up. “Wish me luck.”
Once onstage, Mandy looked even more rattled, but she pulled herself together as best she could and began reciting her lines. Before she could complete her second sentence in Holga’s monologue from After the Fall, Randall stopped her short with a curt “That’s enough.”
Mandy looked as if she’d been slapped. “But—but I didn’t get to finish.”
There was a gasp in the audience. Slowly, like a cat happily eyeing a mouse, Randall looked up from his notes and said, “I beg your pardon?”
Gunshots would have sounded less menacing.
“I—I’d only just started. I didn’t get to the part where—”
“Seriously, did you think I was going to sit here and let you bastardize Arthur Miller? Let me ask you a question. What made you think you were worthy even to attempt this monologue? The character is telling us how she found out that her own people—the Germans—were guilty of mass murder! You sound as if you’re in Saks returning panty hose, for God’s sake. I’ve never heard anything so aimlessly disjointed, contrived, and mediocre. At least, not tonight.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Now, please don’t waste another second of my time or that of your fellow students.”
Mandy stood on the stage for what seemed like a lifetime. Tears rolled down both her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. Finally, she made her way slowly off the stage. When she got down to the theater’s middle aisle, she walked past her seat and continued out the door.
“And that, students, is what failure looks like,” Randall said matter-of-factly. He then motioned for Tally and Sadie to take the stage. “You two are next. Unless you’re as hopeless as your friend.”
They exchanged shocked glances. As much as they wanted to run after Mandy and comfort her, they knew that if they followed her, they, too, could never return. And that wasn’t an option if they wanted to make it in Hollywood.
Randall Littlefield loved playing God, and within the confines of his studio, he was exactly that.
Here, he wasn’t over the hill or obese or stuck with a face that only his nearsighted mother ever truly loved—the same mother whose legacy had left Randall with a potato for a nose and early onset male pattern baldness.
Thank goodness he figured out early in the game that his looks and his overwrought talent weren’t going to get him the fame and fortune he so desperately sought in Los Angeles, and he’d stumbled upon something that would: teaching.
Here, in the studio, where Randall had built his reputation, it didn’t matter that he’d failed to make it as a working actor himself. Or, for that matter, that he was the most abusive acting teacher on either coast. In spite of all the cruelty with which he tortured his students—maybe even because of it—he was revered and fawned over.
Best of all, men who under any other circumstance wouldn’t give him a second glance—handsome young studs who dreamed of being the next Brad or Denzel or Matt—hung on his every word and acted flattered when he flirted with them. And if he suggested private lessons, they never refused.
This semester, Erik was teacher’s pet. Usually, he’d stay after class, under the pretense of helping Randall “tidy up the studio.” Instead of cleaning up, he’d allow Randall to strip him down—literally, as opposed to figuratively—before following him to the big round bed Randall kept in his back office. There, Erik gave his best performances, on or off Randall’s stage.
But not tonight.
That evening, as Randall watched Tally Jones run through her scene, he realized he had discovered a new star. About damn time, too, he thought. It had been too long since one of his students had hit it big. And Tally Jones was the real thing. He’d fostered her talent for the past year, and everything had finally, suddenly clicked.
The Meisner piece allowed her to burn with an intensity Randall rarely saw in an actress Tally’s age. If she’d been just another pretty wannabe like the girl who went before her—that prissy little airhead Mandy—Randall would have already sliced and diced her to shreds. That was his way of getting back at all the gorgeous, seemingly vapid women—the Mandys of the world—who had rolled their eyes when Randall had shown up for auditions. But he couldn’t do that to Tally Jones, because she was just too damn good. She really had something: star quality, like a Meryl or a Cate, along with a vulnerability that made it possible for her actually to inhabit a character.
Certainly, Randall himself had never shone like that onstage. But that was OK with him; if Tally hit it out of the park, Randall would be right there at her side, because the young stars don’t truly believe their luck. They worry that they don’t deserve it, so they look for a crutch. I’ll be her crutch, and her success will just reinforce my place in the Hollywood food chain.
When Tally and her friend were done with their scene, Randall actually stood up and walked toward the stage. Lifting both his hands toward Tally, he declared, “Excellent!”
The other students in the audience murmured their relief.
Then Randall glanced over at Sadie, who was still holding her breath. “You, on the other hand, were a disappointment. She told you she had cancer, and what did you do? It looked as if you were yawning. Don’t you have any real emotions that you can draw upon? You do? Well, surprise, surprise. Why did you keep them to yourself, where they do absolutely no good? Sometimes I don’t even know why people like you show up to class. You’re dismissed.”
He turned back to Tally and gave her a grand smile. “Tally, dear, do you have a moment to talk to me after class? There is a very special monologue I’d like you to work on for next week. I think it fits you perfectly. You may very well be master class material, and this scene might give you a chance to prove it.”
Chapter 5
O
NCE THE PAPERWORK had been signed for her to star in M*A*S*H*U*P, Susie Sheppard’s publicist put out a press release proclaiming her the new Hot Lips Houlihan. Everyone on the Hollywood beat—from Variety and Entertainment Weekly and Page Six to The Hollywood Reporter and People—was in shock. E! Online’s Ted Casablanca even blogged about it as a “Blind Vice” item, inferring that Calvin had lost his head (and he’d pretty much spelled out which head he was referring to). Perez Hilton, on the other hand, had his fans write in with names of actresses they’d prefer to see in the role. The list ran twenty-three names long.
No one wrote in to defend Susie. Except, of course, for her publicist. Unfortunately, the ninny had forgotten to use one of the many fake e-mail accounts she’d created for just this kind of client backlash, and Perez pointed that out, too. (Susie’s new publicist swore on her own mother’s grave that would never happen at her shop, since their social networking was outsourced to a firm in China.)
Susie knew that none of this really mattered. She had Calvin in the palm of her hand (and in her mouth, on most evenings), and no one—especially not some bitchy blogger—could trump that. But when Calvin broke the news to her that the weather in Egypt, which was going to stand in for Iraq as the shooting location, was better during the months she was in production with Dana Point, and therefore she might have a scheduling conflict, Susie knew she had a problem. She had to get out of her contract with Dana Point, at any cost.
Her new publicist immediately started doing her bit. The latest cover of People heralded the fight between Susie and Burt Tillman, the producer of Dana Point, with the headline “Off Point: Susie Sheppard Wants Out, and Here’s Why.” The accompanying article vilified Burt for holding her back from her true destiny, playing “the most dynamic Hot Lips Houlihan audiences have ever seen.” It then went on to document in photos (for the print edition) and video clips (for the online version) the memorable Susie-isms that made Dana Point such an addictive show.
A private tea for two at Susie’s cozy abode had given the People reporter just the right perspective on this egregious studio power grab.
“Being on set is torture! Not to mention the torturous interference with my career. I have no recourse but to sue Mr. Tillman,” Susie was quoted as saying. Through a veil of tears, she’d added, “And besides, it’s the break of a lifetime! Why would he be so mean? The show’s ratings have been slipping for so long I feel as if I’m on the Titanic.” To drive her point home, Susie had spread her arms apart and leaned forward, as if she were Kate Winslet in the movie that made her career.
The reporter had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.
Burt Tillman knew better. Susie had positioned herself that way to ensure that the photographer got a great angle on her tits. He said as much to Susie’s agent, Josh Gold, who’d shown up in Burt’s palatial offices in the grand tower on the Royalton lot to plead her case. It was three o’clock—or, in Burt Tillman’s world, happy hour. Every weekday afternoon at that time, he downed an entire bottle of scotch as he watched that morning’s dailies for Dana Point in the office screening room.
“So, Susie wants to sue me? Ha! I’d like to see that conniving, no-talent tart try. Contractually, she’s got another four years on the show, and it’s ironclad. Tell her to go fuck herself.”
Josh nodded benignly. He’d threatened bloody hell first, staying the course with Susie’s hard line, but he was a realist and knew Susie’s best acting was done between the sheets. Hell, that’s how she’d gotten him to represent her in the first place. Now he was trying to play good cop.
“Listen, Burt,” Josh said plaintively. “Maybe we can work this out. I mean, who knows if Susie’s movie career will even pan out.”
It was a good point but not good enough, in Burt’s opinion. “What am I supposed to do, wait for her movie career to implode and pray that she comes back with her tail between her legs? Bullshit.” As she flickered on the screen in front of him, Burt raised his scotch and soda to her, then turned to Josh. “Listen. If it were up to me, I’d say to hell with her. But the viewers love her cold-fish routine. If only they knew it wasn’t acting.”
At this, Josh nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Look, Josh, bottom line: I’m not folding on this. So man up and tell her that if she breaches her contract, she’ll be wrapped up in one ugly lawsuit for a long time. Not only that, no one will dare hire her—not even that dickhead director Calvin, who she’s been blowing. And SAG certainly won’t protect her in a fight against me.”
Josh swallowed hard. His next stop was Susie’s trailer, where he’d have to break the news to her that Burt wasn’t about to bend. He downed the last drop of scotch from his glass and walked out.
The only time Susie ever picked up the tab was when she was out drinking with her old pal, Rosanna. And that was only because Rosanna had too much dirt on her. Otherwise, she’d just be another sick, sorry memory from Susie’s past.
Not that all of Susie’s memories of Rosanna were bad. Back in the day, they had both worked at the same escort service, and they were often paired for girl-on-girl action, which both of them had enjoyed greatly. On particularly interesting nights, clients would ask to watch some BDSM between the two of them. That was fine with Susie, because Rosanna never minded being the submissive. Susie fondly recalled the way Rosanna squealed with pain when she’d taken a cat-o-nine-tails to her big, voluptuous ass. Those were the days …
Usually, Susie insisted that they meet at some dive bar in the Valley, but during their last meeting, Rosanna had called her out. “I’m beginning to think you don’t want people to see us together in public,” she’d whined menacingly.
Susie took the hint, and that evening, they were tucked into one of the alcoves at the Chateau Marmont. It was trendy enough to appease Rosanna, but their poorly lit little nook gave Susie some cover. Plus, Susie hoped that she might be able to talk Rosanna into giving her a freebie later. In anticipation, she’d already rented one of the hillside bungalows and made sure that Rosanna drank expansively and expensively. Tonight she was plying her girlfriend with Chivas Regal, which usually made Rosanna very chatty. She had a big mouth and loved to name-drop, which was just fine with Susie, who always took note of the who-where-when-and-what-position info Rosanna provided, then traded the salacious tidbits with her favorite gossip gadflies for reprieves on her own bad behavior.
Unfortunately, Rosanna had picked tonight of all nights to play coy. “I’m through kissing and telling. It’s bad for business,” she said, her words slurring together. The Chivas hit both her brain and her bladder at the same time. “I’ll be right back,” she muttered as she slipped off the sofa and stumbled to the bathroom.
Susie would not have even noticed that Rosanna had left her purse if her old pal’s cell phone hadn’t started to buzz. Aha, she thought. Let’s see who the lucky boy is tonight …
Susie reached over and opened the purse. Fumbling inside, she found the phone and pulled it out. She snickered when she saw Rosanna actually listed her johns’ real names in her contacts. In fact, her phone was currently flashing the name of a well-known sitcom star who was notorious for his fondness for hookers.
Susie yawned. No big surprise there.
She started flipping through the contacts, which Rosanna listed by first name and last initial, followed by the person’s favorite sex act. By the time she reached the B’s, she’d found what she was looking for:
Burt T—Dom.
But of course. Despite his having built her a fifty-three-room castle atop the fabulous LA enclave of Bel Air, Burt’s old battle-ax of a wife, Babs, could barely stand living with the old drunk, let alone lower herself to have sex with him—or whatever else he liked to do, which, according to Rosanna’s code, involved a little pain.
Great, Susie figured. Because tonight he was going to get royally fucked. And she was going to get out of her contract.
She was still looking down at the answer to her troubles when she heard Rosanna’s voice b
ehind her. “Hey, that’s my phone!”
“Well, it was ringing. Don’t worry, I didn’t answer it,” Susie said, and tossed the phone at her.
Rosanna fumbled the catch. She might have freshened up, but she couldn’t hide the fact that she was still three sheets to the wind as she checked her messages. “Aw, damn it! Just had a cancellation,” she said with a frown.
“Oh, well, tell you what. Why don’t I make good on it?” Susie smiled knowingly at Rosanna, who licked her lips.
“Sure! What do you have in mind?”
“Believe it or not, I’m in the mood to watch.”
Rosanna giggled. “Nothing like the old days, huh? OK, let me call Carlotta to see if she’s around—”
“Hell, no, I don’t mean you and some other bitch. How about you and one of your johns? They won’t even know I’m there.”
Rosanna shrugged. “Sure, whatever. I’ve got an up-and-coming actor dude who loves to—”
“No, it’s my dime, so I get to choose the lucky boy,” Susie interrupted as she snatched the phone out of her friend’s hand. She scrolled through the B’s until she got to Burt’s name, then handed the phone back to her friend. “And I choose him.”
Rosanna wrinkled her nose. “Ick! This will set you back, like, a grand.”
“You just doubled your rate on me, you whore!”
“When he gets here, you’ll see why.” Rosanna shuddered but hit “send” anyway. “Hello, handsome! It’s your mama! I’m guessin’ baby boy has been very, very bad today, and I’ve got a deal you can’t refuse. I’m at the Marmont, and a client just canceled on me, but the room is paid for, and I’m so lonely… . Yeah, I’m being serious! Let’s call this an early birthday present. I brought my cuffs and that bad-boy paddle you love—you know, the leather one with the studs. Half an hour? Yep, just go up to hillside bungalow number three. See ya then.”