Chapter 5
After the read-through, Dídac watched Delatour and Laia exit the Reading Room out of the corner of his eye, even as he went through the motions of greeting and chatting with the other cast, some of whom he hadn’t seen literally for years.
His reading hadn’t gone brilliantly. He knew when his own work wasn’t up to scratch, and today it had sucked.
After that initial flare-up at his lateness, Delatour had studiously ignored him.
Dídac had enough technique and training not to need a director’s mollycoddling, but he was hating himself for his lateness today.
Having meant to be prepared and on time, instead, he had rolled up late and hung over.
What was worse was that among the other cast members, it had looked like he was playing his star’s privilege card, like “I can arrive late because I’m famous”.
He was working on loosening that perception—organizing to go to lunch with as many of the cast who were available—when his phone buzzed.
Lunch NOW in La Montiel. No one else. Urgent!
“Ostres! Sorry, guys, I’m not going to be able to do lunch after all. That was my agent. She needs to see me ASAP.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Carme Roig exclaimed. “And who is your agent these days, Didi? I need to change mine.”
Carme, always fishing for information, desperate to scale the ladder. Exactly as he’d been fresh out of drama school.
“Ah, she isn’t taking on anyone right now,” he parried. “But when she opens her books again, I’ll let you know. Promise.”
Making further quick excuses between his goodbye kisses to everyone, men and women, he extricated himself from the meeting, and clattered downstairs, slapping on his sunglasses as he left the theater.
Out on the street he turned left, away from the Ramblas, and began walking fast. He had a sinking feeling about this lunch date.
When she said urgent, he knew to take her seriously.
Kim Delatour. His productions were so beautiful, who wouldn’t want to work with him?
Yet the guy was cold as ice, and so arrogant he might have been born with a stick up his ass.
How had someone that cerebral ended up in a sector like the theater?
La Montiel was a local restaurant well away from Barcelona’s Raval district, over in Sant Antoni neighborhood, and so theoretically safe from any prying Teatre Romea eyes.
True to its name, the walls were plastered with photos of the mythical Spanish actress Sara Montiel.
Dídac entered and walked to the back, where there was a small, elegant dining room with comfortable, upholstered chairs.
Laia was already seated, perusing the menu.
If Dídac’s entrance caused a stir here, the other diners were too well-bred to acknowledge it.
“Did you get away OK?” Laia asked.
“I said I was meeting my agent. So what was so urgent?”
“Let’s order first. I’m starving. Working with that guy is relentless. He doesn’t stop!”
Dídac chose the salmorejo, a cold soup originally from Córdoba, in Andalusia, followed by the pasta al pesto, while Laia went for a quinoa salad, and then the tenderloin carpaccio. After they’d together watched the moustachioed blond waiter’s muscular ass recede, Dídac popped the question:
“So?”
“He’s talking about sacking an actor. No clues as to who. He has a zoom meeting lined up with Santi this afternoon.”
“Merda!”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“He can’t do it. It’s in my contract.”
“You gave him an easy strike, this morning, Didi. That’s two. After the way we messed up the other night, you should have been on your best behavior this morning.”
“We messed up? He was an asshole!”
“It was a misunderstanding, but we burst into his room drunk while he was trying to sleep off his jet lag. That was our bad. But it isn’t about blame. An unfortunate misunderstanding occurred, and we should all have been trying to fix it for the good of the show.”
“You sound like him.”
“Don’t attack me, eh? It’s my job to be on his side. I’m going out on a limb here to let you know the situation, so we can think about how to deal with this.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry. Thank you.”
Their starters arrived, and there was a pause while the waiter served them. They began to eat. Finally Laia said:
“Did you go out last night? You look like shit.”
“No, well… yes. It’s more like I never went home after Sant Joan. I’ve got to stop doing this!”
“Didi, you’re too famous now to be pulling these stunts. One of these nights someone’s going to recognize you and your career will be over. Look at what happened to George Michael. Not to mention turning up on the first day of a new production, hung over and totally unprepared.”
“I winged it.”
“You, me,… and Kim all know you were seriously under par in the read-through today.”
“You’re right.”
The waiter came to clear their plates, but this time neither Laia nor Dídac watched him. Dídac was staring down at his place, and she was watching him. They stayed that way until the second course arrived, then she said:
“Go home, prep the ass off yourself, get a good night’s sleep, come in an hour early tomorrow, warm up properly so you’re ready to go, and show that director that you’re the right actor for this part.
Between you and me, I don’t think Santi is going to let him have his way.
The budget is too tight on this one, and he needs you to bring in the TV audiences.
The runners-up for Anton’s character were Isard Muntaner and Joan Vila, and they just don’t have your clout.
But Dídac, you need to take things seriously, no more fuck-ups.
Don’t give him that third strike because he’ll take it. ”
Dídac nodded, thinking. They finished the meal virtually in silence.
After lunch, Laia needed to get back to the theater.
The fact the director was working from his hotel room gave her a vital window to catch up on the rest of her work, because when Kim was in the theater, she was expected to stick by him like his shadow.
Dídac called her a taxi from his account, but decided not to share it.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going out on the tiles again. But I need to walk and think.”
He turned his steps toward Avinguda Paral·lel, and from there he wandered down toward the port.
The port area and Maremagnum were, as ever, milling with tourists, so he avoided them, walking instead in the direction of the industrial port, and that huge white arc of a bridge that crossed the port to the breakwater.
Soon he was puffing up the great rise of its back, from where he got an impressive view looking back at Barcelona from the sea.
Coming down the other side led him out onto an isolated stretch of breakwater, abandoned except for half a dozen anglers spaced irregularly along the waterfront.
Dídac found a spot on his own, where he could sit and gaze out at the Mediterranean.
TV fame had forced him to seek out little-known spots around Barcelona, where he could enjoy the outdoors without being recognized.
And however famous you were, no one bothered you out here.
You could stare out at the wide expanse of water to your heart’s content, knowing there was nothing between you and Sardinia, except maybe one of the Balearic Islands.
Laia was right. The anonymous sex in sordid places had to stop.
He had been a young aspiring actor just starting drama school when the George Michael scandal had broke.
He couldn’t remember all the details. Had the pop star been picked up for “cottaging”—having sex in public toilets—or for having sex with a prostitute in a car?
No, the second one had been Hugh Grant. Whatever.
People with public careers can’t be sluts.
It’s just that life gets so damn lonely.
You can’t dedicate your whole life to your career.
At some point, you come home, drunk or sober, to your empty apartment, and wish there was someone waiting for you.
You want someone to lie in bed with on Sundays.
Coffee and croissants, and reading the reviews.
Someone you could present to your family might be a big ask, but at least someone to cook with, to lie on the sofa with, watching trashy movies?
Was that really too much for the tooth fairy?
Five billion, or maybe it was eight billion people in the world, and he had to be alone?
His looks were a blessing, a privilege, he knew that.
Along with his acting talent, they had given him his career, and money, prestige, renown.
But they also scared people away, the right people perhaps, while acting like a magnet for the wrong ones.
Those, he had endured in spades. Since his fame had grown, naturally there had been no one.
You couldn’t trust people. But back when he was at drama school, he’d had a few flings, none of whom he’d allowed to get close.
He’d always thought there’d be time. And then suddenly, here he was, trapped, alone and lonely in this golden cage.
So was he about to be sacked? That would be a first. Rumors getting about that an actor was difficult to work with could kill one’s career.
Unless you were Jennifer Lopez, and even then.
But he’d definitely been sloppy in approaching this production.
The truth was he loved Kim Delatour’s work.
The man had been his idol. The director had an eye for the aesthetic that made you weep when watching his shows, a way of conveying emotions in a physical, almost dancerly style.
That was what had attracted Dídac to working with him, as his own actorly style was thoroughly physical and theatrical, a way of working he hadn’t been able to explore since drama school, for which TV and film work—despite all the fame and money they might bring—were no outlet.
His nerves at meeting and working with this theatrical Goliath had just been too much.
And then the guy had turned out to be such an asshole.
To be sacked by some merda whom he found so infuriating made his blood boil.
Just so as not to give this prick the pleasure, he was determined to turn himself around, show him his best work.
He would make his sacking by this director the man’s worst mistake ever.
Time to put away the knives, and work. He’d stop off at the gym on the way home, and do a light work-out, not too hard, just to shake off the last vestiges of this hangover.
Then, home to prepare, prepare, prepare.
To know this script better than the director himself.
Tomorrow morning, he’d show Kim Delatour who Dídac Amat truly was.