Chapter 2
Davis
“She was brilliant, but it’s largely irrelevant.”
I press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose. I cannot believe I am having this debate. I cannot believe this suit is being such a…suit. It’s as if this production is run by accountants who don’t have a clue.
“Irrelevant?”
I look up, and direct the question to my executive producer, Don Kraftig, who’s sitting across the aisle from me in a pinstriped, double-breasted number that looks like he rented it from a Good Fellas close-out sale, a contrast to my jeans and long-sleeve button down. We’re in the St. James, the three of us: Don, Stillman and me. “How could it possibly be irrelevant? She’s tailor–f*cking-made for this part. She’s Ava. Is there actually any question?”
My voice echoes around the cavernous auditorium that will be filled shortly with spectators for the final performances of The King and I, playing here before we take over. For now, the red chairs that become home at eight o’clock six nights a week to the buzz and hum of an audience are empty, except for us. The auditions are over. The callbacks are done. Patrick Carlson has left for the day, and we are sliding into the early evening with this debate.
My executive producer shrugs, an admission, or as much of one as I’ll ever get. “She was amazing,” he concedes, and his voice—it sounds like a tin can and I wish I could shake him, or really, shake some sense into him. “But she’s not Alexis Carbone.”
“That’s the point, Don. I don’t want Alexis Carbone. Alexis Carbone is a grade-A classic diva and a half. Not to mention she misses shows if she has so much as a sniffle.”
“All the better. She should rest her voice if she’s ill,” he says, and now he sounds prissy, and I would have half a mind to laugh if I wasn’t so damn angry.
Instead, I choose a different tactic. I try to speak in Don’s native tongue—dollars. “You know how she is. She missed one-third of her performances in Fate Can Wait. The running joke of the show was that it should be called Alexis Can Wait. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how many times theatergoers called the Logan Theater Company asking for refunds when she wasn’t performing,” I say, hoping that the reminder of how much money his competitors lost on Alexis’ last role will do the trick.
“We are not the Logans,” he says, folding his arms imperiously, as if that action can somehow distance himself from Alexis’ one Broadway flop. “That show was a mess. It had an awful title.”
“Yeah. It had a hideous title. But the point is we have a show that’s not a mess. Thanks to the incomparable Frederick Stillman—” I pause to gesture, dramatically, of course, to the bald, bespectacled theatrical genius next to me who has barely said a word because Stillman doesn’t have to speak, his work does the talking, “—and a show with a fantastic title, and score, and a sexy-as-hell storyline about love and loss and sex and art, the likes of which New York City hasn’t seen in years. Not since Rent. And you want to throw in a wild card? An actress who misses a performance if her cat has a hangnail?”
“She can open a show,” Don insists, and he might as well be digging his heels into the ground. He doesn’t get it. I’m ready to stalk on over to the stage and bang my head against the damn floor boards. Because that’s what talking to him's like. But he doesn’t stop speaking. “She has her own album, her solo concerts sell out, she was on that TV show about a Broadway musical, and she’s still regarded as the best damn Galinda in the last five years.”
I stand up, pace like a caged lion, walk to the side door exit to take a deep breath, then return to them. “Be that as it may. I don’t want to work with her. I want the best on stage for this. I want someone who is fresh and amazing and who is going to blow the audience away. I don’t want a diva. I want the next star. That woman. Jill McCormick. I want to read stories and see in Playbills for years to come that she got her first break, her first Broadway show, when she was cast as Ava in our show. She is going to be a star. I want to be the one who discovered her.”
“I want someone who is already a star.”
“We don’t need a star because we have the biggest star Broadway has ever seen—the newest Stillman show.”
I turn to Stillman. The stony look on his face gives nothing away. I dial back my anger, keeping my voice on the level. I respect Stillman far too much to talk to him as I talk to Don. “Mr. Stillman, you wrote this epic musical. You created this living, breathing, beautiful show. Who do you picture as your Ava?”
Stillman crosses then uncrosses his legs. He closes his eyes and hums while playing air piano in what I’m learning is his modus operandi of recalling actors, and replaying their performance in his mind. He opens his eyes.
“I want the Ava who will move the audience.”
I swallow, nod, and try again. Keep my voice soft, and calm, almost as if he’s a child. “Who would that be? Is that Alexis or Jill?”
Stillman stands up, smooths his pants legs. “I need to go to the little boys’ room.”
Then he walks out, and I believe I’ve just learned that Stillman might be a musical genius, but is passive aggressive as f*ck. He has zero interest in decision-making or confrontations. I don’t possess that problem, so I return my focus to Don. “We need to start rehearsals in four weeks. The day after New Year’s. I would really like them to not suck.”
Don rises, reaches inside his jacket pocket, and removes a checkbook. “Does the name Julie Taymor mean anything to you?”
The mere mention of a fellow director’s name is his power play and I know what’s coming. The threat he’ll dangle of a fate like hers.
Kicked off the show.
“The Spiderman producers were happy to let their director go,” Don says in a biting tone. “I have no problem paying your exit clause. How much was it?”
The man knows a thing or two about brinksmanship, and he’s got the upper hand. Because he’ll walk and I won’t. I want this job too much. “Fine. Call Alexis’ agent and give her the good news. I will, however, be choosing the understudy and my choice will be final. Is that clear?”
Don nods, and that’s our tacit compromise. It’s hardly a compromise, but even so I’ll be hoping Alexis has a whole lot of head colds.
Jill
As I head for the subway, I check my phone out of habit, an instinct that won’t die, a hope for good news. But there are no missed calls from my agent, so I try to review my to-do list along the way, ticking off the emails I need to send to the ladies in my running group, as well as the new training exercises I’ll put together for them as they prep for an upcoming breast cancer awareness 10K. Now that Crash the Moon is, sadly, in my rearview mirror, I suppose I’ll devote more time to coaching runners, maybe find some gals to help train for marathons and other races.
Besides, there will be other auditions, other shows…right?
I glance at the screen one more time as I head down the stairs into the busy Forty-Second Street station, pushing past hordes of rush hour New Yorkers. I reach the turnstile and am about to swipe my Metro Card through when I stop. There’s a poster advertising The King and I on the dirty, sooty wall on the other side. That’s the show playing in a limited run right now at the St. James, and I can’t help but feel a pang of longing. This is the exit I wish I were making every night at six-thirty. The one that would take me to that theater, where I’d be lucky enough to enter through the stage door, then drop my purse on the floor of a dressing room, and do my makeup in front of a mirror adorned with naked lightbulbs.
I’m not ready to wedge myself onto a crowded train, wrap my arm around a pole and head home. Tomorrow, I’ll be fine. Tomorrow, I’ll focus on what’s next. But right now, I want to walk past the theater one more time, to say goodbye to it, then move on to the next possibility.
“C’mon, we’re trying to get through,” someone mutters from behind me, and that’s my cue.
I walk away from the turnstiles and head above ground, joining the sea of people pouring out into the theater district.
It is dark now. Evening has fallen, and the lights on the St. James are lit up, a beacon that draws in young and old, tourists and residents who want to suspend disbelief for a show. I gaze at the marquee, bright as the sun against the night sky, and it’s such a perfect sight that it stills my heart every time. I have loved the theater fiercely and deeply for my entire life, both as a spectator and as an actress.
“Someday,” I whisper.
I turn to leave and I notice a man walking toward me, dressed in jeans, a button-down shirt that fits him well, neat and tailored and tucked in, hiding what I suspect is a perfectly flat set of abs. I consider myself something of an expert on abs, though that may simply be due to the screen saver on my laptop. My friend Ellie set it up for me. She made a collage from her Pinterest collection of beautiful carved men.
As for this guy, I can’t see his abs, obviously, since he’s wearing a shirt. But he looks familiar, and as I try to put the pieces together—the trim clothes, the strong jawline, the thick brown hair, and blue eyes so dark they’re nearly the color of midnight—I realize, he’s the director.
Davis Milo.
F*ck. I can’t think about his abs. I can’t appraise his body. I can’t look at him the same way I look at the men on my laptop. I must delete all tawdry thoughts from my brain.
Besides, I could barely see him in the seats with the stage lights blaring, but I can see him now, and he has the most intense look on his face as he practically pounds out a number on his cell phone. I watch him walking toward me, his head down, bent over his phone, and wonder if I should say hi, if he’d remember me from the audition. I didn’t interact with him much, but he’s legend, and he has the Midas Touch and he’s barely thirty years old. With a litany of hit shows on his resume, he’s known for impeccable taste and for the best eye in New York City. He’s discovered so many stars, but he rarely takes credit publicly. His acceptance speeches are gracious and generous, with credit always given to others. To top it off, he’s heart-stoppingly handsome and he has this brooding sense about him whenever I see his pictures. As if he rarely cracks a smile, so when he does you know it must be special.
A strange sort of awkwardness sweeps over me. I don’t know what to do or say in front of this man—if I should act friendly, or pretend I don’t see him. He’s the director—he might as well be called the Decider. My hands feel cold and clammy.
“I’m looking for M. J. Kim,” I hear him say, and I stop in my tracks. That’s my agent’s name.
I say something. I’m not sure if it’s a word or a squeak or a bark that comes out of my mouth. Davis looks up and, as if it’s occurring in slow motion, a grin forms on his lips. They’re nice lips. Soft and full, and utterly kissable.
From an empirical point of view, of course.
“Hi,” he says, and I think it’s both to me and to my agent on the phone. I smile. Dumbly. Should I keep moving? Walk around him? But my damn boots are glued to the ground because every muscle in my body is in a state of coiled tension. Is he calling my agent at six in the evening with good news or bad news?
“Kim, it’s Milo,” he says in a commanding voice, a deep, rich voice, and I wonder if he’s ever performed or sung. “I’m standing on Forty-Fourth street where I just bumped into the actress I want to cast in the chorus, but more importantly, as the understudy for my lead.”
Jet fuel ignites in me, and I take off for the moon.
I clasp a hand over my mouth, my eyes widen and then I am grabbing Davis Milo and hugging him hard. I pull him against me, and his phone clatters to the ground, and I hear my agent say ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ but I don’t care, because Davis Milo has given me my biggest f*cking dream ever—and it’s a double whammy of amazingness. Not only have I booked my first Broadway show, I’ll have the chance to act with the man I’ve been in love with since the summer I turned seventeen—the worst year of my life that ended in the best way—when I saw Patrick Carlson on stage, and fell into a pure love, a perfect love, the way love should be.