GLASS: A Standalone Novel

by Arianne Richmonde

  In the months that followed, however hard I tried, I couldn’t rid myself of Daniel, neither physically nor mentally. I was working with him—seeing him nearly every day in rehearsals, and when we were done rehearsing, we would be performing by night; his eyes on us. His ears. Afterwards he’d give us notes backstage. Even when we’d been up and running for a month, Daniel was still there in the wings, up in the gods, front row sometimes—you never knew. But he’d be studying our every move. A tilt of the head, a twitch of a smile; nothing went unnoticed with Daniel. He was a perfectionist.

  I would often click on Wiki and read the official Daniel Glass bio. Like a glutton for punishment, I needed to remind myself whom I was dealing with. A man out of my league. Worse: a married man. A man who could never be mine.

  Daniel James Glass is an American stage director. He was born in New York City, the only child of Valerie Peterson, a university English professor, and Wilson James Glass, a self-made billionaire who amassed his fortune by way of the auto parts industry. His father, who was from New Hampshire, was of Scottish and Italian descent.

  Glass’ parents divorced when he was a child. He grew up in Manhattan and attended Yale and later Magdalen, Cambridge University, England, where he graduated with a double first in English (summa cum laude). While at Cambridge, he was a member of the Marlow Society and acted in, and directed, several plays, including a production of David Mamet’s Speed The Plow, which got him noticed by Harold Pinter, who cast him to play Albert Stokes in A Night Out at the National for which he won the Laurence Olivier Award in 2005. According to Pinter, as well as being “an outstanding actor” Glass was also a “brilliant” cricketer, and played for Magdalen College.

  In 2012 he inherited his father’s vast fortune, after Wilson Glass died of pancreatic cancer. In that same year, Glass married the actress Natasha Jürgen.

  I needed to read that last line. Needed to drum it into my head.

  I repeated to myself, over and over like a mantra, “He’s married, Janie. Worse, he’s in love—not even in your dreams, Janie. Not even in your dreams.”

  Yet, however much I tried, I could not squash those dreams and wayward fantasies. Daniel Glass was my world. I breathed for him more than for myself.

  My hard work and obsession with pleasing him did pay off though. Seven months later, I was nominated for a Tony award. I didn’t win, nor did I expect to. I lost out to the invincible Natasha Jürgen. Lost out in every way. She had it all. The man. The beauty. The talent. The glittering career.

  And then, one day, she didn’t.

  Just like that, it was all over.

  2

  I HEARD THE NEWS six months after we finished the play. I was at my parents’ house in Vermont. Well, Mom had been dead for several years, but I still referred to it as my parents’ house. I was at the pottery wheel, throwing a bowl, and when the news came on the radio, my suddenly unsteady hands caused the clay to flop all over the place and spin off the wheel in an oozy mess. My late mother was a professional potter, and my dad was a carpenter; both having given up acting and music to pursue other interests—those that could actually pay the bills. He still kept the workshop and business, where he sold their one-of-a-kind, custom-made artwork which, after years of hard work, had now become quite profitable. I was spending time with him and my younger brother, Will, at our house near Stowe for a few weeks, until I started a new job in New York: a guest role on a TV show.

  A female voice interrupted the music I was listening to on the radio: Brahms, I think it was.

  “The Tony award-winning Broadway actress, Natasha Jürgen, has tragically and unexpectedly died. She passed away in the early hours of this morning, at Lennox Hill Hospital, New York City, where she had been admitted after an accident with a swerving bicycle while she was crossing the road in Central Park, yesterday. Apparently, the actress seemed uninjured even though she had bumped her head in the fall. Witnesses say she got up and laughed about it, refusing to be admitted to the hospital, after an ambulance had arrived at the scene. However, a few hours later, she complained of a headache, and her husband, director Daniel Glass, insisted he take her to the hospital. She fell into a coma last night. The cause of death was an epidural hematoma. The family thanks everyone for their kind condolences and ask for privacy at this very sad time. A funeral will be held later this week in an undisclosed location.”

  You would have thought I would have been . . . how can I put this . . . secretly hopeful . . . wishful that Daniel would choose me to fill his unhappy void, to be his shoulder to cry on, be his special friend. That one day he could love me the way he loved his wife. But, no. I was horrified by her death. Sickened. Literally. A nauseous wave of bile rose in my throat, and the pottery wheel spun around, my hands, thick and withered with wet clay, which was embedded also in my fingernails. I got up and stumbled over to the washbasin, shoving my hands under the flowing tap, and I vomited as if all my insides would spill out.

  I hated myself.

  I really did.

  Because only a few days before I had let my mind wander again to my Daniel fantasies, wishing that something would happen to make them split up, that she would turn out to be a raving lesbian and not want Daniel, and that he would turn to me for comfort, fall madly in love with me and forget all about her. Or, that she’d get snapped up by Leonardo di Caprio and that Daniel would decide that Natasha had been wrong for him all along. Many scenarios had passed through my mind, but death? That, I had never imagined, not even in my wildest fantasies. No way. But I had obviously jinxed her. I had killed Natasha Jürgen, unwittingly, with the power of my wishful thoughts.

  Knowing this made me to never, ever, want anything to do with Daniel again.

  3

  “THE PRODUCERS ARE GOING to love you,” my friend Star cajoled, in her domineering ‘I-know-what’s-best-for-you’ voice. “The role is made for you.”

  Her beautiful face was on my iMac screen—we were on Facetime. She flicked back her long blond hair and widened her almond-shaped blue eyes at me, not wanting to take no for an answer. Star was a star. Not just any star but a mega-movie star commanding thirty million a picture. She was married to Jake Wild, the sexy British director who, like Star, had recently won an Oscar. The two gave Brangelina a run for their money; glamorous, loaded, philanthropic (all her elephant saving and school foundations in third world countries), and they were serious eye-candy, the pair of them.

  “They don’t want little old me,” I told her. “They’ll want a real movie star, someone who’s got lots of film experience. All I’ve done is theater and that one guest role on that crappy TV show that I play down and hope will disappear off my resume because I don’t want anyone to know about it.”

  “They do want you because I’ve convinced them. And they listened.”

  My heart gave a little leap, but I knew better than to get myself all excited. “They’re just pretending to listen to you, Star, but when the chips are down, they’ll pick a name.”

  “You are a name, Janie.”

  “In the theater, a little. But I’m a nobody in the movie world.”

  “For now. Believe me, that will change. They want to meet with you the day after tomorrow.”

  “Here, in New York?”

  “No, in LA.”

  “For an audition?”

  “They don’t need to audition you, they saw your Tony nominated performance. They know you can act.”

  “Who’s ‘they?’ ”

  “Surprise. I won’t tell you or you’ll start Googling them and then get all nervous. Best you just walk in there coolly without letting on you give a damn.”

  “One thing is acting, but what about the role itself? I heard through the grapevine about this part and was told it was for someone sexy. That there are sex scenes and hot—”

  “You are sexy, Janie, trust me.”

  I looked at myself on my laptop screen, in the little box. No, not sexy. My unkempt long brown hair and delicate face was interesting
, maybe, and attractive, but not overtly sexy. My body was little. Too petite. Small ass. ‘B’ cup size, at best. And that was on a good day if I wore a padded bra. Hell, half the time I didn’t even wear a bra, so I didn’t actually know my size for sure. What was the point? There was nothing much to hoist up. I started to bite my lip and twiddled my hair with nerves. Bad habits. I could hear Daniel, in my head, chastising me.

  “Anyway,” continued Star. “It’s all arranged. I’m sending a limo to take you to JFK tomorrow. Be ready and packed by eight a.m. I’ll email you your flight details. In fact, I’m sending them right now. First class and—”

  “Really Star, you—”

  “No arguing. I’ll be at LAX to pick you up, and then you’re staying with us, at our beach house in Malibu. Gotta go. Wait for instructions. In two seconds this Facetime session will self-destruct,” she joked. And she was gone.

  I still couldn’t believe I was friends with Star freaking Davis! She had come backstage after my performance one night at the theater, and insisted on taking me out to dinner afterwards. It was surreal. The paparazzi were there. Johnny Depp, and a bunch of friends of Star’s. We all went to Sardi’s and she ordered vegan pizza for everybody. Madonna came by to say hello and told me she’d heard my performance was “exquisite.” Star and I stayed in touch after that. Strangely, she was in awe of me—fascinated by the theater, but too nervous to give it a go herself. “The stakes are too high,” she’d said. I felt honored to have this two-time Oscar winning actress as my friend. She was only a couple of years older than me, and somehow I knew we’d be friends for years to come.

  I SLEPT MOST of the plane ride. After the spring chill of New York it felt great to feel the warm LA sun on my back. Star picked me up in her convertible Porsche and, with a large hat and oversized sunglasses, she got away with not being recognized (for all of five minutes) before a curious crowd formed; mothers with their children, young couples, even an old man, demanding autographs. I still couldn’t get my head around the fact that she was so famous, having momentarily forgotten, until pandemonium broke loose all around us. But Star seemed in a rush and wasn’t interested in signing autographs and making small talk.

  She grabbed my suitcase from me and wheeled it behind her, racing ahead of me. “Hubby will kill me for going out without my bodyguard, but hey, I need my independence, you know?”

  “Excuse me, excuse me, are you Star Davis?” a woman yelled, trotting after us.

  I had to practically sprint to keep up with Star.

  “You know,” she told me, “when I traveled around the world with a backpack a few years ago, I cut my hair short and dyed it black, and almost nobody recognized me. Good days, although I mustn’t complain, being accosted comes with the job.” She winked at me. “You’ll soon understand. When you get famous, I mean.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, right. I’m just a working actress, Star. I don’t think fame is in the cards for me.”

  “You’ll see. I’m driving you to your meeting by the way.”

  My stomach dipped. “Not now though. We’re stopping by your house first, right?”

  “No. No time. Straight to Paramount, to the lot. Sorry, but they brought the meeting forward. No worries, hon, you look great.”

  “I look like shit,” I said, glaring at her. She ignored me as if going to a Hollywood meeting with a group of powerhouse producers was the easiest, breeziest thing in the world. For her, I guess it was. Star had been famous most of her life, had started acting when she was only two years old, won an Oscar at ten, then again for her role in Skye’s The Limit. She had obviously forgotten what it was like to be a flesh and blood human being, with nerves and insecurities—well, when it came to movies, anyway.

  Once we were in the car, she revved up the engine unnervingly, hugging corners and going beyond the speed limit. Our hair was flying in the wind like ragged sails. She was oblivious to my gritted teeth, my hand gripping the sun-warmed seat. Not to mention my anxiety at the thought of meeting three producers who I was sure were doing Star a favor by agreeing to see me. They probably had the part already cast and were just appeasing her. Because if they were serious, they would have called my agent and arranged an official screen test.

  Star glanced at me and then set her eyes back to the road. “Dig out that Dolce & Gabbana shopping bag from the back. There’s a dress inside I bought for you. To wear to the meeting.”

  I leaned back and pulled out a bag. “Star, really, let me pay you back. You can’t go round buying me expensive outfits.”

  “You can’t go round buying yourself expensive outfits, sweetie. Not with your off-Broadway paycheck. Plus, don’t you have that student loan still hanging over your head? Anyway, it’s not Dolce & Gabbana, it’s vintage Halston. And it’s beautiful. And more importantly, sexy. Yet classy. I’ll pull over in a minute and you can slip it on.”

  “What, on the side of the road?”

  “You’re a performer, you’re used to quick changes.”

  I pulled the dress out of the bag and ran my fingers over the soft, black fabric. “1970s?”

  “1970 is your era, Janie. Small, perky, pre-pubescent boobs were big back then—I mean ‘in’ back then, not ‘big.’ ” She laughed at her blunder. “Remember Katharine Ross in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? The Graduate? The Stepford Wives? She was the A-list actress. The ‘it’ girl everybody wanted to be. She was pretty flat chested. Ditto Faye Dunaway, Sissy Spacek, Mia Farrow. That’s your look, that’s your niche, Janie.”

  Thanks, Star, for pointing out the flat chested part. I felt ashamed. Not about my small boobs but about my lack of film knowledge. I’d read every play known to man, but my movie repertoire was sketchy. Star was a film buff—not only had she seen everything, but she viewed her life through movies; every reference was a movie—and she was personally acquainted with half the actors that had starred in them too, even the golden oldies like Robert Duvall.

  I rummaged about in the bag and pulled out a pair of high, platform shoes. Black. They were my size. “How did you know I’m an eight?” I asked her.

  “I learned that trick from my husband. Called the wardrobe department at the Playroom Theater and found out.”

  I laughed. “Stalker. You could have asked me directly.”

  “It would have spoiled the surprise.” She slowed down somewhat, easing her foot off the accelerator. She was about to tell me something important. “Janie, you’ve heard of Pearl Chevalier, haven’t you? You know she’s one of the producers you’re meeting today.”

  “Course I’ve heard of her. She’s only one of the most powerful producers in Hollywood. And her husband, Alexandre Chevalier, is like, the richest man in the world.”

  “The seventh richest,” Star said seriously.

  My stomach made a nervous flip again. I was so not looking forward to this meeting; being grilled by big shots and then told “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” The truth was I was using this trip as a sort of vacation. Hang out with Star. Catch a few rays. Then I’d go back to New York, back to my humble apartment with bad plumbing and noisy neighbors on the Upper West Side, and start auditioning again for plays. Even being nominated for a Tony Award was no golden ticket these days. Acting was hard work. Well, not so much the acting itself, but landing the jobs in the first place. Getting the audition was bad enough, but then doing a great reading, being right for the role, catching the director when he or she hadn’t gotten up on the wrong side of bed that day. Having the right sized boobs. Yes, even that. There were so many factors; talent, it seemed, was the least of it. I was already thinking about Plan B in my mind. Waiting tables? But my skills were paltry—even waiting tables was too taxing—the one job I had at a swanky Italian restaurant, I screwed up. Spilled drinks all over some CEO, and another time fell flat on my face with a bunch of plates stacked on my arms. That was the problem; all I’d ever done successfully was act. Or make squiffy pots out of clay. I had so few other skillsets.

  Star must have sens
ed my insecurity. “Take that scrunched eyebrow look off your pretty face, Janie. You’ll be fine. Pearl is very friendly and she’s on your side.”

  The words “on your side” gave me a clue as to where this meeting would be going. Star had obviously bullied Pearl into considering me for the part, and the other producers would be dead against hiring an unknown actress. They were not on my side, clearly. I sighed and just decided to take the whole thing as something to check off as “experience.” I’d be friendly, professional, and try to be myself. What more could I do? And I’d stick on the Halston vintage dress, and the platforms I probably wouldn’t be able to walk in, just to please Star.

  I slipped on the little black 70s number and touched up my makeup while we were driving. A hint of gloss and some mascara, nothing more. I never did look good with too much makeup. Before I knew it, we’d arrived at the studio lot. Star handed her car keys to a valet, and we found our way through a labyrinth of hangars, before we arrived in the lobby where we were meant to be. It wasn’t sleek and monochrome, or fancy in any way. It was a nondescript beige room with a soda machine and a bored-looking woman behind the reception desk, who barely acknowledged me when Star introduced us. I guessed the woman—who wore a long flowy dress—was used to seeing movie stars and was nonplussed. Very LA.

  “I’m just going to use the ladies’ room,” Star said, and before I had a chance to say, ‘me too,’ she added, “you wait here, just in case,” and she skipped off, leaving me standing there in my rockety, unstable heels.

  The shoes were agony so I took them off, and as I was readjusting the straps, trying to figure out which way the buckles were meant to be—front or back—the receptionist said, “They’re ready for you now, Miss Cole.”