Chapter 7 Miles
MILES
Shit.
Why did I write that?
Shit.
My cell phone rings. It’s her. It’s Aria calling me. I send it to voicemail. It’s a dick move, but I’d rather be a dick than be honest with her right now.
“Daddy!” Macy calls out to me from down the hall with an urgency that most parents would interpret as I’m on fire, but I happen to know that even if she were on fire right now, she’d still want to know if she gets to play Alice or not.
I had the nanny take her to the farmer’s market while I was in Malibu, but I guess they’re back already.
“What, honey?”
She runs into my study, almost out of breath. “Did you hear anything yet?!”
“Not yet, but I think a bunch of kids auditioned after you did yesterday. She probably has a lot of notes to go through.”
My daughter throws her head back and covers her face. “This is agony!”
She knows what agony means because when we watched the movie version of Into the Woods, they kept using that word in a song and I had to explain it to her.
I told her that’s how it feels when you really want something or someone that you can’t have.
It’s not a totally accurate definition in general, but it explained what the fairy-tale princes who were singing it meant. That was all she needed to know.
Here's what I know: Agony is having a daughter who wants something that she can’t have and you can’t seem to give it to her.
Agony is wanting to make sweet, angry love to a beautiful woman who is off-limits and also isn’t giving your daughter what she wants.
Agony is knowing that I may have just given that beautiful woman a clue as to how I really feel about her while also knowing that I can’t clarify what I meant. Ever.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know. It’s agony for me too, sweetheart. But I’m sure we’ll find out something today.”
“I hope so. Because I really want to start memorizing my lines.” Such confidence.
Every single time she auditions, she believes she has a chance. I hope she always feels that way about everything in life. It’s not arrogance or a sense of entitlement. She really believes in herself. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking.
I wish Aria felt that way about her singing career.
I wish I could tell her that.
I hear the buzz of a notification. Aria must have left a voicemail. So many women her age just hang up and wait for you to text or call back.
“I was thinking about it, and I just feel really, really good about my audition,” Macy tells me.
“I’m glad, honey. You did great.”
“I know!”
The nanny stands by the doorway, carrying two shopping bags full of fresh produce. “Macy, come help make a fruit salad, okay?”
She sighs. “Okay. But Daddy, you have to tell me as soon as you hear from Miss Cross, okay? Like, the exact second you find out.”
“Yes, of course. You’re the third person I’m going to tell, after your mom and E! News.”
“Not funny!” She swats at the air and huffs before stomping off to the kitchen.
“It is. It’s very funny.”
“Sorry, Mr. Brodie,” Nanny Cho says in a low voice.
“I tried to keep her busy with food, but she said she doesn’t want to gain weight if she gets the part.
” She widens her eyes and grimaces, indicating that she knows how unlikely it is that Macy will actually get the part.
“I got a pint of ice cream, just in case you hear something, you know…” She lowers her voice even more.
“Something that will make her sad. But I can make her favorite soup before I leave today too.”
“Thank you, Cho. I appreciate it. I think she might actually have a shot at this one.”
She blinks and nods once, giving me the okay sign before disappearing down the hall.
I shut the door and listen to the voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Aria. You don’t have to answer that question I just asked in the email, but here are my responses to yours: I will take a look at your neighbor’s guest house.
I appreciate it. I absolutely want you to pay me my usual rate for vocal coaching.
We don’t have a deal unless you agree to play the Cheshire Cat.
It’s mostly a speaking role, but there is one song, of course.
I will happily offer you three free vocal lessons within the next two weeks.
You will be expected to attend all evening and weekend rehearsals as well as all performances, of course.
My stage manager Chloe will email you a schedule.
I will most likely have to modify the Alice songs to accommodate Macy’s…
strengths. But…you have until three o’clock this afternoon to return my call, or I will be calling Stella’s mom to let her know that her daughter has been cast as Alice. ”
God dammit, she plays hardball.
That’s hot.
That is really hot.
I call her back immediately, before I have a chance to change my mind.
She answers by saying, “‘Cheshire Puss,’ she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider.’”
“I do not at all like the name. I won’t wear a cat costume. I will not get on all fours.”
“That’s what she said.”
“I don’t sing.”
“Oh, but you will. And you won’t be wearing a cat costume. You’ll wear a purple suit.”
“No.”
“Would you prefer to be shirtless?”
“I don’t wear purple.”
“But the Cheshire Cat does. And you won’t have to get on all fours. Your movement will suggest feline qualities.”
“I’m not agreeing to any of that.”
“Also, I want the Cheshire Cat to have an English accent.”
“Abso-bloody-lutely not.”
“I haven’t had much of an opportunity to see your teeth, since you don’t smile around me, but I’m assuming they’re white and polished, and they’d have to be for the scene where we turn on the black light when the Cheshire Cat disappears and only his grin is—
“Nope.”
“I bet you growl when you’re pleased, Mr. Brodie. Just like the Cheshire Cat…”
“I bet you purr when you’re excited.”
What?
Shit.
She purrs into the phone, and I am in so much trouble.
It’s just a negotiating tactic.
This isn’t flirting.
We aren’t flirting.
“So, do we have a deal, Miles?”
I can’t decide if I like it more when she calls me Miles or when she calls me Mr. Brodie, but I like it when she calls me anything at all and I want to make her purr again.
Fuck.
Pull it together.
“You tell me. Do we have a deal?”
“If you agree to play Cheshire Cat to the best of your ability, attend all rehearsals and performances, and take direction like a good little actor, then yes. We have a deal.”
“I need to know what time your rehearsals usually start on weekdays.”
“Well, the rest of the cast will rehearse in the afternoons, but I won’t expect you to attend until five thirty.”
“I work until at least six most days, and if I’m in the middle of a negotiation, I have to be reachable at all times.”
“My stage manager will fill in for you when you can’t make it, but I’ll need you there for at least three rehearsals a week and I will accommodate your schedule for our private coaching sessions.”
This woman will be the end of me, but she should be the beginning.
I comb my fingers through my hair. Vigorously. Too bad she can’t see the vein in my arm right now. “Listen, this can’t get back to Tyler. Okay?”
“I don’t talk to Tyler.”
“It can’t get back to Tyler. This town is small. People talk. Everyone is connected to someone. Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Don’t tell anyone that I’ve accepted your bribes and decided to cast a girl who can’t sing or dance or act in the lead of the musical I’m directing? Don’t worry about it.”
“Any of it. Don’t tell anyone about any of this.”
“What are you so nervous about? It’s not like Tyler’s psychotically possessive of me. It’s not like we’re dating or anything.”
“You and Tyler?”
“You and I.”
I feel a lump in my throat for some reason. “Obviously, you and I aren’t dating. But things can easily be misconstrued.”
“Oh, I agree. We certainly wouldn’t want anyone to think you offered to pay my rent at your neighbor’s guest house just so you could watch me swim in her pool.”
“You need to stop doing whatever it is you’re doing here.”
“Teasing? I’m teasing you, Mr. Brodie.”
“Teasing. Flirting. Just knock it off.”
“Sure thing. But I’m a nice, happy person, so I can’t stop being nice to you.”
“Yeah, we’ll see how nice and happy you are after a week of me not grinning or moving around like a cat.”
She purrs again. “‘Baby, I’m gonna treat you so nice you’re never gonna wanna let me go.’”
“What did I just say?”
“I was quoting Pretty Woman, Miles. Go ahead and give Macy the good news. I’ll send you the formal email in a minute, and you’ll be hearing from my stage manager soon.”
She hangs up before I can tell her I will let her go and that the only reason I can quote that movie is because my ex-wife made me watch it with her so many times when we were dating.
Before I can apologize for snapping at her.
Before I can admit that I always thought the Cheshire Cat was the most interesting character in that story and I always read his dialogue in an English accent when I read it to Macy.
Before I can thank her for casting my daughter in her first—and what could very well be her last—starring role.
I’m about to open the door to tell Macy the good news, but then I realize exactly how fucked I am, because when my family finds out about this…I will never, ever hear the end of it.