In Her Spotlight (Out in Hollywood #4)

Chapter 1

Princess Platinum and the Supposed Wunderkind

There was no getting around it. I wasn’t the kind of famous I’d set out to be.

Obviously I didn’t want to feel this way.

I practiced gratefulness every morning, post-yoga, for god’s sake!

When you thanked the universe for the breath you drew, the stars over your head, the good fortune that had found you, it didn’t seem appropriate for a small voice in the back of your head to whisper that it didn’t matter how much money you made, how many projects you booked, how many action figures had been crafted in your image—no one respected you as an actor.

But that was changing today. Or, more accurately, in five weeks, when Hometown preview performances began.

It really had to, because otherwise I was out of ideas.

My phone rang as I zipped down the 110 Freeway toward my destiny, as much as anyone zipped down the 110 at nine thirty in the morning. I glanced at the dash display, where my agent’s name popped up over the GPS, and decided to hit accept.

“Hi, Joyce,” I said, slipping into the next lane to speed past a sluggish SUV. “I assume that thirty minutes before my first rehearsal is finally too late for you to suggest again that I drop out to do some car chase movie, so what’s up?”

My agent burst into her trademark spiky no-bullshit laugh. “You know me too well, Tess. And it turns out that thirty minutes out may not be too late after all.”

I checked my side mirror before merging to make my way around a slow line of cars. Traffic in Los Angeles was as bad as everyone said, but I prided myself on getting around it as much as possible.

“There’s going to be a piece in The New York Times later this week about Geoffrey Gordan,” Joyce continued. “Given its … revelations, he’s stepped down from directing this production of Hometown. Supposedly. I believe Downtown Theatre Association asked for his resignation. Nonetheless, he’s out.”

“Wait,” I said, Joyce’s words coming faster than I could process them. “Geoffrey Gordan has revelations? Like … MeToo revelations?”

“Yes,” Joyce said, with a sigh. “No specifics yet, but that appears to be the situation.”

My breath was tight in my chest, and my skin pulsed hot like I’d been stung.

Last year on a round of publicity in New York, I’d used my only night off to see the Geoffrey Gordan–directed revival of Our Town, a production that swelled with the play’s big ideas on mortality and community.

Later, from my hotel room, still a bit weepy, I’d emailed my team with a message to be forwarded to the director.

In it I asked if there was any chance I could read for his next show.

I missed the stage, missed that relationship with the audience, missed how I felt standing backstage when places had been called and all the possibility in the world swirled around us.

In the light of the next morning I’d been embarrassed about my display of emotion to an email’s worth of industry executives, and I’d been sure their promises to make contact with Geoffrey Gordan had been emptier than my tear ducts during the curtain call of Our Town.

A few months ago, though, the offer arrived: the lead in the world premiere of a new play, to be developed in LA, directed by Geoffrey Gordan.

I’d never said yes to anything so quickly in my life.

“I understand that Gordan’s involvement was the key draw for you,” Joyce said. “Your theatrical agent and I chatted, and this should allow you to back out.”

“Is the play canceled?” I asked.

“It isn’t, no,” Joyce said. “It sounds like there was too much money to be lost otherwise, so they’re bringing in some apparent wunderkind from New York to shore up the potential losses.”

I frowned. “Do you know who?”

“Despite that the team must have had these changes in the works for at least a few days, no. It would be perfectly acceptable if you—”

I merged again to leave everyone slower far behind me. “I’m not sure it sends a good message for me to leave after a sexual harasser steps down.”

“Hmmm,” Joyce said in lieu of agreeing with me.

“Joyce, I know you want me in that car-chase project with whatever Chris they’re hiring,” I said, “but I’m doing this for me. And then you can talk to me about at least one bad but expensive gig after the show closes, OK?”

“I never said bad,” Joyce said. “Only expensive.”

“Get me a movie where I get to drive the car,” I said, “instead of screaming from the passenger seat. I’ll be so much more amenable.”

Joyce chuckled. “Before I let you go, Erica wanted me to remind you about the LA Times photoshoot this morning, which is still happening—the theatre seems eager to put a happy spin on this mess. Your talking points should be in your inbox, and Erica will be on-site.”

“Sure, and, yes, the team was at my house this morning.” Hair, makeup, styling, all to guarantee I looked like Professional Actress Tess Gardner, whose shoulder-length blonde-ish waves were always tamed into evenness, whose small frame would look only more delicate in the cheerful pastels and neutrals to signify she was a regular girl in her late-early-thirties who might muscle up and fight bad guys on the big screen but was sweet and demure everywhere else, whose green eyes shimmered like she had a secret but certainly not one that would undo her entire life.

“But, again, if any part of you feels that—”

“I’m almost there,” I said. “Can I let you go?”

“Of course. But feel free to make the choices you need to make. If the new director isn’t up to your standards, there’s nothing wrong with reevaluating this opportunity.”

I said goodbye to Joyce and pressed the volume button on the steering wheel enough times that the car vibrated with the Taylor Swift track, leaving as little room as possible for my own thoughts.

The theatre complex wasn’t far off the freeway, but at twenty ’til ten, LA was still awash in rush-hour traffic.

I prized myself on how well I could weave in and out of it, consistently shaving minutes off Waze’s ETA, but there was no escaping it altogether.

When I filmed locally, even though the locations were far-flung—as far as Los Angeles geography was concerned, Playa Vista and Santa Clarita and Pomona—call times were usually so early that traffic wasn’t a concern.

Days were so long that the worst of it was over by the time I was back on the road and on my way home.

Theatre, though, had me right in the thick of it, the kind of “normal” schedule I couldn’t remember working.

Joyce and my theatrical agent had, of course, negotiated for everything they could get me, including car service, but I’d turned it down.

Often the only stretches of time when I still felt like myself were the ones spent behind the wheel.

Now, even, with the Geoffrey Gordan news rattling through me, I still knew what I was capable of.

There was no reason to abandon ship! If the theatre had brought in this supposed wunderkind, who was I to worry?

Putting on a show was at its heart about doing a big impossible make-believe thing together.

I flashed my parking pass at the attendant as I pulled off of Grand Avenue into the Downtown Theatre Association’s parking garage and lifted my foot from the brake—only to slam it down again when the gate didn’t lift.

“I have to scan it,” the attendant said in a tone drenched with exhaustion.

“Sorry,” I said, handing it over and beaming at him. “It’s been so long since I’ve worked in the theatre. On sets they usually—”

“I apologize,” he said quickly, a look of recognition washing over his face. “Have a good morning, Ms. Gardner.”

BEEP. The gate lifted and the attendant averted his gaze as he handed my pass back to me.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “And have a great day!”

The truth was that I was actually a very friendly person.

When you grew up an extrovert in the middle of nowhere, you learned to capitalize on encounters—any encounters—with other people.

As a kid I chatted with the mailman, the cashiers at the gas station-slash-convenience store down the hill from our property, the distant neighbors whenever we crossed paths.

Now, though, it wasn’t only about feeding my soul with tiny connections as often as I could.

One cranky word to a drive-thru barista or limo driver or parking attendant, and that might be it.

Just that fast, Tess Gardner was hardly America’s Girl Next Door, Tess Gardner was an ungrateful spoiled bitch.

I waved and pulled through to find the company parking section.

Rehearsal was still over fifteen minutes away, and given LA’s propensity for lateness, I assumed I’d be the first one to arrive.

But I slid in between a sensible Honda Accord and a sensible Subaru Crosstrek, both of which looked even more sensible once my bright green 911 Carrera was between them.

I’d had a vague understanding of what a Porsche looked like to me before I owned one.

Too showy? Almost obnoxious? But it had been fleeting.

It was my dream car. It handled curves effortlessly, the engine ran as smooth as a cat’s purr, and the road thrummed underneath like the Porsche and I were one.

I was not here to be Just A Regular Girl anyway.

I was amongst my people—theatre people. It wasn’t time to tone down or be less myself. Today was about coming home.

DTA’s complex was home to three theatres: the Goodwin, an ornate opera house; the Rydell, a small and intimate stage that frequently developed new work; and the Jaffe, a theatre large enough for Broadway tours and productions of big, new shows.

My time on the stage had been far removed from a world like this, and despite my current career I could hardly believe I’d be performing at a two-thousand-person-capacity theatre, eight shows a week, for six weeks.