I fling back the covers in a flash of rage and get dressed to head up to the pool for a predawn swim. I need to burn off this anger, this shame.
As I push open the heavy pool terrace doors and head out into the fresh California air, I feel a welcome ripple of excitement as I remember my BAFTA news. I snuggle it tightly inside me. I remind myself that my LA adventure is only just beginning, and just like that a Christmas-morning feeling dawns.
The rooftop is empty except for me, and I take a moment to look out over the glass barriers at the edge of the building. Below, the city is just beginning to wake. Apart from Miguel and the receptionist I haven’t seen another soul in this apartment block so far. But then that’s not a huge surprise given I only arrived yesterday evening.
I shed my layers down to my swimsuit and let my still-bed-warm skin sink into the cool pool water. The splash and ripple around me is the only noise as I glide smoothly through the blue-green water.
I pause after a few laps, half in half out of the water as I watch the sun rise across LA, my chlorine-stung eyes hazy as I take in its streaks of lilac and peach. In the new silence I can just make out the distant rumble of the highways beneath the sound of my own breathing, as the poolside cabana’s curtains dance gently in the morning breeze.
I push myself in the water again, sinking into a rhythm that pushes away all other thoughts. Blocking out everything until there is only the present and the water and my labored breath.
Mind cleared and body warm with post-exercise ache, I head back down to my apartment and shower off.
* * *
—
Miguel seems happy to see me when I head down to the building’s valet station to collect my car.
“Auditions?” he asks with a knowing look.
“One this afternoon. CBS.”
He grimaces as he hands over my car keys. “That’s in Studio City. You’ll be fine on the way out but watch that rush-hour traffic on the way back. It’s a killer. I hope you like listening to podcasts,” he jokes.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say with a chuckle. “I’ll download some!”
The audition’s not until the afternoon, so first I’m on my way to an abandoned 1930s diner in Echo Park for the midmorning magazine photo shoot. The magazine’s called Atelier and after an hour in makeup, I look like the sort of person you might see in a magazine called Atelier. A company security guard fastens $1.3 million worth of air-con-chilled Boodles diamonds around my neck while a team of wardrobe girls lifts the delicate train of the gown I’m wearing into the corner booth of the dusty atmospheric diner. I’m arranged artfully in situ against the mint green of the art deco background. Incongruous hip-hop music is pumped up, and a fan is sourced to keep us cool under the hot lights. Finally the helpers and crew drop away until it’s just me and the photographer and a wall of bass-y music. As the camera flash pulses, I try to forget that I’m no Naomi Fairn. I try to forget my anger and my shame and the fact I’m all alone and instead I focus on the shoot and I do my fucking job.
There’s a costume change. The atmosphere is buzzing on set, smiling faces, easy conversation. Somehow I’m pulling it off. They can’t tell that all I really want to do is put on an oversized sweater, hide at home, and eat cupcakes for a month. The next outfit is subtle, my haute couture gown replaced by a caramel oversized Victoria Beckham suit with vertiginous barely there heels, my hair tumbled chicly to one side. The next setup is at the bar counter, my sharp stilettos digging into the vinyl padding of one of the stools. And suddenly for the first time since George left me, I start to have real fun, slipping into creative mode with the kind of gratitude I usually reserve for post-filming baths. Jane was right. I can do this. I’m already starting to feel better.
During the next coffee break I shrug off the caramel jacket to reveal the matching bustier beneath. I kidnap one of the makeup artists, a skinny blue-haired nineteen-year-old called Marchesi, and we sneak off to do an impromptu Instagram shoot of me and the Audi in the diner car park. Cheeky I know, but (a) I might never look this good again, and (b) I’m under strict orders to post about the free car. What’s a few more pictures while I’m already at it?
I know George will see these photos but for the few minutes we shoot them it’s not about him. It’s about me. How I feel. How I want to be. Marchesi is grinning like a kid, which he pretty much still is, when he hands me back my phone. The pictures look fucking great.
I post one of me looking slightly off camera, hair partially obscuring my profile. I’m leaning, longer and thinner than I actually am, against the side of the car. The only indicator of where in the world I am is the In-N-Out beverage cup hanging loosely by my side, although the morning light has given everything that unmistakable California glow. I click share. Fuck you, George.
* * *
—
Two hours later, on the other side of LA, I’m standing in an almost empty office space, the room devoid of furniture save for: eight metal-and-fabric office chairs holding eight seated CBS executives, a large camera tripod, and a harassed-looking casting director quickly shuffling through different character scripts.
“Well, thank you for asking me to come in to read.” I direct my attention to the only executive who has acknowledged me since I entered the room. “It’s a great script.”
He gives me a magnanimous half-smile, seeming to agree with my good fortune on being here at all, before he dives back into his iPhone.
The other seven execs, two of whom I’m thrilled to see are women, are still completely ignoring me. I stand and wait as they talk among themselves, leafing through photos or tapping away at laptops and phones. Luckily any dignity I may have had wore away about five years ago while I auditioned for adverts. I stand, invisible, awaiting direction.
The harassed casting director, in a final flurry, roots out the correct script scenes, tuts, adjusts his camera, and finally looks up at me, almost surprised to see I’m still here. He flaps his script pages, triumphant.
“Okay. Shall we just go ahead then, Mandy?”
“Mia,” I correct, cheerfully.
“Sorry, what?” He looks genuinely confused at my meaning. A couple of executive heads rise from their separate endeavors too and stare at me—it’s almost as if the wall had started talking.
I try incredibly hard not to giggle. “No, nothing. That’s great. Yes, let’s go for a take. Ready when you are.” Equilibrium is restored.
I give my shoulders a quick roll, crick my neck, and try to put myself in the body of an overworked and exhausted female cop in the middle of a grueling investigation. Officer Bethan O’Neill. I let my limbs loosen, my face slacken, and I stop trying to cover my jet lag and the frantic emptiness I’ve been, almost successfully, ignoring since Andy arrived on my doorstep three days ago. I simply let my weariness become visible.
The casting director, oblivious, takes his reading position next to the camera tripod and presses record. A red light flashes on. He gives me a nod. In the brief silence that follows a couple of executives look up and finally I feel eyes on me. I start talking.
The first scene is easy, station banter with my loudmouth Boston-Irish cop partner, McCarthy. A chance to see my character’s fun side but also the toll the job takes on her as one of the only women in a male-heavy environment. The irony of my present executive-ratio-ed situation is clearly visible to no one but myself.