Skinnydipping (21 page)

“Mushrooms and asparagus, please,” I said, relieved that he’d ordered, and delighted that somehow, he’d known exactly what I wanted, even better than I did.

“Mushrooms and asparagus it is, then,” he said.

We talked and laughed and drank our martinis and ordered another round and a bottle of wine. I told him about my two jobs and the crazy things Carol Kameron made me do—a complete breach of the confidentiality agreement I’d signed with her, but after a couple of drinks, I managed to forget I’d ever signed it. Vince regaled me with hilarious stories about the network and
Hollywood & Highland
, and why the pilot for
Ocean Avenue
didn’t get picked up.

My steak was huge, and delicious, and I could eat only about a third of it, so I had the waitress wrap up the rest to take home. Muffin could have a little treat in her dinner. Vince held my hand under the table and occasionally rubbed my thigh teasingly; throughout dinner he edged closer and closer to me in the leather booth until we were shoulder to shoulder and leaning into each other like honeymooners. The martinis had definitely gone to my head—I was eating mushrooms like they were French fries, and when Vince ordered a slice of New York cheesecake for us to split, I inhaled almost the whole thing while he watched in amusement. “I like a girl with a good appetite,” he said. “It bodes well for her appetite in … other areas.” I just smiled. With Vince, being a big eater seemed like a source of pride.

After dinner, Vince took me to a little out-of-the-way bar he said he liked. He ordered a port and I ordered a Sambuca over ice, and we
flirted furiously until finally we had to get out of there. We ended up making out in the backseat of his Town Car again, but this time, he didn’t show any sign of losing steam, or asking the driver to take me home. Whatever they’d done to him at that spa, I liked it.

“Darling,” he whispered in my ear, after kissing my neck. “Do you want to come over to my place? I’ve got a bottle of champagne with your name on it.”

Like I was going to say no to that.

Vince’s driver took me home
the next day, late morning. Perry was at the kitchen table drinking coffee when I walked in. She looked at me, in my red dress and smudged mascara and mussed-up hair, humming happily. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

I just smiled.

“So, are we going down this road again?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said. And I really didn’t. But I did know we’d had amazing sex, and he’d been sweet and attentive and generous and gentle, and then I’d fallen asleep in his arms. “But I think this is it. It feels different this time.”

Perry rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Here we go,” she said.

chapter fifteen

W
ith about thirty other girls, Perry and I sat together in a long row of chairs against a wall outside the audition room in a studio space in Burbank. I was nervous, but Perry wasn’t auditioning, so for her, the pressure was off. Her job was going so well, she’d decided to take a break from acting, or maybe even quit. She was just there for moral support.

“Stop fidgeting,” she whispered. “You’ll be fine.”

It was our policy never to show weakness in front of the other candidates at an audition.

The girl next to Perry looked at her anxiously, then looked at me, then turned away. She was fidgeting, too.

I clutched the sides in my hand and looked them over again and again. I’d at least learned by now that I didn’t need to memorize them. I did need to practice them, and most of all,
feel
them.
Be
the character. I thought I’d gotten a lot better. Even the little bit I’d absorbed from Meisenburg before quitting had probably helped, as had the number of auditions I’d done. I was so much more experienced now than when I’d first started auditioning.

“This part is perfect for me,” I whispered in Perry’s ear, trying to convince myself more than her. “It’s the perfect role to break into film.

It’s a small part, but it’s really interesting, and smart, and potentially memorable. It could be one of those ‘steal the film’ kinds of parts, don’t you think?”

Perry just shrugged. “Whatever.” She was clearly past all this.

An older woman with a clipboard came out of the audition room and called a name. The girl next to Perry jumped up. I noticed her hands were shaking slightly. She steadied herself and went into the lion’s den.

I practiced the lines in my head. The sides suggested a script that was a lot more intelligent and well written than the script I’d auditioned with for
Ocean Avenue
, not to mention a thousand other TV shows and indie films I’d seen. This was a part I wouldn’t be embarrassed about. I wanted it so badly, I could taste it. Now that I was officially seeing Vince Beck—or at least, it felt official—I wanted to do something more significant. I
had
to get this part. I wanted to deserve him.

The girl who had been sitting next to Perry came out, and everyone looked up, to see whether she looked elated, or disappointed, or anything else that would give us a clue, but she wasn’t giving anything away. I stared at the lines again. The words were beginning to blur.
Focus, Faith. This is important. Call up every tool you’ve got inside. Be this girl. You can do it. Reel it in. Be the classiest version of yourself. Make it count, before your faith runs out.

The woman with the clipboard came out again. My heart started beating faster. “Faith Brightstone,” she said. She looked around, then looked at Perry. “I don’t have you on my list. Did you want to audition, too?”

“Oh no,” Perry said, “I’m just here for moral support.”

The woman looked at Perry for a moment. “You can come in with your friend,” she said.

“Come in with me!” I said. The idea of having Perry in there made the whole audition seem less intimidating, since I’d spent the last few nights reading the lines with her already.

Perry shrugged. “I guess so,” she said.

“Here goes everything,” I said. Perry patted my shoulder and I stood up. We followed the woman into the room, where two middle-aged men and a younger woman sat in chairs. The director smiled at me.

“What we’re looking for here is a smart, sarcastic, highly educated girl—a painter who cares more about her art than her commercial success. Sarah is self-directed. She sees how scattered her best friend, the lead, can be, and she sees the bad decisions she makes, and provides somewhat of a cynical yet compassionate running commentary about it throughout the film—her opinions are always there in the background, but nobody ever takes her advice.”

“Got it,” I said. “Sounds familiar.” I smiled, hoping to win them over, although the part of the lead sounded more like me.
Just pretend you’re your own best friend, giving yourself advice
, I thought. But maybe they’d hear me read, and they’d give me the lead instead of the supporting role! Maybe I’d be even better for the part than whatever starlet they’d already cast. I could dream.

“Hey, you know what? You’re closer in age to the other character than I am,” said one of the women holding a script to Perry. “Why don’t you go ahead and read the other part?”

“I guess I could,” Perry said. The woman handed her a script. It seemed strange to me, but I shrugged it off. Perry and I already had a rhythm going, reading these lines together. I’d been making her help me with it all weekend. I’d be better with her reading the lines.

“Are you ready?” the director said to me.

“Sure.” I cleared my throat, straightened my shoulders, and tried to channel “intellectual girl.” “Art girl.” “Smart girl.” The director motioned to Perry to begin.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Perry said. “I feel like I’m everywhere at once, and I want to connect with people but it’s like they don’t even see me. It’s like I’m standing right there in front of people, and they look right through me, and I want to scream, ‘Hey, I’m right here!’”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?” I said.

“I see … nothing,” Perry said.

“They see what you see,” I said. “If you can’t find yourself in your own mirror, you can’t expect anybody else to find you. I don’t think this is the time to get involved in another relationship. Why don’t you take some time to figure out who you are, on your own terms? Stop trying to be what everybody else wants. What do
you
want?”

As I read the lines, I began to feel it—I began to understand what it meant to become the character. The words came out of me so naturally, but I wasn’t watching myself, the way I usually did, stuck in my head. I was right there. I
was
Sarah.

“I don’t know what I want!” Perry said. “I don’t know what I want from myself, but I do know that I want him.”

“You’re not going to find your answers from him,” I said, shaking my head, thinking instantly of Vince Beck. “He’s no savior. He’s a man-child and he just wants to play with you.”

“But I love him!” Perry whined.

“You’re going to do what you’re going to do anyway,” I said. “I don’t know why you’re asking me for advice. Go ahead. Fall in love again. You’re just running around the same track you’ve been around a hundred times before, but what do I know? I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

“Thank you,” said the director. “That was very good. But, do you mind switching parts? I’d like to see how it sounds the other way.”

I’d nailed it. I could feel it. And now they wanted to hear more. Maybe they really were considering me for the lead! “Sure,” I said. “I’d love to give it a try.”

In the car on the way home, neither of us said anything. We were both occupied with our own thoughts, but I was feeling hopeful and excited. Something had happened to me in there. Something had shifted in my mind. I kept hearing the words from the audition, the words I’d said to myself:
If you can’t find yourself in your own mirror, you can’t expect anybody else to find you.
And,
you’re just running around the same track you’ve been around a hundred times before.

When we got home, the answering machine light was flashing. Perry pushed the button. “Hi, Faith? This is John Wallace, you auditioned for us today at Studio Z.” My heart leapt.

“This is a bit awkward, but we’re actually trying to track down your friend Perry,” the voice continued. “We understand she wasn’t really auditioning today, officially, but we really felt like she
was
Sarah. We liked your audition, too, but we just didn’t think you were quite right for the part. You’re very talented, obviously. But we were hoping you could put us in touch with Perry? We would really appreciate it. Just have her call us at this number.”

The director left the number, and the message clicked off.

Perry and I stared at each other for a moment. Then she burst into tears.

“Hey!” I said, feeling like I should comfort her, and trying to swallow my anger and disappointment. “Hey, don’t cry, this is great news! I mean, not for
me
, but …”

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed. “I know
you
wanted it, and I didn’t even want it. And now …” She began to cry harder. “Now I
want it.
”

“Maybe that’s why you got it,” I said, patting her on the back. “Isn’t that the way it always goes? When you want it, you don’t get it. When you don’t want it, you get it. Scared money never wins.” But I hadn’t been scared. I’d been
good.
That’s what was really beginning to sour me on this whole business. Even when you nail it, you might not get it, and that sucked.

She hiccuped. “I still love acting,” she said, miserably.

“Of course you do,” I said, trying to hide my devastation. “This is happy! You did it! You’re going to be in a real movie!”

“If I can work it out with my job,” she said, through her tears. “But I just feel so … awful for”—she gulped and sniffled—“for
you.
”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” I said, with resignation. “I’ll be just fine. I’m a survivor.”

I could see the police
cars from two blocks away. Three of them were parked in front of the Kamerons’ house, lights flashing. I parked on the street in front of the neighbor’s house and walked up the drive.
I wondered if they would stop me, but nobody did. I knocked on the door, and the maid answered.