Authors: Kerry Reichs
E
va was impressed as she flipped through the script, sipping from her towering venti of caffeine. Julian Wales could very well add another statuette to his brag shelf with
Cora
. Every agent in town wanted in, none more than Eva. She worried that the juicy role might be too much for her young client, but felt the frisson of electricity she got when sinking her teeth into a challenge. Or maybe it came from being watched.
She looked up from her table at the Coffee Bean, sixth sense on alert. She spotted the man immediately. He was staring. He approached.
“Excuse me, do you live around here often?” he joked. He had impossibly green eyes, crinkly and sleepy.
“Were you just ogling my legs?”
“I was defenseless against them. You should be more careful.” His hair was shaggy, but his demeanor was more sailboat captain than surfer dude.
“If I throw a stick, will you leave?”
He shook his head. “Only if it’s a boomerang.”
“Stalking is illegal.”
“So is entrapment.” He gestured toward her legs.
Eva was enjoying herself. She had time before her meeting. “Sit.”
He did. “Sawyer Reynolds.”
“Eva Lytton.”
“I’m a two percent macchiato.”
“Skim latte.”
“We met once before.”
“We did?” Eva would have remembered this man.
“At the Sony Christmas party. Bryan Wallace introduced us for a second before whisking you off.”
“You work with Bryan?”
“We both work for the megabehemoth that is Sony, but I see him like I see the inside of a church.”
Eva raised an eyebrow.
“Twice a year,” he explained. “Fourth of July picnic and the Christmas party. He’s in marketing. I license music. He’s an idiot.”
“I’m sorry?” Eva couldn’t keep up.
“That guy had an opportunity to have all his dinners with you, and he blew it. Douche bag.”
Eva blinked, dumbstruck. “Not
all
his dinners,” she finally said.
“Well, naturally. There’s book club.”
“I’m not in a book club.”
He looked affronted. “I meant
my
book club. I’m a sensitive guy.”
“When women say they like men with something tender about them, they mean legal tender.” Eva couldn’t get offended by this guy.
He made a face. “I’m having an out-of-money experience right now. Great Uncle Ebenezer is determined to live forever.”
“My mom used to say where there’s a will, I want to be in it.”
“Just not on the top line, right after ‘of.’ ”
Eva laughed, and looked at her watch. “I have to go.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“Oh.” Eva was quite attracted to Sawyer, but he was a stranger in a coffee shop. Wyatt would berate her for considering it.
“I’m sure it’s out of character, but have dinner with me in a very public place at the time, date, and location of your choosing, and I’m paying so you don’t have to dither about potential awkwardness when the check comes. Here is my card, so you can verify my gainful employment. We will arrive separately and leave separately, and call your mother from the table to ensure her you have not been serial killed.”
Eva considered the seemingly non-serial-killing, non-dog-kicking, tax-paying, CNN-watching guy before her for only a second before saying, “Fine. But I’m not calling my mother. I’m calling Chuck Norris. He puts the ‘laughter’ in ‘manslaughter.’ ”
The Dr. Seuss creature stared at Eva as she approached. She stared back. He had bulbous wet eyes and the tiniest face she’d ever seen. It was his feet that made him Seussian. Delicate little paws with tufts of hair that curled, like a creature from
Horton Hears a Who
. He yapped.
“Shush, Charlie,” Daisy cooed, scooping him into her purse. “It’s rude to complain about being kept waiting.”
“Sorry,” Eva apologized. “Appointment.”
Daisy looked curious. “What are you getting done? Cheeks? Or lips?” She studied Eva, and nodded. “Lips.”
“What? No.” Eva was taken aback. “A work appointment.”
Daisy grinned as she followed Eva into her office. “Sure.”
“Have a seat.” Eva touched her lips. “How was the press tour for
The Best Day of Someone Else’s Life
?” Daisy’s first romantic comedy had just been released.
Daisy shrugged. “The thread count in some of the hotels was questionable.” Eva was distracted as the dog clambered out of Daisy’s bag and settled on her lap. Daisy pushed him off, and he twirled into a knot on Eva’s sofa cushion.
“You can never count on the Four Seasons.” Irony was lost on Eva’s spoiled client. “Did you look at the scripts I sent you?”
“I want
Butterfield 8
.” Daisy commanded the role like a ham on rye.
“The reimaging of
Butterfield 8
is in postproduction.” Reimaging was the politically correct way to avoid inflaming devotees of the original with the word “remake.” “It was filmed with Camilla Belle. Last year.” Eva hid her expression. “Did you read the scripts I
gave
you?”
“Fine,” Daisy huffed, as if choice roles should remain open until she cast herself. “I’ll do
Rainy Season
. And
Cora
.”
Eva nodded. “
Rainy Season
is a good fit. I’ll reach out to Penny Marshall.”
“
Cora
is better. Get me
Cora
.”
“Julian Wales is courting Dimple Bledsoe for the role of Cora Aldridge.” Though the script had only been floating for a few days, word was, Freya Fosse’s client was the front-runner. It irked Eva, but she’d focus on
Rainy Season
.
“He asked me first.”
“It’s not like going to prom, Daisy. He asked you to look at the script, but since then he hasn’t returned my calls. If he’s decided on Dimple, it’s a waste of time pursuing it. You don’t want the consolation prize of a supporting role, you need a lead. Let’s focus on
Rainy Season
and see if Dimple gets the role before making a move. I’d give it until . . .”
Eva looked down at her desk calendar and when she looked up again it was like the horror scene when the medicine-cabinet door closes and something terrifying and close is reflected there.
“I’m not smart, but I’m not dumb either.” Daisy’s nose practically touched Eva’s. Startled as she was, Eva couldn’t help but admire her flawless complexion, minuscule pores blemish free. “I want that part and you’re going to get it for me.”
“Daisy, it’s not that easy.” Eva edged back.
“In fact, it is. If you can’t get Julian Wales to return your calls, I’ll find an agent who can. I expect you to get him on the phone, show up on his doorstep, or pop out of his freaking urinal if that’s what it takes.”
Eva didn’t know what to say.
“I won’t be waltzing up the Kodak Theatre red carpet for gold as often as Meryl Streep, but I’m good enough.” Daisy managed to look both steely and smug. Maybe she was a better actress than Eva thought. “I’m tall. I’m blonde. I don’t eat. I go to enough clubs to stay in the tabloids but not so many I get into trouble. I got the dog.” She gestured at the Martian. “I can’t do a concentration camp accent but I won’t fall on my face playing a chick with more depth than Barbie. I remember my lines and show up on time, but not so on time they think I need them more than they need me. And I’ve got the ace in the hole.” She returned to her seat.
“What’s that?” Eva was relieved to have space.
Daisy perched with perfect posture and a cat-ate-the-canary grin. “I’m young. All I have to do is wait. Dimple Bledsoe, Jennifer Aniston, and Cameron Diaz will shoot past their youth and hurtle over the hill into obscurity. Today’s ‘hot competition’ will wither like forgotten carrots in the crisper.”
Eva pictured decaying veggies.
“And I’ll be waiting,” Daisy finished. “You only need a little talent if you’re the hot new young thing.”
She stared at Eva, delicate hands folded, serene. The creature next to her stared at Eva, wispy paws crossed.
“I thought the dog had to be a Chihuahua,” was all Eva could think to say.
“Charlie’s a Chinwa. It’s a mix of Japanese Chin and long-haired Chihuahua. I couldn’t bear the short hairs.” She shuddered. “Like rats.”
Charlie gave Daisy a reproachful face, then looked at Eva, as if to shrug and say, “What can you do?”
“Gotta run!” Daisy looked at her watch and popped up. “Call me when you get
Cora
.” She paused, then said, “Agents have an arc too, you know. Today’s hot agent is tomorrow’s Riverside Community College lecturer. If one can’t get the job done, there are always ten younger, hungrier ones ready to step into her shoes.”
There was a flurry, then Eva was alone with a cloud of scent and the weight of her thirty-four years.
J
ulian Wales is, shall we say . . .
unorthodox
,” Freya said.
“Shall we? If we shall, what does that mean? Unortho-dox like he casts unknown actors, or unorthodox like he wears a pink tutu and clown shoes to work and breathes through his left eyelid?” Freya’s tendency to “forget” unpleasant facts drove me nuts.
“More like he chooses actors based on . . .
unconventional
methods.”
“Unconventional, like they all stand around a script and the last one still touching it three days later gets the part, or unconventional like he consults a psychic?”
“Well, darling, I don’t know
exactly
—it’s my first time working with him too. The man is a mystery wrapped around an enigma who whirled into town with
Pull
and now can dance to any tune he likes. No one cares about his . . .
eccentricities
. They only want to polish the tiny gold statues he’s going to bring them.” I cursed Freya’s fondness for words like “unconventional” and “eccentricities.” I was convinced they shielded the worst. “Dimple. What difference does it make? We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”
“I don’t like surprises,” I said.
“You might, if the surprise was an Oscar nomination.” Her rebuke was crisp. “Now call him. I have to run.” Click.
I looked at the scribbled phone number of last year’s Oscar winner. It was surreal that I had it. I didn’t know why I was fighting Freya. I was dying to see Julian Wales. In the week since I’d gotten the
Cora
script, I’d thought of little else.
I wandered into the bathroom to check my eyebrows. I have a thing about eyebrow grooming. I can’t talk on the phone if they’re unkempt. I plucked a rogue hair. I continued to stare at myself.
“Hello, I’m Dimple Bledsoe.”
Too Johnny Cash, and I didn’t have what Johnny Cash had.
“Your future Cora Aldridge calling!”
God no. I was an actor, not the Avon lady.
“Julian, it’s Dimple. We met last year?”
Way too Hollywood. “Let’s do lunch, darling! Call me?” I waggled my hand like a fake phone at my reflection, and started laughing. Was I returning his call, or pledging a sorority?
I settled on “Dimple Bledsoe calling.” It was a bit Miss Moneypenny, but who was cooler than Moneypenny? Flirtatious yet mocking, even James Bond had loved the MI5 maven.
“Dimple Bledsoe calling.” I practiced a few variations until I had it right.
I brushed my hair, still wavy from Justine’s ministrations, returned to my desk, and dialed. I tried to ignore my rising adrenaline.
“A termite walks into a bar and says, ‘Is the bartender here?’ ” a deep voice said into the phone.
“Uh. Oh. What?” My practiced introduction fled. Had satellite signals crossed me into someone else’s conversation?
“A five-dollar bill walks into a bar. Bartender says, ‘Get outta here! This is a singles bar.’ ”
I hung up.
I must’ve dialed the wrong number. I compared my phone’s history with the piece of paper on my desk. Shit. Had I hung up on Julian Wales? Or some deranged assistant? Panic rose. Now I had to call him back. I stroked an eyebrow. Then I got mad. Who answered a phone like that? Normal people did not do that.
“Crap,” I muttered, and hit redial.
“A priest, a rabbi, and a Polack walk into a bar. The bartender says, ‘What is this? Some kind of joke?’ ”
“Is this a phone or a radio show?”
“I suspect I’m hearing the melodious tones of Ms. Dimple Bledsoe, and she is irritated that the practiced poise with which she was prepared to charm me has been upset.”
Thank god it wasn’t videophone, or Julian Wales would see my mouth hanging open.
“Hello?”
“Are you wasting my time, Mr. Wales?”
“I’m enjoying Talk Like a Bar Joke Day. I don’t believe in wasting time. Meet me at Johnny Cupcakes on Melrose by Crescent in thirty minutes.”
“I . . . what? No . . . I can’t just—”
“My instructions were to call when you had plenty of time.”
“Well, yes. To
talk
. I—”
“We’ll talk in person.” He disconnected the phone, leaving me flummoxed. Until I realized I had thirty minutes to get to Melrose and leaped to the bathroom to throw on some makeup.
As I approached the plate-glass front of Johnny Cupcakes, I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t Julian Wales chatting with an ancient birdlike woman perched on a stool. I looked for a camera crew and PAs but it was just himself. I studied him through the window. He had both hands in a green canvas army jacket that had seen better days, and rocked on the balls of his feet as he listened to a yarn the septuagenarian was spinning. When he laughed, he threw his head back and really laughed, as if opening his throat for the light to pour in. The exposed pose startled me. This anonymous guy nibbling a cupcake had as much presence as the red-carpet luminary accepting Hollywood’s top honor.
He saw me, and waved me inside. Approaching Julian Wales reminded me of running up to a cow as a small child. As I got closer, the beast loomed larger, and my steps slowed. I’d heard about cows, seen photos of cows, thought I knew cows, but faced with my first live cow, I was overwhelmed. It was huge. Julian Wales was taller and broader than I remembered.
“Hello, I’m—”
“ ‘I have a split personality,’ said Tom, being frank,” he interrupted. “Let’s go.” He took my arm and hustled me right back outside.
“But—”
“We have to hurry. We’re late.”
He paused only to switch to the street side of me.
“Why did you have me come to Johnny’s?”
He looked at me as if I was nuts. “I wanted a cupcake.”
I didn’t like dangling events, and the “shave and a haircut . . .” without the “two bits” of our encounter was needling me. People needed proper introductions. I could feel the spot between my shoulders where years of jabs reminded me that you greeted Latvian church ladies and other people with a formal shake as you looked them directly in the eyes.
“How do you feel about Starbucks? I mean, really feel?” Julian’s look was inquisitive. “Or are you more of a Peet’s person?”
“Stop.” I pulled away, and planted my feet, hands on hips, stance solid. I didn’t care if we were late.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Hello. I’m Dimple Bledsoe.” Moneypenny forgotten, all Johnny Cash, I thrust a hand at him.
He chuckled. “This is really irritating you, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I remained in position, arm extended. He shook solemnly.
“Julian Wales.”
“I read your script and am impressed, Mr. Wales.”
“Julian, I insist.”
“Julian. I’m not one to self-denigrate, but I must say I’m honored and a little surprised that you’re considering me for the role of Cora.” I secretly feared he was going to look shocked and apologetic and say,
Cora? Oh dear, no. I’m afraid we were considering you for the role of her maiden aunt Gertrude. Bless your poor little over-the-hill heart.
I had no idea why in my imagination he talked like a Southern evangelist’s wife.
He did look surprised. “Why not?”
I wouldn’t give him a reason if he didn’t have one. “The script doesn’t make clear how old Cora is.” It was neither a question nor an answer.
“Cora is old enough to have been knocked down a few times, and young enough to get back up again. She’s alive enough to want something bad, and able enough to try to get it.”
“That could be anything from eight to eighty.”
“Exactly.”
“I understand you’re talking to Daisy Carmichael. She seems quite . . .
different
from me.” God, I was talking like Freya.
He gave me Producer Face, a mask revealing nothing.
“Please trust that I am spending time with you in an earnest quest for the best actress for Cora. A superlative way to determine what you want is often to entertain opposites. You and Daisy have different attributes that immediately recollect different parts of Cora for me. In full disclosure, I’ve also spent time with Hiwa Bourne and Catherine Friel,” he named two A listers, “but their many excellent qualities were not suitable for Cora. Today, I want to become acquainted with offscreen Dimple Bledsoe to explore her attributes.”
He smiled and I returned it. Was he flirting? Grinning goofily at each other, it felt more like a first date than an audition.
“Feel better?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear about the guy whose whole left side was cut off? He’s all right now.” He looked at his watch. “Oh my. We’re late.” He was like the White Rabbit.
“What are we late for?” I started walking again, and again he smoothly switched so he was on my street-exposed side.
“We’re going to a show.” He led us to the box office at the Improv.
“Ah, Mr. Wales. We’ve been waiting.” A man dressed in head-to-toe black escorted us through a crowded room to a table by the stage.
Julian rubbed his hands like he was plotting world domination. “I love a good improv.”
I was bewildered. Keeping up with Julian Wales was like playing Whac-A-Mole. How was hanging out at a comedy club going to help him cast a part?
He turned to me. “Have you seen these guys? They’re great!”
“I can’t wait.” I smiled. The show was called
Women Who Kill
, an all-female lineup. The waiter brought wine as the lights went down and the first comedienne took the stage.
“My preschool is having a thirtieth reunion. I don’t want to go, because I’ve put on, like, a hundred pounds.”
Julian laughed uproariously. I got nervous that I didn’t laugh very hard. Was this a test, to see if I found the right parts funny? Maybe he would think I didn’t have a sense of humor.
“A lady came up to me on the street and pointed to my leather jacket, saying, ‘You know a cow was murdered for that jacket?’ I replied in a psychotic tone, ‘I didn’t know there were witnesses. Now I’ll have to kill you too.’ ”
I watched Julian for subtle muscle twitches to cue his reaction, aiming to laugh the same amount at the same jokes. But my staged laughs sounded like Simple Dimple, and the strain of peeking out of the corners of my eyes gave me a headache, so I gave up and laughed when I felt like it. The women were funny and the wine wasn’t dreadful, so before long I forgot about it and enjoyed myself.
“Let’s hear it for Jana, folks!” The emcee-type person called as the last comedienne left the stage. “Did everyone have a good time?” People hollered and banged beer bottles. Julian applauded, ringing claps with his large hands. “You guys want to call it a night?” The crowd booed. “You’re in luck! We have a special performance, one night only. This funny lady has been a performer for longer than most actresses can count with their shoes on. She’s five ten, a Scorpio, and hails from our own Venice Beach. Please put your hands together for . . . Dimple Bledsoe!”
My veins turned to ice and my vision tunneled. A spot swung to our table. Julian pounded his hands as if this was the greatest joke ever. I couldn’t breathe.
Everyone was staring. I felt near hysteria. The longer I sat, the worse it got. I stood abruptly, crossing to the stage and accepting the microphone on autopilot. I blinked into the lights. Clapping petered out and silence took over.
“Hello,” I said. People shifted in their chairs. Everyone was waiting to see what I would do. Julian beamed. Rage erupted inside me.
“How many directors does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” I said the first thing I could think of. “One hundred. One to do it and ninety-nine to say ‘I could’ve done that.’ ”
Feeble chuckles.
“She’s not very funny, is she?” A stage whisper to my left.
I took a deep breath. Then another. I thought of the routines that had come before me. I thought of comedy routines in general. They had a formula. I could do this. What had I said that made everyone laugh at Monday’s read through?
“So I’m single. It’s a challenge, but if love were easy, there’d be almost no music.”
Chuckles.
“I thought I’d be divorced by now. At my age, if you’re still single, you realize you missed the first-round draft picks. Suddenly, the guy with the pleat-front pants looks awfully cute carrying a diaper bag. I have to wait for trading season.”
Definite laughter.
“I read about this study that says when women go on dates, they decide if they’re gonna sleep with a guy in the first twelve seconds. Seems wrong to me. How are these women getting drunk so fast?”
I had a death grip on the mike, worried it would slip from my sweaty palms.
“I try to keep my spirits up, though, I do. You never know when you’re going to round a corner and bump into Mr. You Might Do.”
I strung together every one-liner and funny story I’d ever told. When it seemed like forever had passed, but the clock said ten minutes, I bailed.
“Thanks for tolerating me. Really. I’ve had a wonderful evening. It just wasn’t this one.”