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“Thank you, Alana. You can go now.” The woman with the baseball hat spread her fingers toward the door.
In half a blink, Alana stepped into the bright white of the hallway as the baseball hat lady called out another name. A peppy-looking early-thirty-something jumped up from the corner and greeted the woman warmly, as though they’d been friends for years. Alana forced herself to turn around, to lock eyes with the woman.
“Can you just tell me,” Alana began.
But the woman in the baseball hat just said, “Your agent will contact you when we know more.”
Then, she clipped the door closed behind her. Alana turned on her heel and walked back down the hallway, her shoulders slumped. When she reached the cobblestone streets, she removed her heels and swung them around beside her thigh, whacking herself angrily.What had she done wrong? Why wasn’t she good enough? Was she too old? Too stilted? Too smiley? What was it?
She hailed a cab, leaping into the back after it pulled up to the curb, inhaling the stench of old cigarette smoke. When she told the driver her address in the seventh arrondissement, he asked her what she was doing in that part of town. Alana just stared at the ceiling; her head felt heavy with cotton.
The worst of it, of course, was that she’d told Asher she had an audition. She’d wanted him to recognize her for the actual talent she was. She’d wanted him to see her as something more than just “Asher Tarkin’s wife,” like everyone else. With that slammed door in her face, the last of her hope slipped through her fingers. That was that.
