Engaging Men (23 page)

But then, if I were a guy, I wouldn’t have the beauty-enhancing benefits of cosmetics, I thought, packing them into my duffel bag along with the outfit I’d selected and the folder containing my head shots and resume. My plan was to shower and get ready at the studio after the show, then hopefully coax Colin into having breakfast and dawdling around the neighborhood until the appointed hour. The Actors’ Forum was on 36th and Park, which wasn’t exactly close to the studio on W. 54th, but there really didn’t seem to be any use in heading all the way back down to the East Village only to go uptown again a short while later.

I don’t know how I even got through the routine at Rise and Shine, though I have to say, the rush of pheromones I always got from such rigorous morning exercise did soothe my nerves somewhat. Not that that lasted very long. I could barely eat a thing at breakfast afterward, my stomach in knots despite the encouraging words Colin heaped on me. “This is just the beginning of it all for you, Ange. For both of us,” Colin said happily once he’d cleared his plate of his western omelette. Of course, I hadn’t told him I saw Viveca as my ticket out of Rise and Shine. I wasn’t sure how he would take my news, since he seemed to think our impending contract was a dream come true. And it was—for Colin. Now I watched him uneasily, gulping coffee and nibbling the toast that came with my own omelette, which I could only take two bites of before I was filled with nausea.

“I mean, don’t you feel it? Everything is falling into place— your relationship with Kirk, your acting career…”

If that were true, why did I feel like I was falling apart?

Colin bid me goodbye shortly after nine-thirty, having made plans to watch his nephew all afternoon (see what I mean about Colin? He couldn’t get enough of other people’s kids). Since I had no place else to go and no desire even to glance at the windows filled with fall fashions as I walked by, I decided to head to the New York Public Library, which was only two avenues and six short blocks from my ultimate destination. Besides, the reading room was one of my favorite New York City spots to unwind, with its high ceilings, long wooden tables dotted with reading lamps and air of serenity. I arrived there just as the doors opened at ten, headed straight for my mecca and found a comfy chair at the end of one of the tables. Pulling out my actor’s scene book—somehow I thought reacquainting myself with some of the monologues I had studied long and hard during my auditioning days might put me in the proper frame of mind for my meeting—I settled in to relax.

And promptly fell asleep.

I’m not even sure how it happened. Well, okay, I kinda know how it happened. I had opened up my book to one of my favorite monologues, and within moments the words blurred on the page before me, causing me to rest my head on my opened book. Only for a moment, I told myself. Just long enough to take the burning sting from my tired eyes.

Unfortunately, I had taken more than a moment. In fact, I

had slept a full forty-five of them, I realized, when I came awake with a start and anxiously glanced at my watch.

I wasn’t even sure what had roused me from my sleep, only knew that it was now ten forty-five and I had fifteen minutes to pull myself together and get myself to 36th and Park. Suddenly the six blocks and two avenues I needed to traverse seemed like a marathon.

A cab, I’ll take a cab, I thought, mentally batting away the thought of the dwindling funds I had discovered in my wallet after paying for breakfast. Suddenly I wished I had taken up Justin’s offer to pay for my movie ticket last night in honor of my latest achievement, which was right now shaping up to be my worse nightmare. Shoving my book in my duffel, I raced out the door into the humidity, trying not to think of what havoc it was inflicting on my hair.

My whole body seemed to shake as I bounded down the broad cement steps to the curb, my eyes roaming up Fifth Avenue for a cab. What was wrong with me, I wondered, noticing a tremble in my fingers as I raised my hand to hail a taxi. My stomach gurgled, and I knew exactly what was wrong with me. I was starving. And why wouldn’t I be? I had only managed to get down two bites of that $5.95 omelette I had treated myself to that morning. Stupid! I was never going to make it through without some sustenance, I realized now, feeling my glucose levels sinking to new and dangerous levels at the thought of facing Viveca Withers in this state. Glancing frantically around, I spotted a hot-dog stand mere steps away. But if the thought of passing out from sheer hunger at the foot of Viveca Withers’s desk was alarming, the idea of putting that strange combination of beef byproducts into my roiling stomach almost made me want to heave onto the sidewalk whatever remnants of nutrition might be still lingering in my system from my popcorn binge the night before.

I stalked over to the stand, took one look at the menu items, each more horrifying than the next (what animal was that sizzling on those kebab sticks behind the glass?) and made my decision.

“Diet Coke, please.”

It was really all I could handle at the moment. Besides, the

caffeine jolt might just be enough to get me through. It had to be. “How much?”

“Two dollars,” the vendor said, his accent so thick I thought I misunderstood him.

Two dollars? Since when did a can of Diet Coke cost two dollars? Not wanting to take the time to inform him that I was not some stupid tourist he could blatantly overcharge (because I was sure that’s what principle’this guy was operating on, judging by the gleam in his eye as I practically tossed the money at him), I turned toward the street once more and felt a momentary relief as a cab pulled up, rescuing my now-overheated and (I was sure) sweat-stained self from the curb.

Five bucks later (there was traffic, yes, there was always traffic) I was riding the elevator to the fifth floor of the Park Avenue building where Ms. Viveca Withers ran her illustrious agency. At least I had the illusion of a full stomach, I thought, feeling somewhat more human now that I had pumped myself up with that heady mixture of carbonation and caffeine I adored. And I was only three minutes late, which really was an all-time record for me. I only hoped Ms. Withers kept the same kind of schedule I did.

It turned out she did. “Have a seat,” the secretary said. “Ms. Withers is with another client.”

I spent the next twenty-five minutes in the somewhat spare waiting room, seated across from a tall, willowy blonde who must have been dropped into the waiting area via helicopter, judging by the way her makeup was flawlessly unsmudged, her hair perfectly smooth and her linen dress impossibly unwrinkled, despite the oppressive August humidity outside. Then there was the chiseled-faced guy who came in and immediately began flirting with the secretary, whether because he was trying to get an in or because he needed the attention, I couldn’t tell. There was another Adonis to my right, who seemed to have some skin condition judging by the way he kept scratching his arms. Or maybe he was nervous. Who could blame him? He seemed close to my age, and here we were surrounded by a group of beautiful people with a sum total of years among them that probably wouldn’t even get them a senior citizen’s discount.

And just as I was contemplating the price and possible side effects of a few Botox injections, I heard my name being called. “Angela DiFranco? Ms. Withers will see you now.”

I stood, picked up my bag, ran a shaky hand over my hair one last time and headed for the door I’d seen others taller, stronger, prettier than myself emerge from, and went through it to discover what fate, or at least Ms. Viveca Withers, had in store for me.

If I had been surprised by the spareness of the waiting room, I was even more surprised by Viveca Withers herself, who seemed somehow…tinier and a bit younger than the late-forties woman I remembered having met a year before. No, not younger, I realized as she shook my hand and gave me an ingratiating smile—tighter. Around the eyes and the chin. It occurred to me that Viveca had had a little nip and tuck since we’d first met.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Ms. Withers.”

“Call me Viveca,” she said immediately, studying me with her dark eyes beneath brows obviously dyed a yellow blond to match that short, spiky yellow-blond coif she sported. “I mean, we should be on a first-name basis if we’re going to work together.”

Well, this was getting off to a fortuitous start, I thought, smiling at her and taking the seat she gestured to. She smiled back, and this time I noticed the way the skin around her mouth seemed to strain with the effort. Clearly she hadn’t paid enough for that face-lift. I was a little grossed out, imagining the kind of procedures that had taken place to make her flesh move like that. It was the same way I felt whenever I looked at Michael Jackson nowadays. I couldn’t help but think of the scalpel, the blood, the suffering involved…

I shivered.

“Cold?” she asked.

“Oh, no, I’m…fine,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t realize the real source of my discomfort was her face. I wondered where the scars were. Stop looking! a little voice warned, and I focused instead on the little wrinkle that formed between her brows as she spoke. I guess no amount of surgery could get rid of that rebellious little piece of flesh.

“So how’re things at Rise and Shine? Good?” she started in.

“Good. Great, in fact,” I said.Then, realizing 1 was overstating things a bit, I continued, “Actually, I’ve been feeling like I need a change. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been performing on Rise and Shine for a full six months now. I don’t know if you’ve seen the show…” I began, praying she hadn’t and would see it as the solid TV acting experience I knew it wasn’t.

“I have seen it, actually. You’re quite…agile,” she said, flashing me that stretch of skin.

Gazing steadily at that sole wrinkle so as not to grimace, I replied, “Thanks. It has its moments.”

“It’s not a bad gig at that. I understand it won a children’s programming award?”

“Yes, for Best Children’s Fitness Program.” I neglected to mention that it was the only show on TV that could possibly be nominated for that category.

“And I understand there’s recently been some interest in it from a couple of networks?”

Gosh, I guess the word had gotten out already. “Yes, there has been some interest, according to my producer.”

Her eyebrows lifted now, and I might have even said she looked a bit…perky—if not for the way her forehead seemed to be threatening to pull her nose, chin and upper lip to brow level. “You realize that if a network does pick up the show, there could be quite a nice contract involved. With considerably more money.”

Now her words were scaring me more than her face was. “Actually, I was hoping, that is, I was looking to make a change. I’d like to continue to do television. Or even film. But I’m interested in a role that’s maybe…more diverse.”

Her skin slumped back into place and her mouth moved into what decidedly looked a frown. What was going on here? Did Viveca Withers actually think I wanted to make a career out of Rise and Shine? Chances were, she was just as tempted to take this contract—and her percentage—and put me on a course I wasn’t willing to go on just to make an easy killing. If that was the case, I needed to set the record straight.

“As an actor, I’ve been feeling a bit…unfulfilled in this role. I’d like to do something…something—” Something where I actually had lines other than Reach for the sky, hold your head high! Instead, I said, “Something more personally meaningful.”

ButViveca was no longer looking at me. She was fiddling a pen over a pad of paper on her desk. Her expression said, I’ve heard this a million times.

Still, I persevered. I wasn’t leaving here until I had some commitment from Viveca that she would guide me toward my next great thing. Or even my next thing, because I knew how few and far between moments of greatness came in this business. “I brought my head shots and my resume for you to review.”

Her head snapped up, and she looked at me once again as if I were suddenly a menace rather than a promising new client. “Yes, yes, you can leave them with me and I’ll take a look,” she said, her tone annoyed.

With trepidation, I pulled the folder from my bag and handed it to her.

I watched as she opened it, worried as she studied that fresh-faced younger woman I feared I no longer was. Felt a momentary happiness when she said, “You know, you look a bit like Marisa Tomei.” Then, looking up at me, she continued, “Of course, that’s only useful if you actually are Marisa Tomei.”

I felt my insides slump.

“Have you considered getting your nose done? Maybe a little thinning at the bridge, perhaps a little tilt up at the tip? It would make you look a little less…ethnic.”

I touched my nose in horror, as if she had laid the scalpel to my face. “I…I kinda like my nose the way it is.” So did my mother. In fact, she was so damn proud of the fact that I hadn’t wound up with my father’s hawklike beak, it was as if she’d sculpted it herself.

“Never mind. Okay, look, I’ll call you if anything comes up.” Now she sounded almost angry at me. Even that happy little wrinkle seemed to frown.

“So, that’s it. No…agreements to sign, or…anything?” I asked hopefully, knowing that whenever an agent committed to take on a client, there were papers to sign, commissions to be negotiated.

“Look, let’s just see how you fare at whatever auditions I line up for your type and we’ll go from there, okay?” Then, as if she

realized she was snapping at me for no reason except that I happened to like my nose better than she did, she stretched that skin into one last strained smile and said, “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

And as I left that little office, passed the would-be models in the waiting room and the bevy of photos on the wall, I knew the only thing that was likely to come up for me was two bites of a ham and cheese omelette and a Diet Coke.

I headed straight to Kirk’s afterward, maybe because his apartment was conveniently located a short walk away or maybe because I needed someone to validate my worthiness in the face of Viveca’s apparent rejection. He was there, of course. Working, of course. He seemed a bit disturbed to be interrupted so unexpectedly, but I didn’t care. I needed him now.