CHAPTER 5
REID
After the last two auditions, I’m waiting for my car to be brought around and pulling my phone from my pocket to call my friend John when I get a text from Mom reminding me about dinner at 8:00. My first thought is how the hell to get out of it, but then I remember how she looked this morning when I said yes. I hit reply and type yep.
The valet zooms up in my Lotus, which I convinced Dad to let me buy a few months ago by telling him I would just get it when I turned eighteen if he said no. He hates the car, from the engine roar when I gun it to the stereo vibrating everything in the house as I pull into the garage, but above all, he hates the color—lemon yellow. He calls it a douche taxi. Last week I pulled into the drive when he was getting the mail, and as I walked up to the house he stared at the car and said, no inflection, “You’re keeping that thing at least a year.”
As he knew it would, that remark made me want to sell the f*cking car immediately.
Dinner in two hours should be all kinds of enjoyable.
I might as well do some shopping—no sense in being home early. Rodeo Drive is closing down for the day, but I head over to Robertson and hand over the keys to another valet, wondering if valets actually drive my car as much or more than I do. Paul & Joe is open and nearly deserted, the sales clerks (both hot—gay guy, wispy blonde chick) hovering, waiting to be helpful. They exchange a look as I browse. Between the two of them, they probably generate interest from anyone between fifteen and fifty who walks through the door.
I grab a few funky shirts and a pair of jeans and request a dressing room from the girl. “Yes, of course, Mr. Alexander,” she says. Maybe someday I’ll hate it, but for now, I love being recognized. I’ve just pulled on the jeans when she comes into the dressing room with another pair in a different shade. Without a trace of apprehension at walking in on me half-undressed, she holds them out. “This is the newer wash. I thought you might want to try them, too.” I toss them onto the pile as her eyes rake over my chest. Turning to the mirror like I don’t notice, I button the jeans and pull on one of the vintage t-shirts.
“What do you think? Too dug-it-outta-Dad’s-closet?”
Her mouth turns up on one side and she shrugs. “If your dad was cool, then that’s in.” She bites her lip, lightly. “Let me see the other one.”
I pull the shirt off and step closer. “Hold it for me?” I can almost hear the porn soundtrack starting up in my head, until my phone beeps—another reminder text from Mom about dinner. I reply that I’m on my way.
“So, Kaci,” I touch the nametag just over her breast, “I’ll take both shirts, and the jeans I’m wearing. I don’t have time to take them off right now.” My meaning is clear as I rip the tag off and hand it to her. “I’ll just wear them out, if that’s okay.”
When I leave, the discarded tag, her phone number written on the back in red ink, is in the bag with the new shirts and the jeans I was wearing when I came in.
***
I park next to Dad’s empty spot in the garage. Not a good sign; I hope he’s just late. As much as I’d prefer to pass on sitting across the table from him, I live in constant dread of having to watch the effect on Mom whenever he bails on her—which is often. Immaculada is perched on a stool in the kitchen, chin propped in her hand, watching reality TV. Everything on the stove is set to low. Waiting.
I’m afraid to ask, but I do. “Mom in her room?”
Her head inclines towards the master suite. “Sí, in her room.” Shit. I can tell by her tone what that means.
The sitting room off the master bedroom gives the impression of a cozy personal library, which is accurate, I suppose. Mom loves to read, or did at one time. The floor-to-ceiling shelves house an enviable selection of books and very few knickknacks or framed photos. I drop into one of two plush leather chairs; she sits in the other, an open book on her lap, an empty martini glass in her hand, her eyes unfocused on the darkened window.
“Mom?” I don’t have to actually ask the question.
She looks at me, blinks likes she’s waking up. “He’s not coming.” The tears are in her voice, even if they aren’t on her face.
“Got held up with a case, I guess.” The words are sour in my mouth and I don’t even know why I said them. If his absences and last-minute cancellations were infrequent, his recurrent justifications would work. But they aren’t, and they don’t. “Come on—Immaculada has everything ready. We can enjoy it without him.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my tone, but fail.
“I don’t really… I’m not really hungry,” she says, and I want to shake her. How can his behavior possibly surprise her now? This is his demeanor towards both of us, and has been forever. I don’t get it, but I don’t give a shit anymore, and she shouldn’t, either.
“Okay.” I stand up, hands in pockets, unable to fix this for the millionth time. “I guess I’ll go ahead and meet John. I’ll tell Immaculada to pack up the food; maybe you’ll be hungry later.” She won’t.
“Yes. That’s a good idea. Thank you, Reid.”
I breathe a sigh. When she says my name, it drains the anger—at her, anyway—like she’s pulled a plug. I lean down and kiss her before I leave, pretending not to hear when I get into the hallway and she says, “I love you.”
*** *** ***
Emma
When Chloe tags along for auditions, she insists on a five-star hotel, as though I’m already a big star. No penthouse suite, yet, but I’m sure she has plans.
I’m the first one down to breakfast. The waitress brings my coffee with cream in a tiny crystal pitcher and little straws of raw sugar in a matching crystal box. My omelet is created to order and served on toile-embossed china. If I land this part and achieve the fame and fortune my father wants for me, this could be my life. All the time.
Just outside the restaurant window, a blonde celebrity walks by, surrounded by her entourage. Dark sunglasses obscure her face. She ducks her head and slides into the back seat of a waiting black Mercedes SUV with black tinted windows just as the paparazzi catch up, at least a dozen photographers calling to her.
I’ve only been approached by someone in public twice. The first was several years ago, here in LA. As my father and I had lunch after an audition, a woman with a toddler in tow approached the table. She told me that my role as the daughter of a bipolar woman in a television ad for antidepressant meds prompted her to seek help for her depression. My father beamed and said, “Would you like an autograph? Emma, sign your napkin.”
The second time was a couple of months ago, the result of a minor role in a periodically re-aired Lifetime movie. Emily had a choir competition in San Francisco, about ninety miles south of Sacramento, and I tagged along for the weekend. While exploring a tiny indie bookstore, we were approached by a girl.
“Hey, were you in that movie about the Civil War? You were the sister of that guy who deserted the Rebs to join the Union?” I nodded guardedly, and she continued. “Well my dad went to Notre Dame, and my brother decided to go to Michigan State, and it’s like he defected to the dark side!” She laid a hand on my forearm and I resisted the urge to jerk away. “My whole family’s pissed! I totally identified with your character, you know?” I nodded, but I didn’t know.
Emily offered to take a photo of me with my fan, this stranger who eagerly slung her arm around me and pressed her face to mine. I’m pretty sure I looked beyond freaked.
“Okay, we’ve gotta go now, thanks for watching,” Emily said, thrusting the phone into the girl’s hand, linking my arm through hers and propelling me out the door.
While I was reviewing lines in my room last night, my father and Chloe went out. When Chloe knocked on my door to tell me, I could see her to-the-shoulder earrings and full-throttle eyeliner through the peephole. Her outfit was more like a couple of wide belts than a legitimate top and bottom. They returned at 3 a.m., obviously wasted. I heard them trying to get their key card to open a neighboring door, then mine, and finally their own.
At the table this morning, my father is mute and Chloe wears sunglasses and nurses black coffee. She’s not thrilled about my table choice, adjacent to the floor-to-ceiling wall of windows with a view of the sunny blue sky on this rare non-hazy day; but it’s the perfect spot to people watch. Until Dan arrives to interrogate me about my audition for the enviable role of Lizbeth Bennet opposite Reid Alexander.
“In his last film, he all but named his costar.” Dan gestures animatedly with both hands, his elbows on the table. “The director was on the fence between two or three, and I heard that he said ‘I want Allyson’ and she was in.” I seriously doubt that even Reid Alexander has that sort of power, but I keep this thought to myself.
Dan eyes me closely, as he always does when he is about to make an Important Statement. “They’re looking for chemistry. This is ‘Darcy and Elizabeth,’ for chrissake.” All three of them stare at me. Chemistry between the romantic leads. What a novel concept.
“Um, okay, I know.” I only just refrain from rolling my eyes. “I think it went well, but we’re either going to have chemistry or we aren’t, right? I assume they’ll do callbacks on several—”
“Richter has been directing for two decades. Big names, big films. He knows chemistry, and if the two of you have it, he’ll see it.” Is that not what I just said? “What—specifically—did he say when he stopped the scene?” He asked me this exact question five minutes ago. I don’t know if he thinks I’m lying or just carelessly omitting something significant.
My jaw clenches and I repeat, verbatim, the answer I gave five minutes ago. “He said, ‘Good, good,’ then thanked me, then said they’d be in touch.”
Dan pinches his chin between his perfectly manicured fingers, the face of his TAG Heuer watch peeking out from the cuff of his impeccable azure blue dress shirt. “He stopped you before the kiss was started, then,” he reiterates, “But he said, ‘Good, good,’ right after.”
Oh. My. God. “Yes.”
“This could work, this could be fine, possibly he wants to see buildup—I mean anyone can kiss.” If Dan actually believes that, I feel sorry for him. Even with my somewhat limited experience, I know that not everyone can kiss. If rumors are reliable, Reid Alexander will leave me in a puddle at his feet. I doubt the likelihood of this, though, because the best-looking guys aren’t always the best kissers, as backwards as that notion seems.
My first kiss was with a costar in the intergalactic explorer movie. We engaged in hours of private rehearsals after that while on location. But Justin lived in New Jersey, and once filming ended, we were too young to cross the distance between Newark and Sacramento. At the time, I thought I would die from heartbreak. Later, I was more depressed to discover that Justin had been a bright kissing light in a sea of dim bulbs.
Dan’s cell phone begins playing a late-80s rap song, and he unclips it from his belt and punches it, holding up one finger to shush the three of us, though no one is talking. “Dan Walters here. Yes, of course. Fabulous. Three o’clock, no prob. Thanks much, Daria.”
His expression is almost manic as he turns to me. “We’re on, baby. You and Reid are having another go, tomorrow.”
“Yay!” Chloe claps her fingers as though Dan is speaking to her. This is a fundamental Chloe move. She’s like a wind-up monkey that winds itself.
Dan shakes his head slightly (I know the feeling) and addresses my father. “Connor, have her there tomorrow by 2:50. Early enough to look interested, but not overly eager. I’ll start working on what we’re going to push for in terms of salary. I’ll be in touch, hopefully soon.” He lays a hand on my forearm. “Knock ’em dead.” One more gulp of coffee (no way Dan actually needs any sort of stimulant) and he’s gliding back through the restaurant and out the entrance.
Me: Got a callback. 3pm tomorrow. Probably kissing reid alexander. Wish me luck.
Em: Do you NEED LUCK?!? Sounds like you already HAVE IT, lol.