by JP Delaney
“Yikes.” Gingerly, I put the gun back and take out some red Alaïa leggings.
“Then again,” she adds, “I might need to shoot the person who keeps stealing my clothes.”
“There’s three hundred and fifty dollars in the envelope. Well, three twenty, at least.”
“Actually, that’s something else my dad’s getting a bit weird about.” Jess says it casually, but I pick up the underlying tension in her voice.
“Oh?” I say, equally cool.
“He’s between jobs, so he’s not getting a salary, and it’s like this apartment is his pension or something. He kinda wants me to tell you to move out.”
This is not good. “What did you say?”
“I said, what if Claire paid you all the back rent she owes?”
“Which is what—another four hundred?”
Jess shakes her head. “Seven. Anyway, he wasn’t too happy. Said he’d think about it, but he’d have to be paid in advance from now on too.”
I stare at her. “But that means finding eleven hundred dollars.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Claire. I tried to argue, but he’s got this whole thing about me being fiscally irresponsible.”
“How long have I got?”
“I can hold him off for a bit. A few weeks, maybe.”
“Great,” I say bitterly, but I know it’s not Jess’s fault. My room is easily big enough for a couple, and the East Village location would be perfect for young professionals working in the financial district. Her dad could be getting a lot more.
There’s a long silence. Jess picks up her playscript and starts leafing through it. “I have to go over this—Jack’s given me a note. The forest scene still isn’t nuanced enough, apparently.”
“Want me to read lines?”
“Would you?” She tosses me the script and I find the page, though I probably know it by heart. You can forget Romeo and Juliet: Done right, this is the sexiest scene in Shakespeare. And Shakespeare, despite most people thinking he’s Culture and stuffy and not relevant anymore, wrote the best characters ever.
Jess starts.
JESS
(as Hermia)
Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed,
For I upon this bank will rest my head.
She lies back, arranging her limbs for sleep. I go and lie down next to her.
ME
(as Lysander)
One turf shall serve as pillow for us both:
One heart, one bed; two bosoms and one troth.
Uncomfortable, she wriggles away.
JESS
Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,
Lie further off yet; do not lie so near.
It’s a classic example of where the words on the page say one thing, but the actor just knows the character means something else entirely. Lysander really wants to screw Hermia’s brains out. And, despite all the beautiful poetry, he’ll say anything to get what he wants. He’s a man, right? And Hermia, although she knows she probably shouldn’t let him sleep so close, fancies him back. She only wants him further away so she won’t give in to temptation.
Text and subtext.
I get up on one elbow, looking down at her.
ME
O take the sense, sweet, of my innocence…
But even as I stare longingly into Jess’s eyes, there’s a part of me that’s screaming Eleven hundred dollars? Even Henry’s jobs can’t provide that sort of cash.
Suddenly I’m faced with the prospect that this whole fragile fantasy is going to collapse around me like a stage set between scenes. No money means no apartment. No apartment means no classes. No classes means no visa. I’ll have to limp home with my tail between my legs, to a country where no one will ever employ me as an actor again.
I drop my lips toward Jess’s. For a fraction of a second, she’s tempted—I can see the confusion in her eyes. Then she pulls away.
JESS
Lysander riddles very prettily.
Meaning, he’s a pretty good kisser. And then he tries to kiss me again, yada yada yada, and we’re back.
I roll off her bed. “Seemed pretty nuanced to me.”
“You know,” Jess says wistfully, “you’re so much better than that jerk I’m really playing that scene against. I’m sorry, Claire. There’s no justice.”
Tell me about it, as they say over here. Meaning: Please don’t, nobody’s listening.
6
I’ll say this for the English foster care system: It makes you resilient.
I was seven when I lost my parents. One day I had a family: The next, thanks to a truck driver who was texting at the wheel, I didn’t. My mum and dad both died instantly, the nurses told me later. I was in the back, in a forward-facing child seat that probably saved my life when it was thrown clear of the wreckage. I don’t remember that, or anything else about that day. I’ve always felt bad about that. If you’re going to spend a last few hours with someone you love, you ought to be able to remember it.
It was horrible enough coming to terms with their deaths. Then it sank in that I was going to lose everything else as well: my bedroom, my toys, all my familiar things. It sounds crazy, but in some ways, that was almost as bad. I wasn’t just orphaned. I was uprooted.
There was a shortage of foster parents in my South London borough, so my emergency placement when I came out of hospital was in Ealing, on the other side of the city. And when, six weeks later, I was found my first foster family, they were in Leeds, 170 miles away. That meant moving school and losing my friends as well.
I was a middle-class girl, a Londoner, dropped into a school where the other kids had all known one another for years. They talked what seemed like a different language. They thought I was stuck up, or la-di-da as they called it. I quickly became two people: the person I’d been before, and whoever they wanted me to be.
I learned to speak exactly the way they did too. It turned out I’m pretty good with voices.
My new family were professional foster carers—as well as two of their own kids, they had about three foster placements at any one time. They were perfectly nice to me; kind, even. But ultimately, fostering was a business to them—a way of affording a better house, nicer vacations. They were professional, when what I craved was unprofessional, unconditional love.
The legal name for my new status was cared for, which was the biggest joke of all. Because pretty soon you realize that no one cares. No one cares if you do your homework. No one cares if you have friends or not. No one cares if you come first or twenty-first in your exams. Why should they?
I remember seeing one foster father, Gary, giving his birth son a hug. Still hurting from the loss of my parents, I went to join in. Gary gently told me it would be inappropriate for me to get hugged too. That was the word he used—“inappropriate.” Like I’d made a pass at him or something.
That was when I finally realized I was on my own now. Once you get that feeling, it never really goes away.
It was when I went to secondary school that I first came across drama. I hadn’t even known it could be a subject before then. I still remember the time Mrs. Hughes, the teacher, told the others to stop what they were doing and look at me.
“Watch Claire, she’s a natural,” she told the class.
Pretty soon it was all I thought about. I wasn’t a child in care when I performed. I was Juliet, Annie, Nancy, Puck. I was princesses, murderesses, heroines, whores.
When we put on a play, and the other children’s parents came backstage to tell them how brilliant they’d been, I had no one. It just made me more determined.
There was a performing arts academy nearby where some of the students had gone on to act in soaps like Holby City. When I told my caseworker I wanted to go there, she frowned.
“That’
s a private academy, Claire. The county council’s not going to pay school fees for a child in care.”
Gary promised he’d speak to someone at the council. A week later, I asked him what the answer had been.
“Oh,” he said, clearly having forgotten all about it. “They said no.”
So I went back to Mrs. Hughes.
“If you’re going to fight to get into a stage school,” she told me, “it might as well be a good one. That one you’re talking about will turn you into a performing monkey.”
She researched better stage schools, one of which offered me a scholarship. Then she called a meeting with my caseworker. Who basically said that I was settled where I was, and any more upheaval wouldn’t be in my best interest.
Which was typical, I thought. You can move me four times in three years, but when I want something, it’s suddenly too traumatic to contemplate.
It took me three years of campaigning, but eventually I got my way. The day I walked into that drama school, it was like I’d finally found my new family.
7
I call Marcie and beg for more work. Eventually, she comes up with an audition for a non-union music video.
In a basement casting studio I say my name, height, and agent’s name to a video camera on a tripod. Two producers, both male, ignore me, turning to watch my image on a monitor instead.
The casting director, a woman, asks me to state for the camera that I’m comfortable with partial nudity.
“Well, if the part demands it,” I joke nervously.
“Honey, the part is called Topless Dancer,” she says impatiently.
“Of course.” I look at the camera and say brightly, “My name is Claire Wright and I’m comfortable with partial nudity.”
Hope someone puts that on my gravestone.
“Okay, Claire, when you’re ready,” the casting director says. She puts on some music.
After about a minute one of the producers says something and the music cuts.
“Thanks, Claire,” the casting director says. “Could you send in the next girl on your way out, please?”
As I turn to go the second producer says something I don’t catch.
“Wait…” the casting director says.
There’s a brief murmured conversation, then she adds, “Leave your details at the desk.”
* * *
—
That afternoon I get a text asking me to come to the producer’s office at eight. I raid Jess’s closet for suitable clothes and put on my best face. When I arrive there’s no receptionist, only a security guard. Everyone else has gone home.
I go down the corridor until I see the producer in an office, talking on the phone. He waves me in. I sit on a swivel chair while he continues his call, something about the other person needing to stop being an asshole and order a dolly rig from Panavision.
At last he puts the phone down.
INT. OFFICE SUITE—NIGHT
PRODUCER
Moron! Hey, Claire.
ME
Hi! And thanks for calling me back.
PRODUCER
This isn’t strictly a call-back, Claire. I’m currently casting for a range of projects and I thought it was worth reaching out to see if any of them could be right for you.
ME
Great! Uh, you know I don’t have a green card?
The producer shrugs.
PRODUCER
It’s a problem. But it may not be insurmountable. As a producer, I have access to the Actors’ Equity exchange program. I may be able to arrange a swap with a colleague in London.
ME
Fantastic! What kind of projects are we talking about?
PRODUCER
We can discuss specifics later. Right now, I’m more interested in seeing whether you have the ambition and the commitment to join the team.
He comes around the front of the desk and puts his hand on my shoulder. Then he pushes, so the chair swings around to face him. I’m left staring at his crotch. He gives the top of my arm a friendly squeeze.
PRODUCER
I guess you know what I mean.
For a long moment I freeze. Then I hurl myself out of the chair, pushing him away with both hands, shouting at him to Get away from me. My hand slams into his nose and he staggers back.
ME
Fuck you you fucker—
He cowers, hands protecting his head, his nose bleeding, a tiny red Hitler mustache dabbed under his nostrils.
PRODUCER
Okay! Jesus! Just go, will you?
I back off, giving him space to get up. But then he comes at me, fists clenched.
PRODUCER
Bitch…You’ll pay for that.
That’s when he finds himself staring down the barrel of Jess’s gun.
PRODUCER
You’re not going to use that.
My hands are shaking, and the gun with them. Good. The less I look like I’m in control of myself, the more he’ll think I might just be crazy enough to shoot him.
ME
Self-defense? You bet I am.
I nod at my bag.
ME
There’s a camera in there. It’s all on tape. Maybe you’d like your wife to see it?
PRODUCER
What the fuck?
On the face of it, I have the power now, not him. But inside, I’m panicking. What if he rushes me? What if he simply takes the gun from my hand and points it at me? What if my finger slips on the trigger?
ME
I’m walking out of here now. And you’re staying right where you are.
I back away, trying to look like I’m confident about this. As I go he snarls:
PRODUCER
Good luck working in this industry, bitch. You’re fucking insane.
I hold it together until I reach the street. Then I collapse, stumbling away from there, weeping and shaking. Self-doubts ricochet around my brain—How could I have been so stupid? Was it the way I handled it? Did I somehow give the impression at the audition that I’m the kind of woman who’d do that?
Did I even encourage it, somehow?
My name is Claire Wright and I’m comfortable with partial nudity…I recall how I smiled as I said those words. Was that my mistake? Did it come across as ironic? Had I sounded unprofessional?
Even though another part of me, the rational part, is trying to reassure me that No, he was the sleazebag. He had no right to even think that. He’s the one in the wrong, not you, I know this debate is going to continue in my head for hours.
And, sleazebag or not, was my reaction disproportionate? Would a simple, dignified refusal have worked just as well, maybe even led to an apology, a productive discussion about jobs?
Good luck working in this industry, bitch…
I almost stop dead as I think about the implications of that particular phrase. Is he going to badmouth me to casting agents now? Tell his friends I’m trouble? It would take so little for my British reputation to cross the Atlantic and join up with a few hints and rumors here, and my second chance would be over.
Oh God, should I simply have gone along with what he wanted?
It’s about forty blocks back to Jess’s. I walk the whole way, lost in misery and self-recrimination. I can’t afford the subway and I can’t even land a part as topless eye candy without getting myself molested. There’s no snow on the streets anymore, but it’s still damp and cold. The tears on my cheeks feel first warm, then icy, then warm again as more keep coming.
I’m a hundred yards from the apartment when my phone rings. I check the screen before I answer.
EXT. NEW YORK STREET—NIGHT
HENRY
Hey, Claire. You free this evening?
> I look longingly up at the apartment building. All I want to do is crawl into bed and cry. But there’s Jess’s dad’s money to think about.
ME
I guess.
HENRY
I have an assignment. But the client wants to meet with you first.
ME
Why?
HENRY
Who knows? Maybe she wants to make sure you’re her husband’s type. Which I know you will be.
ME
Well, okay then.
HENRY
How soon can you get here? She’s staying at the Lexington. Ask for the Terrace Suite.
8
I was already dressed up to meet the producer, so I’m at the Lexington in under twenty minutes. I go to the Ladies’ restroom in the lobby, redo my makeup, and do a breathing exercise to center myself. Showtime.
Then it’s straight up to the sixth floor in the elevator. I knock at the door of the suite and Henry lets me in. Over by the windows, a woman in her mid-thirties is pacing nervously. Kim Novak in Vertigo, I think, studying her: elegant, pearls, beautifully groomed, her shortish blond hair immaculately styled in a way you don’t often see these days. Compared to her, I feel like a child who’s raided a dressing-up box.
At first I think she’s clutching a rosary, but then I realize it’s just a keychain that she’s twisting around her fingers. She seems distressed, which isn’t unusual. A lot of Henry’s clients find this part, the part when they’re finally going to discover what sort of person their husband really is, the hardest.