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I’m beginning to feel deflated. Surely I’ve misunderstood what he means. Surely he doesn’t mean he’s not interested in getting to know me or vice versa, or sharing our heavier details.
“OK, what do you want to talk about?”
He turns to me with a thousand-watt smile. “Let’s talk about your meeting today and the audition. Here’s what you need to know about them…”
He goes on to tell me facts, figures, advice, and I space out for the rest of the carriage ride. What’s more romantic than a carriage ride at Christmas time? Nothing. Who has so many walls separating his emotions from his relationships that he can make a Christmas carriage ride unromantic? Rushmore.
My spirits improve when it’s time to meet with my prospective agent. I remind myself how I’m actually grateful for all the connections Rushmore has shared with me that has led to this moment.
This is it, I tell myself as we head through the revolving glass door on West 57th Street. This is what I’ve been building up to my whole life.
But when we reach the suite number, the etching on the door clearly reads “Modeling Agency.” Modeling? This is not what I signed up for.
I control myself and decide to be polite. I go through the motions. I deliver my most charming stories during the interview process. I even fake the catwalk fairly decently even though modeling is not my jam.
But the entire time, on the inside I have to work very, very hard to be grateful for the opportunity.
22
Rushmore
Something is off with Hunter all through dinner.
“Are you all right?” I ask. “You seem distracted.”
Hunter pokes at her food and finally sets down her fork.
“Anthony. I’m extremely grateful for you. I know you mean well. But we have a disconnect. I wish you would have consulted me before booking with a modeling agency.”
I’m nonplussed. “But they loved you. You did amazing and you looked like you were having a great time.”
“Acting. It’s what I do. I’m good at pretending I’m having a good time. But modeling is not what I want to do,” I say.
I’m so confused. “A lot of actresses start out modeling.”
She sighs. “I know that; it’s just not how I want to start out.” Then, in a quieter voice, she adds, “You would know that if you actually paid attention.”
Now I’ve switched from confused to defensive. “I’ve given you nothing but attention for months.”
Hunter’s looking at me like she doesn’t know me, and I don’t like it.
“I don’t care about the flowers, the car, the fancy food, the books you want me to read, the music you want me to listen to. You started this thing by asking me what I want to do with my life, and you said you wanted to help me with that. But all I see is you pulling the strings to mold me into what your vision of my future is.”
Well, now I’ve lost my appetite. “I thought you were happy with me.”
“I am happy with you,” she says, gesturing at me. “But I am alone all the time. I want romance. I want company. I want to talk. I want to watch Real Housewives and eat junk food. And yes, I enjoy the orgasms, don’t get me wrong. But I feel like you think my opinions and ideas are not…grown up enough for you.”
She’s got it all wrong, but she’s not done. Hunter is gutting me alive right in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant, calling me on my bullshit that I didn’t even realize was bullshit.
“And on top of that, I don’t know the real you. Do I make you happy other than making your dick hard?”
“Hunter,” I whisper, leaning toward her. “You need to calm down. People are starting to stare.”
I should not have said that. Her voice grows louder. “Let them! I need to let this out or I’m going to explode. Everything is on your terms, but what about my terms?”
Something tells me I should simply agree to whatever terms she’s about to lay out here.
“OK,” I say. “What are your terms?”
