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There's no sense in making her wait.
CHAPTER THREE
Alyssa
An urgent message from my agent greets me when I finally get to my dressing room. "Darling, call me back. Trust me. You will die when you hear this."
Corine is always going on about some stupid opportunity. It's good. She's doing her job, earning her ten percent, but her opportunities are usually awful parts as the sexy wife or the naked murder victim in blockbusters. I know. A hundred-million-dollar film is a big step up from a cable comedy, but she should know by now that I'm past the point in my career where I'm willing to play the hot chick.
I check the time--just after seven. Corine left this message three hours ago. She's probably still at work. I better get this over with so I can spend my night with Luke interruption free.
Even if we're not going to do much more than watch TV.
I take a deep breath. It's a weeknight. We're supposed to be relaxing. And I'm the one who always insists on TV. I'm too tired for anything else, and I have lines to cram.
I close my eyes. I'm almost done. Eight more days and we'll be done shooting. Eight more days and I'll be in San Diego with Luke, doing something much, much more exciting than watching TV.
But it might really be a great opportunity.
As instructed, I take a seat before calling her back. This better be good.
"Darling," Corine greets me. "How is everything? Are they treating you well over on Model Citizen?"
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"Do you remember what you said when you met me?"
"You remind me every time we talk," I say. "About playing Ophelia in Hamlet."
"Yes, well, Ophelia is pathetic. Killing herself over an indecisive loser like Hamlet. I've got a much, much better opportunity for you."
"Better than Shakespeare?"
"You grew up on the East Coast. I'm sure you dreamed of New York City."
My throat goes dry. Of course I grew up dreaming of New York City. Everyone around me dreamed of getting an apartment in the village and "making it."
But I chose L.A. It's warmer, cheaper, farther away from home.
"I'm listening," I say.
"And, as an aspiring actress, you no doubt wanted to appear on Broadway?"
I swallow. "Broadway?" Who would want to be on Broadway, with her name in lights on a marquee, performing in a historic theater every night?
Broadway. Of course I want to fucking be on Broadway.
The air leaves my lungs. Broadway. Broad-fucking-way. It's not possible. I must be dreaming. There's no way I'm going to have a part on Broadway. I can't compete with full-time theater actors, and those parts don't go to B-list TV stars. They go to serious film actors, the kind who win Oscars.
"And darling, I know how you adore Tennessee Williams."
"What?"
"Ah, so do I finally have your attention?" she asks.
"Yes. God, yes. Tell me."
"Do you remember Kyle Lee, the producer from that film... Golden State, wasn't it?"
