“It happens!” I insisted. “You just need to find a new project.”
“I keep being offered crap.”
Because you aren’t going to auditions, I’d wanted to scream. “What sort of thing are you looking for?” I’d asked instead.
“Look,” he took an incensed breath, and god only knew what I’d done to deserve it. “I appreciate you’re trying to help, but you just got lucky. I don’t need your advice.”
I blinked. Only a portion of this was luck—the rest was strategy, auditions, reading dozens of scripts to hunt for the right part, and conferring with my team on the best opportunities. I’d even hired an assistant so I could put more of my focus into finding the right roles, which added even more pressure because between Lana, Ruchi, and Victor, that was an awful lot of people depending on me for their income. This was strategy and hard work—luck, yes, but only with the right dice roll at the right time.
Oisín enjoyed the premiere forWherever You Aremore thanTrellis, which were my only films released that year.He’d smiled on the red carpet, graciously leaving my side so I could havemyphoto taken and rushing back sowecould have far more.
“It was alright,” he’d said after. “Though who was your hair and makeup artist? They should be shot.”
He’d whined throughoutTrellis.It was too small, a tiny cinema, not enough people in attendance, and my costars could hardly be considered stars, apparently. The film was boring, I didn’t get enough screen time, the lighting did nothing for me, and I had no chemistry with my on-screen lover. None of the reviewers seemed to agree with him.
Afterward I got a call.
“Clipboard, how are you doing?”
It took me a moment. “Amos? How on earth did you get this number?”
“I asked around. So, first of all, congratulations on all the success. Very fun for you. Did I even see pictures of you at parties? Did your publicist have to drag you?”
“Is there a purpose to this call?” I’d ground out.
“Yes, your wardrobe, Heywood. Needs an update. Do you have a stylist on staff?”
“What? No, I—”
“Great, I’ll catch a flight.”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“I got your email too, Nadine, when I got your number. I sent over samples.”
I hung up—but only so I could use the line for the dial-up, which screeched at me, and I could feel the heat radiating off the Mac Ruchi had insisted I purchase. The pictures loaded line by line until eventually I had half a portfolio staring back at me.
This was what Amos always understood: Clothes are performance. If I wanted to keep part of myself hidden from view, I had to forge someone else to hand over.
Amos helped create her.
He picked back up on the first ring.
“Be here by Tuesday,” I said. “I’ll have my assistant get in touch.”
———
Ruchi turned up at my door a few mornings later. The woman was a pro—she brought a small raspberry smoothie and a fruit salad from the café I liked on Rodeo Drive, a selection of fan mail, and the bundle of tabloids she’d come to discuss.
“Do you think this has too much sugar?” I asked, eyeing the smoothie.
“Is that all you have to say?”
I sighed. “Is this not good for me? I’m getting press coverage without having to seek it out myself.”
I pulled the nearest magazine closer. Oisín was not famous enough to be on the front cover, but nestled neatly a few pages in was him clearly passed out at a bar, mustache drawn on his face, lipstick visible on his neck.
My gut tightened at the sight—but I’d been in Hollywood long enough not to believe everything the press printed. For all I knew the lipstick was just like the mustache, planted by a friend to embarrass him.
