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The director of New York’s longest running television daytime drama laughed.
You mean, I’m too good to let All Our Tomorrows fall on its face. Go on. Take a quick shower. You’ll scratch yourself raw if you don’t get those feathers off you.’
'Right. Thanks, Jerry. I’ll be ready in five minutes.’
Jerry Crawford waved his hand in the air. ‘Take your time. I want to talk to Shannon, anyway.’
Shannon arched her dark eyebrows. ‘That sounds ominous,’ she said, hoping she sounded less concerned than she felt. ‘Is there a problem, Mr. Crawford?’
The director smiled at her and draped his arm across her shoulders. ‘That’s what I wanted to ask you, Shannon. And please call me Jerry. We’re informal here. You should know that by now.’
She nodded, thinking she should know a great deal after two weeks on the set, but the truth was that she still felt like an outsider.
Who wouldn’t?
Most of the cast and crew had been together for years. In a business as chancy as acting, that was rare. It was also wonderful—and, thanks mostly to luck, she was being given a chance to become a more permanent member of that cast. What had begun as a bit part that was supposed to last a month might be turning into something more substantial, something that might last at least until spring.
But not if the director was displeased with her, she thought, glancing sideways at the man. Not if he decided she didn’t really fit the part...
‘I guess I forgot to turn my face to the camera after Tony rolls over me,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr... Jerry. I’ll do it right the next time.’
‘No, that’s not it, Shannon,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder lightly. ‘Look, you know what the writers had in mind for your characters. You and Tony meet, the sparks fly, and you end up in bed together.’ He paused and his arm dropped from Shannon’s shoulder. ‘The thing is, I don’t feel those sparks, my dear. You and Tony go through all the motions, but nothing comes across. No desire, no wanting, no passion.’
‘Maybe if I understood more about why we fall into bed so fast... The script has us meeting at a cocktail party and then, the next thing anybody knows, we’re there, in that bed. I mean, that doesn't seem right for my character, you know? She’s a strong, modern woman, yes, but that doesn’t mean she’d end up in bed with a man when they’ve barely exchanged names.’
Her words drifted into the echoing silence of the high- ceilinged sound stage.
Had she gone too far?
She glanced at the man beside her.
He looked—amused? Annoyed? Well, whatever that twist to his lips meant, it wasn’t good.
Just do what Crawford asks, her agent had said. And don’t overdo the Stanislavsky bit, Shannon. This guy’s got to get a show on tape every day and rehearse stuff still coming down the pike. He’s not into your ‘inner space’ exercises. If he says you feel happy, that’s how you feel. You don’t need to know why.
‘Look, forget I said all that, Mr...Jerry,’ Shannon said quickly. ‘I’m a pro and I can give you what you want. Just give me another chance.’
The director rolled his eyes.
‘Did you think I was going to fire you? Shannon, dear, part of th
e reason we enlarged your part was because we’ve had such good audience reaction to you...’ A peal of female laughter cut across the sound stage and both Shannon and the director looked across the room. ‘You’re a good actress,’ Crawford said, putting his arm around her again. ‘You impressed all of us when you auditioned for that other part last year.
’Rima’s part, Shannon thought, glancing across the room again. She’d tried out for it almost eleven months ago but Rima had got the part instead and what was more, they’d changed it to suit her. She had only one scene to do today and Jerry had already taken her through it. The woman’s performance had been wooden and emotionless, just as it would be later when it was taped for tomorrow’s show.
The director’s gaze followed Shannon’s and he sighed.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘And you’re right. I am, indeed, demanding more of you than I do of Rima. But only because I know you can give more than you have. Do you understand?’
What he really meant was that Rima didn’t have to give anything more than her name, Shannon thought with a trace of bitterness.
Rima Dalton had been a model when she was ten years old. Her hauntingly strange, child-woman face had been on every magazine cover in the western world.
When she reached thirty, the close- ups that had been so kind to her exotic young features became a cruel parody.
It was then that Rima had decided to become an actress, and, with a name that generated publicity, that was easy. The producers of All Our Tomorrows had rewritten the role Shannon had read for, changing it so they could cast Rima as an older, stereotypical soap opera villainess.
The role didn’t require much talent and, thanks to careful editing, Rima had become a star. Not an actress—at least, not in Shannon’s eyes— but a star.
