Chapter 9
Herbal Tea Dates
I met Erica for coffee midweek, near the theatre so I could head to rehearsal after. It was a small shop tucked almost behind an apartment complex, and we took a seat outside where the outdoor space combined with the sounds of traffic created a protective bubble of privacy.
“I have some news that should make you happy,” Erica said once we’d gotten through all of our standard small talk.
I blew on my tea and tested its heat against my lips. For some reason this felt familiar, but I was too nervous about whatever Erica deemed good news that I let the thought go.
“There’s new buzz about the play thanks to the whole scandal,” Erica said, and I frowned.
“Maybe let’s not say thanks to.”
“Sure! Due to the scandal. The Times was much more amenable to a feature about you—about you in the show, really. They’ll send a journalist to interview you soon, and then follow up again when you’re in previews so that they can include rehearsal photos as well as performances.”
“The focus will be Hometown?” I asked. “Not Vind—not Plaid Thanksgiving?”
“You know that I can’t keep talk of a beloved series out of your press,” Erica said. “But, yes, the focus will be you, your role in this show, your love of the arts, blah blah. Though be wary of the whole Geoffrey Gordan thing. He hasn’t been officially charged with anything—”
“The New York Times piece was pretty well-sourced,” I said, and Erica frowned.
“That’s a great example of something not to say to Annie during your interview. Stay positive but remember that we can’t be sure where alliances are currently, so it’s good to be as neutral as possible.”
“I mean, it’s not an artistic disagreement or something,” I said, and Erica frowned further. I knew it was serious because she’d told me multiple times that she hated testing the limitations of her Dysport injections. “He bullied women into—”
“He allegedly bullied women,” she said. “So until that’s a surer thing, let’s just leave that kind of talk out of it, all right?
The producers have stressed that they have a lot resting on the future of this show, and no one knows whose future that is.
Which means it would be best if you didn’t gush too much about the female director either. ”
“You can just say director,” I grumbled, and then pretended I hadn’t said it or grumbled, two very off-brand actions for Professional Actress Tess Gardner.
Erica either hadn’t heard or hadn’t cared. “I already reached out to schedule your hair and makeup later this week so you’re set for photos at rehearsal. Though please dress—” She eyed my tank top, jeans, and broken-in ankle boots. “I’ll call Molly too.”
“No, I don’t need a stylist for a rehearsal outfit. I’ll wear newer jeans and shoes you won’t hate.”
“No one looks good in flats, Tess,” she said.
“You must realize that isn’t true,” I scoffed, though I knew I’d have to at least show up in a pair of wedge heels for the photographer.
It was awful, ungrateful even to resent my incredibly fortunate life, but when I wasn’t even allowed to pick out my own clothes I wanted to scream. “Thank you, though. This is perfect.”
“You’re also needed for a donor dinner next week,” Erica said. “You’ll be able to talk to old rich people for an entire meal about your love of the stage, smell of greasepaint, roar of the crowd, what have you.”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but I’d love to talk about theatre for that long,” I said. “And I know that realistically I’ll actually spend at least half that time posing like Princess Platinum so they can send selfies to their grandkids, and that’s also fine. I’m happy to do it.”
“I’m aware you’re under the impression that we don’t care about what you want,” Erica said. “But we all want the same thing, which is whatever’s best for you.”
I didn’t want to point out that it wasn’t that simple when we perhaps deeply disagreed on what was best for me.
“Gardner?”
Erica looked around like she might have to pull double duty as a publicist-slash-assassin, but I did my best to casually wave my hand.
“It’s someone I know,” I said, and turned to see Rebecca walking toward us.
Her dark hair gleamed under the morning sun, and her button-down was a dazzling white, casually tucked into a pair of cropped blue pants over her regular loafers.
Every day she got up and looked that good, looked exactly—I presumed—how she wanted to.
“How’d you find this place?” she asked with a grin.
“Celebrity Yelp, obviously.” I cracked up, though Erica looked weary from this already. “Erica, this is Rebecca Frisch, she’s directing—”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Erica stood to shake Rebecca’s hand. “Erica Strickland. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too.” Rebecca glanced at me. “I should grab my coffee and head over. Did you drive?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, instead of explaining the complex Los Angeles logistical problem Erica and I solved with my car stowed away in the DTA garage and an Uber Black ride with multiple stops.
“OK,” Rebecca said and headed inside with a casual wave.
Erica and I chatted a bit more about the logistics of my first interview later in the week, and I found myself standing up once Rebecca was back outside with her drink.
“I’ll walk over with you,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” Rebecca said. “It was nice to meet you, Erica.”
Erica shot me a look, as our meeting had not yet technically concluded, and also, walking, in Los Angeles?
“It was lovely to meet you, Rebecca,” Erica said. “Tess, I’ll give you a call later.”
“Perfect, I’ll be home by seven,” I said, and glanced at Rebecca. “I presume.”
“Gardner, I don’t know how long your commute is,” she said with a laugh, and I shrugged in Erica’s direction and caught up with Rebecca as best as I could, though a tall New Yorker’s natural speed was about double mine.
“Sorry,” she said, slowing down. “I’m getting used to the pace of this city. It does seem healthier. Apologies if I abruptly ended your coffee date. Herbal tea date.”
“Erica’s my publicist,” I said. “And that’s why the herbal tea tasted familiar. Do you think I have dates in the morning over herbal tea?”
“That sounds like the most Los Angeles sapphic date I can think of, to be honest,” she said, and I laughed.
“You aren’t wrong,” I said, as if I was a person who went on sapphic dates all of the time. Or ever. “I would never date Erica, though. She’s the meanest person on my team. Also very straight.”
“Yeah, obviously.” She took a sip of her iced espresso. “It’s hardly professional to give you shit during rehearsals, but we’re off-the-clock now, aren’t we?”
“I guess that we are.”
“It’s wild, huh,” she said, looking over at me as we walked west on Fourth Street toward Grand.
I felt like I’d swallowed everything to do with her and it had lodged in my throat. “What is?”
“You know,” she said with a shrug, looking less like the badass director and more like the girl I met back in time. “The two of us. Here.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking at my feet as I walked instead of making eye contact and perhaps revealing everything. It was so dangerous when you couldn’t even be sure of what everything entailed.
“I’m glad it’s you.” Her voice was sweet and soft around its edges, not a director leading a room but just Rebecca next to me again a million years later. “To be in this position and have you as the lead. I’m grateful.”
I kept my gaze fixed down, pulled out every acting method I’d ever studied, tried to form a response that kept my full truth to myself. The problem was that I didn’t know what my full truth even was these days. If I ever had.
“I’m grateful too,” I said, though, the words bubbling out of me almost without my permission. And, I realized, I was. No matter how much easier it would have been if I’d never seen Rebecca Frisch again, the thought was already impossible.
Kevin frowned when we reached the rehearsal room. “Are you going to blame Tess for distracting you again?”
“We ran into each other at Tilt.” Rebecca dug around in her bag and pulled out a pastry bag. “But look! It’s gluten-free!”
“Thanks,” he said, somehow taking the bag from her as he took out the muffin and bit into it. “It’s not terrible.”
“Small victories.” Rebecca grinned at me. “I was about to ask you if you had any gluten-free suggestions for poor celiac-riddled Kevin, but I have a feeling I already know what you’d suggest.”
Kevin tried to give us an exhausted expression as we laughed, but it was deeply undercut by him chomping on a muffin throughout, and then mumbling something, spraying crumbs on the floor, which only made us laugh more.
“Sorry, Kevin, whatever you’re saying, yes, let’s chat about today and tomorrow’s schedules,” Rebecca said, and I headed to the actors’ usual corner to wait for the rest of the company.
“Oh good,” Verne said, walking into the room, phones in their hands but not pointed outward yet, “you’re already here. Your content outperforms everyone else’s by … a lot. Can we film a few more things today?”
“Of course,” I said, getting up. “Now?”
“Now’s good,” they said in their standard monotone.
If Verne was ever sarcastic I’d never know.
Even when young people made me feel a thousand years old, though, I sort of loved feeling those generational differences.
Plus there was the way I felt around queer people, safe in a way I didn’t always understand.
If I kept it all so locked up, if I couldn’t risk being myself and keeping my life as it was—and all the people who depended on that life—why did it still bring me such joy to stand near them?