My Life as a Star_A Romantic Comedy

by Ruth Kaufman

  “Scott, glad you could make it. Marla, a pleasure to see you again,” Max booms as he shakes Scott’s hand. As the gracious host, he reminds me a bit of a slightly older Chris Noth as Mr. Big from Sex and the City (but not of him as Governor Peter Florrick in The Good Wife). “Let’s have our talk after the recital, shall we? I’ve got ideas.”

  “Sounds good, Max.” After Max goes to greet a tall couple with big teeth, Scott mutters, “They contribute some financing and think they can call all the shots.” He grabs a Bloody Mary and avoids the skewer of olives, stalk of celery, slice of bacon and a shrimp hanging off the rim as he takes two hefty gulps before setting it back on the tray.

  I grab a mimosa.

  A tall, thin woman in a sleeveless, tight-knit bandage top that crosses over her ample breasts sidles over. She’s much older than I am, but looks so fantastic she must have had various body parts lifted. She puts a red-fingernailed hand on Scott’s bicep. And leaves it there.

  “Scott Sampson. Such a pleasure to meet you. I’m Adrienne, Max’s wife.”

  Wife? Glad I hadn’t asked Max where Tiffi was.

  “I’ve heard so much about you. Do tell me more.” Adrienne maneuvers so she’s facing Scott, effectively isolating me from the conversation. “Have you seen my home yet? I’d love to give you a personal tour. I’ve heard you collect turn-of-the century posters. Let me show you mine. I have a Mucha and a Cheret I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

  “We’d love to see the house,” Scott says.

  He reaches around Adrienne to take my hand. My heart delights, though I know he’s using me to avoid being alone with Max’s sultry but aggressive wife. Wouldn’t it be nice if at some point he touches me for me?

  Adrienne pouts, but puts her arm through his free one and sticks like a leech on a Survivor cast member. Side by side we go up the porch stairs. The three of us won’t fit in the door, so I step back before we crash into the threshold like the Three Stooges. Once inside, Adrienne sidles closer to Scott, so that her breast smooshes against his arm. She glances over her shoulder with a smirk, as if to say, “He’s mine now. Not that you ever had him.”

  Her continuous, aggressive efforts to lure Scott away include:

  1) tugging her neckline even lower and declaring, “It’s soooo hot today.”

  2) “accidentally” getting her chest wet while demonstrating her multi-headed steam shower. We could see the outlines of her nipples. Rather large.

  Even when we’re all outside again, when she rolls her tongue around the cherry from her drink and says, “Mmmmm,” Scott remains by my side, still holding my hand, as if he were my date. Maybe because

  1) older married women fling innuendos and/or outright demands at him all the time

  2) none of the other women here interest him

  3) he really hates all this attention and I’m his lifeline to sanity.

  As Adrienne blathers on, I still can’t believe it’s real. I’m at a swanky brunch with Scott Sampson, our second not-a-date date in a week. He is holding my hand. My exhilaration is not from the mimosa.

  After stuffing my face with vast quantities of delicacies including cheesy, buttery egg strata and a soft cupcake with a salted caramel center that made me want another as soon as I’d finished the first, in the lazy late morning heat I’m ready for a nap. Except for fat gram-wise, I’ve been a good girl, barely speaking unless spoken to. Because not only do I want my chance for a line in I Love My Mistress, I want Scott to like me. Really like me. Ha.

  The wonderful recital, accompanied by a pianist playing a grand piano someone had lugged to the patio, helps keep me awake.

  Max comes over after the applause dies down. “Scott, let’s go to the gazebo.”

  I want to help if I can. But given Scott’s earlier request, it’s probably best if he meets with Max alone, lest I can’t resist the urge to participate.

  “Back in a few, Marla,” Scott says, bestowing one of his amazing smiles. He kisses my hand.

  Yes, I will wash my fortunate limb. Eventually.

  “Oh, bring the gal along, Scott. Nice to have a pretty face around when a man’s talking business.”

  I quickly make a “my lips are zipped” gesture. Scott shrugs his shoulders. The three of us stroll beneath dripping willows to the white gazebo. As we make ourselves comfortable on cushioned benches, a waiter passes with another tray of mimosas. I want this life. I want more cupcakes.

  As we drink, Scott launches into his pitch about the movie and its distribution prospects. Every word he speaks fascinates me. I could listen to him all day. And night.

  “Look, Scott, I’ve seriously considered helping you out,” Max says. “But most of my assets are tied up in other investments at the moment, all with a greater potential ROI. Horse shit,” Max exclaims.

  He’s not looking at me or Scott, or the glorious lake. Max stares into the distance, where Tiffany is striding across the lawn…toward the porch where Adrienne holds court.

  The three of us gape. Then I jump to my feet. Like Mighty Mouse, I will save the day.

  “Adrienne gets everything if I’m caught cheating.” Max has turned an unpleasant shade of gray. “Goddamned prenup. Scott Sampson, I’ll fork over every single penny you need if you can find a way to keep all hell from breaking loose in the next thirty seconds.”

  “I’m on Tiffi,” I say.

  As we stand, Scott and I share a glance of understanding. Or mutual panic?

  “I’ll need that in writing,” Scott says to Max as we hustle across the fragrant, freshly mown lawn.

  I head for Tiffany, he for Adrienne.

  Out of breath and starting to sweat, not glow, I cut my prey off at the pass.

  “Tiffi, how nice to see you again,” I gasp. “I’m Marla, from the FOTA benefit? Too bad you missed the concert, it was just wonderful and the buffet—”

  She’s gorgeous in a flowing, strapless pink sundress. “Marla. I remember you. You were with Scott Sampson.” She gives me the once-over. “Where’s Maxie?”

  Hiding behind a tree, I’m sure.

  “I’ve got something to give him.” She purses her glossy lips. “A piece of my mind. He texted me brunch was cancelled. I thought I’d come up and surprise him, and look what I find. Did he bring another date?”

  Uh-oh. She doesn’t even know Max is married.

  “Well, did he?”

  “No, no date,” I mumble.

  It’s sort of true. All of the Champagne and fine food rumble in my stomach. How I hate lying and liars and prevarication and deception. Yet to help Scott and maybe myself, I must compromise my principles to cover for Max, the adulterous sleazebag scumbucket.

  I can’t describe the feeling of being in both millionaire Max’s and Tiffany-draped Tiffi’s confidence.

  Tiffany turns toward a loud burst of laughter from the porch. “There’s Scott. He’ll know what’s what.”

  She takes off.

  “Wait!” I cry as I chase after her.

  Even in stilettos on soft grass, her long legs let her move faster than I can. Her skinny arms pumping and huge eyes remind me of a praying mantis.

  Scott’s back is to us. He can’t see danger approaching.

  I’m losing steam. I feel like I’m running in slow motion. If I can’t think of something right now, his millions will disappear.

  I will fail him.

  You’re an actress, Marla. You studied improv at Second City, iO and ComedySportz. Think. Think on your feet.

  “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!” I scream as I trip over a thick tree root.

  I belly flop onto the lawn. The wind gets knocked out of me.

  “Heh…heh—” I can’t draw in enough air to call for help.

  Fortunately, my initial scream served its purpose. From flat on my stomach I see feet of all sizes and shoe designers hastening toward me. Scott’s, too. Not Tiffi’s, Max’s or Adrienne’s.

  “Oh,” I moan. “Oh.” Only I will ever know if I fell on purpose.

  With Scott’s
and another man’s help I make my way to my feet, able to breathe again but still moaning like a loon. Scott bites back a smile they walk me into the house with Adrienne following.

  Tiffi is nowhere in sight. I assume Max is getting rid of her.

  Scott helps me recline on the white leather sofa in the sun room as Adrienne joins us.

  “Let’s leave her to rest,” she suggests and tugs him out of my sight. “I’ve got plenty of ways to make you feel better until she feels better.”

  “Adrienne!” He sounds shocked, as if she’d grabbed his crotch or something. Maybe she did. “You are an incredibly attractive woman but—”

  “Scott?” I lift myself up and peer pitifully over the sofa. “I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling so good. Maybe you could take me home now?”

  My brilliant saving of the day secured Scott his funding and my audition for ILMM. Scott admitted he couldn’t have stopped Tiffi without me, which of course made me all warm and fuzzy inside.

  So here I am, making my way toward ChiTown Studios from the bus. The cloudy and humid day ruins the efforts I’d put into taming my hair. I can almost hear each frizz pop up and go boing like a mattress spring.

  I’ve auditioned for independent features, some short films, web series and commercials, but this is my first major motion picture audition. Will my dream come true?

  A line three women wide stretches from the studio’s main entrance well around the corner. A few security guards mill about. Why is there such a huge crowd?

  As I get closer, I don’t see any signs or T-shirts proclaiming love for Scott, so these aren’t GSGs trying to glimpse their idol. The dozens of women are clearly aspiring actresses waiting their turn. They’re impeccably groomed, and most have the kind of bags and portfolios used to carry headshots and resumes. Though hardly anyone asks for them anymore at casting office auditions, you have to bring them just in case.

  I head for the door.

  “Hey. No cutting. Get in line like the rest of us,” orders a tall brunette near the front.

  “We’ve been waiting for hours,” says a slim redhead.

  “Waiting for what?” I ask.

  “Duh. Chicagotoday.com said there was an open call today,” the redhead answers. “For the movie I Love My Mistress. Scott Sampson is directing.”

  “He’s, like, so hot!” the brunette says.

  “I can’t wait to meet him.” The redhead giggles.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t heard about an open call. “Well, I have an appointment.”

  I step forward, but the women in front block my way.

  “I don’t think so. First come, first served, whenever they get around to letting us in,” the brunette insists. “That’s what Chicagotoday.com said.”

  “No. Really. Scott called me himself to schedule it.” I pull out my cell to call his cell, but of course the call goes to voice mail.

  “Yeah, right. And he’s taking me for coffee after,” the brunette informs the others. They laugh.

  You’ve got to be kidding. Scott could not have meant me to be part of this cattle call. My enthusiasm fizzles.

  Then I catch sight of Mack. “Mack, hi. It’s me, Marla.”

  “Sure, I remember. You were a vegetable the other day. You on the Twitter like them there and come out for this?”

  “Actually, I have an appointment. At nine-thirty.”

  “Lemme check the list.” He scans his clipboard. “Yep. There you are. Lucky for you.” Mack leans close. “Casting probably forgot to tell you to use the door around the side. That’s where appointments are supposed to go. That stupid Stariety site tweeted there’d be open auditions this morning. No one has decided what to do about alla them.”

  “Thanks, Mack. Nice to see you again.” I feel powerful and special as I float past the endless line of unfortunates and the production assistants guarding the side door. I am not a nameless face in the crowd. I am supposed to be here.

  Inside, a dozen or so women wait in a small lobby. No one I recognize. We smile and nod.

  One by one they disappear through a door, then come back with a smug smile, flip their hair, and leave. Finally, my turn comes.

  Auditioning for strangers is stressful enough. But auditioning for someone I know, someone I want to kiss whose rejection could physically hurt, is a new and more difficult challenge.

  Actors frequently endure stares and close, personal analysis as if we were bugs under a microscope. We expose bits of our souls when we become a character and when we accept direction. We risk rejection and failure, which often pierce to the marrow despite the thick skins most of us develop. But the rare glory of getting a part, the joy of performing, and also for me the fun of rehearsal, makes it all worthwhile. We forget the frustration and woe.

  Isn’t that what mothers say about the pain of giving birth?

  I stand before a camera in a typically bland room with a blue carpeted floor and odds and ends of battered furniture scattered about. Great Scott, Max, another man and a woman sit on folding chairs at a long table behind the camera. Piles of headshots, pads of paper and half-full coffee cups crowd the tabletop. A tray of picked-over muffins and pastries smells sugary.

  I’m already acting, portraying a confident auditionee. My nerves clamor so loudly that if I gave into their demands I’d flee and immerse my face in the biggest carton of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food frozen yogurt I could find.

  Scott causes half of my tension. He hasn’t acknowledged that he knows me. The other half is because I’ll be doing a cold reading from a script I’ve never seen and know little about. For some auditions, I do a prepared monologue. For a commercial or industrial, Audrey emails copy to memorize (or record on my ear prompter), which usually includes some specs, or information about the character, and even stage directions. At the few cold readings I’ve done, they provided pages to review while I waited my turn. For a couple, I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement.

  I have no idea what’s in store in this ever-so-hot room. Am I the only one who finds the air so close I can barely breathe?

  “What do you think?” the woman, who I presume is the casting director, asks Scott.

  “I’d like to read her for the wife.”

  The wife? A meaty role that would pit newbie me against uber-starlet Tatiana? I’d be in way over my head. My already doubled heart rate doubles again.

  “Really.” The man takes a sip of coffee, then makes a face. I think he’s disagreeing with Scott, but a pimply young guy runs to retrieve his cup. “Get me another, Johnny. The wife. Hmm.” He glances at the resume stapled to the back of my headshot. “I was thinking Jennie.”

  Remember Jennie? The plain sister with six lines. But six is more lines than one…and one was my goal. Six would be amazing. Six I can do.

  Max takes my headshot. “Scott, Ted, I thought we’d agreed on a name for the wife. So we can have her on the poster with the husband standing between her and the mistress.”

  “A name” means someone famous.

  “She can read for both. Marla, take a look at this, please.” Scott picks up a few script pages and holds them out. “And this.”

  “Thank you.” I take both sets of pages.

  The casting director says, “I’ll read with you.” She sits in a chair positioned beneath the camera.

  “Please slate first, name, role and height. Whenever you’re ready.” Pimply boy is now behind the video camera.

  Like I can stand here and prepare while they’re all staring at me and waiting? My mouth is dry, dry, dry. Why didn’t I put in a Ricola while I waited with the other hopefuls?

  I take a deep breath and let it out.

  Me as me: “Hello, I’m Marla Goldberg reading for Stacey and I’m five two.”

  I glance at the pages and rapidly transform into STACEY, the wife.

  INT. UPSCALE KITCHEN – RAINY DAY

  STACEY

  (holding coffee mug) This is the third time this week work has kept you so late, Alan. I-I miss you. When do you think we
might be able to spend some time together?

  ALAN

  (glances at STACEY then returns focus to newspaper) You know this is my crunch time. I have to put in the hours if I want that promotion.

  STACEY

  Yes. I do. Well, at least we’ll have the weekend. I can make dinner plans with Sara and Ed. Or we could get tickets for that new show….

  ALAN

  Stacey, I thought I’d told you. I have to go to a conference in Reno. I’m leaving early tomorrow morning and won’t be back until Sunday night. Late.

  STACEY

  (hides disappointment and stirs eggs on stove) Oh. I see. What’s the conference for?

  ALAN

  You know. The usual, upper-level corporate managers, goal setting and strategic planning. I’m going up to pack.

  STACEY

  (a single tear glistens in her eye as she turns off the burner)

  I look just to the left of the camera and hope my eye is glistening.

  “Thank you,” pimply guy says. “And now Jennie?”

  Jennie’s lines include, “Oh, really?” “Where’d you meet him?” “What’s he like?” “Can’t wait to meet your new man.” A long speech by the mistress, Audra, fits between each. To save time, the casting director only reads the first and last lines of Audra’s speeches. I hope my expression conveys Jennie’s concern for her sister, not some strange grimace, as she says, “Oh, really?”

  Already I fear I’ve failed. The point is to immerse myself in the character, react in the moment, and not allow the voice in my head to interfere. I, Marla, should not be worrying about my appearance or what Scott thinks of my reading (as he and the others stare at the monitor to see how I look on screen, not at me directly) or of me or if my stomach sticks out in these jeans. I should be Jennie and think her thoughts.