Chapter 12
“I told you,” he says. “Intense.”
“You weren’t wrong,” I sigh, holding the MapQuest directions like the bygone artifact they are. I told him about the Sterling after-hours energy, my totally original theories about Britney Spears, and Sierra. “I wish you were there.”
He reaches over to squeeze my knee, bare in my denim skirt, and I jolt more than I intend to. Mostly because it doesn’t feel much like space, so the motion surprises me—but also because I might like it.
“I’m so excited for you,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I say with a swig of my Starbucks latte.
There was no oat milk or almond milk available on the menu, so I settled on soy.
Alternative milks had a long way to go, evidently.
Still, I savor the liquid, sweet on my tongue.
“It was already a late one, and then I stayed up most of the night studying character details and memorizing my lines.”
My phone dings with a text, and my heart leaps at seeing Sam Geoffrey. I can only assume he ended up as my agent, but I haven’t spoken to him in this life yet. I silently thank Mr. Fuentes.
Break a leg, kid. I believe in you.
“What are you smiling at?” Parker asks, eyeing me in his periphery.
I hold up my phone. “Sam. Sending good luck.”
“He’s such a good one.”
“I know.” Or least, I assume.
The car stops and my eyes rise.
We’re here.
“So this is it,” I breathe, gawking at the entrance to Palisade Studios, the ornate arch and iron gateway to dreams I long ago locked away. I never imagined I’d be here for an audition—a second audition—not in forty million years.
“This is it.”
The gates open. “Tell me about her,” says Parker. “Who is Pearl Newton?”
“Well, I’ll have to dye my hair red,” I say, thinking of my beautiful guardian angel.
“Which is fine.” I actually love the idea.
“Pearl is twenty-five years old. She is one of Adam Gafford’s three secretaries.
She is a shy and introverted, but high-performing, reverent, acutely observant, and extremely intelligent young woman.
Never a hair out of place. Not a word, either. ”
I flip to my page of notes. “The well-being and success of Gafford Advertising is of supreme importance to Pearl,” I continue, “as is supporting herself and her sick mother at home. Pearl is replacing a secretary who was fired for lazy work. Pearl”—I clutch at invisible pearls—“would sooner collapse than be slothful.”
Parker follows the signs to the parking lot for Building A, where I’m due in fifteen more minutes.
I can’t help but note how much easier it is to be on time—early, sprightly, fresh!
—without kids. I’m relishing it. No snacks, no fights, no moods to ride but my own.
I will not be late in this life. It’s my solemn vow.
Once we settle into a spot, I spin to look at Parker head-on. “Thank you. So much. For driving me. For everything.” For things I don’t even know, surely.
For taking care of Young Me.
“You’re welcome.” His mouth quirks. “I wanted to see it through with you.”
See it through feels like an ending, and the words send a pang to my gut. I look away, to the building, still so unsure what to make of us. “See you after?”
“See you after.”
I walk through the tan building’s double glass doors.
Immediately in a windowless waiting room, I take in the scene, suck in a breath.
Seated in chairs around the perimeter are girls who look exactly like me—and I don’t mean a little like me.
I mean, I’m facing my clones, and feel pressed to maybe retrace my steps and make sure this isn’t a horror movie.
My eyes count the ways. Same height, same build, same blonde hair, save a few redheads. It’s truly unreal. It’s like I’ve stepped into a level of the Lemmings computer game that I never knew existed.
I guess we’re all walking off this cliff together.
One of the redheads to my left takes her giant Christian Dior tote off the chair next to her. “You can sit here,” she says in a hush, reminding me of Kate Mara. “We just wait here for them to call our names.” She shrugs with a smile.
I take the seat with a nod. “Thank you so much. I appreciate it.”
“Are you nervous?” she asks quietly. I see a small tattoo of a butterfly on her wrist. “I’m Anna.”
“I’m Sutton,” I reply. “Have you ever made it this far in an audition for a network show?”
Her eyes shimmer. “Oh, yes. I have. I’ve been an extra on a lot of great shows. Desperate Housewives, Grey’s . . . and I made it to the final round for the pregnant girl on Lost.”
“Wow!” My brows dance. “Those are some credits.”
“I guess,” she says brightly. “Takes longer around here if you don’t take .
. . shortcuts. If you know what I mean.” She says the last part with an accusatory tenor and a vindictive eye roll—and I know exactly what she’s implying.
But even coming from a post-#MeToo world, I don’t want to believe it.
I bristle briefly, crumpling my papers.
We exchange niceties for a bit longer—Sterling and Spago (workplaces), North La Brea and South La Brea (neighborhoods), and Sam Geoffrey (agent sisters? how crazy!) until finally, they call my name.
“Sutton Lancaster? We’re ready for you,” says a spiky-gray-haired woman in cat-eye glasses, a gray sweatshirt, and jeans.
“Good luck!” whispers my new pal.
The room is dull and yellow save the bright lights beaming onto the obvious place where I’m meant to stand in front of the back wall.
I drop my purse by the door and smooth my electric-blue tank.
Wear something casual that you’d wear normally, said the memo.
I read in multiple places that blue tends to get cast the most, so why not?
I lift my eyes from my white Adidas sneakers.
Let’s do this.
We need this.
Seated at a standard six-foot banquet table—nothing glamorous, truly—are three individuals. The gray-spikes lady, a bald gentleman with a surfer’s tan, and . . .
I gulp.
For real?
It’s Brooks Ford himself, incandescent superstar, TV legend. Brooks Ford! Twenty-three-year-old me is dying. Forty-year-old me is dying! Brooks played Adam for the entire seven-season, record-breaking, Emmy-sweeping smash of a show that was Adam’s Apple.
Is he really here? Yes, my youthful perfect vision tells me so.
Gosh, he looks young. I do the math. He’s maybe forty? So we’re the same age! Kind of. But I swear in the future, at sixty, he looks just as good. He’s mostly in movies now, but Adam’s Apple shot him to stardom.
The heft of this moment falls on me. I’m here for a part on this major hit, set in the advertising world of the 1960s.
Don’t mess this up!
“I’m Donna, this is Hank, and that’s—well, you know.
He’s here for the chemistry test.” The woman throws a hand at me without looking up.
Brooks flashes me that world-famous sheet-white smile, that one dimple cutting into his olive complexion.
Dork that I am, I wave like a fan before taking my place, because you only live once.
Maybe twice.
Shoulders back, I begin. “I’m Sutton Lancaster with Sam Geoffrey, auditioning for the part of Pearl Newton. I’m twenty-three years old, five foot six, from Newport Beach, California.”
Donna clears her throat. “I see the way he looks at you,” she says. “You can’t tell me you don’t see it, too.”
“Who, Lance?” I put a hand on my chest.
“Not Lance. Don’t be silly.” Donna motions her head to Brooks. “Him. The only man who matters around here.”
I toss a glance at Brooks for effect. “Mr. Gafford?” I breathe.
“Yes, Mr. Gafford. He walks by your desk at least twelve times a day. Only two of them necessary.”
My gaze lands on Brooks a second time—and I feel it without a doubt. The current of stage chemistry. Electric. It’s there. I insist!
We smile at the same time.
“But we work so closely together. He would never,” I argue.
Donna shrugs. “He might.”
Brooks interjects with a clap. “Okay, that was amazing.”
Donna chops a hand in the air. “We’re not done, boss.”
“I’ve seen enough. Haven’t you? Next scene?” he asks like a giddy schoolboy.
Donna rolls her eyes. “Fine. Next scene. Pitch meeting for Coppertone.”
My cheeks flush hot when Brooks stands to join me mid-scene.
Is that normal? I have no reference. But I’m pulling out every one of my stops, our eyes meeting and brimming with possibility over the future of sunscreen.
I can practically feel the invisible conference table between us—our knees knocking under it too.
“What do you think, Pearl?” asks Brooks.
My blushing cheeks are no act.
“I like the red bathing suits,” I say, peering up at him. “They stand out brighter against the white sand.”
One of his eyebrows twitches—like it always did on the show—and I practically squeal. I’ve got him. At least, I think I do.
By the end of my audition, I’m contentedly spent, a girl who’s given her all. If I don’t get this part? Well, I will smile, satisfied, knowing it wasn’t because of Brooks Ford.
“You did good, Sutton Lancaster. Fantastic. You’re on to meet with Craig, the producer,” says Donna.
The name bounces around in my head. “Who?”
“The producer? Craig Coleman. Go through that door—second door on your left. Knock him dead.”
“Thank you so much.” I give a bow and shake everyone’s hand. “It was an honor.”
Only Brooks stands. “Trust me, the honor was ours,” he says. “We hope to see you again soon.”
Purse on my shoulder, I find the office. My pleased smile fades when I stare at the name on the door. The days of this week have been nothing if not a blur—but I recognize this name.
Yesterday.
The mean producer I turned away cold at Sterling.
Well, this should be a blast.
What a peach of a man, especially when he doesn’t get what he wants.
I silently promise to tuck that audition into my heart forever, no matter the outcome.
I knock.
“Come in.”
Seated at a large wooden desk is the same white-haired Craig with the bulbous nose, today in a golf shirt and jeans instead of a suit. I’m guessing this isn’t his permanent office, but there are movie posters, a mini fridge, and a couch. Enough to be depressingly comfortable.
“Close the door behind you.” His voice is garbled and throaty, like he has a mouth half-full of marshmallows, though nothing about him is sweet. Finally, he looks up. Scraggly brows climb his forehead. He drags his beady eyes down the length of me, way too slowly.
I offer him a thin smile.
“Gorgeous,” he says, standing. “Just gorgeous. Name?”
“Sutton,” I say. “Sutton Lancaster.”
“Spin around for me?”
I frown, but I do it.
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
I could do without the sound effects, Craig.
“Tell me why you want this role.”
Well, I’m totally broke and need the break, but that’s Hollywood, and I chose it.
I cough, considering, before speaking. “Mostly,” I begin honestly, “I want this role because I love Pearl. I connect to her. I see her potential. I know I could embody her and bring her the performance she deserves.”
He cackles. “Well, now! You’re the first one not to beg. To go on and on about the opportunity of a lifetime. Sycophants of this show line up by the hundreds.”
“Well, it’s that too. I do love the show. And I need the work. But you should pick who you think is best for the part.”
“How . . . mature.”
He peers at me, eyes glassy. He doesn’t remember me; I’m sure of it. Mostly, I’m grateful, but also sickened that to men like this, blondes in LA are disposable, dime a dozen. He peered in my eyes just yesterday and spewed saliva into my face.
I give a lift of my shoulders like I’ve never seen him before.
He sits on the corner of his desk now, and I take a step back toward the door.
Silent alarm bells are sounding. I don’t like the places his eyes keep landing, caressing, making me queasy. I cross my arms over my body—so tight and so young—thankful I’m here to protect her.
I glance at the door.
Does Donna know?
Does Brooks Ford?
Does anyone know how creepy Craig Coleman is?
Stop staring at me, you perv.
I’ve never heard of him before this week, honestly. Of the many powerful men who’ve come crashing down under accusations in recent years, I’ve never heard of this guy.
My heart sinks. I’ve never heard of so many guys. Which in turn meant so many girls.
“If you want this role, I can give it to you,” he says.
He licks his cracked lips.
Gross.
“Only if you think I deserve it,” I say, chin high.
He reaches for his belt buckle then, grabs at the gold, and begins to wiggle it. He actually wiggles it.
Bile rises in my gut as he plays with the leather strip and begins to pull.
He takes a step toward me.
I freeze.
“I think this could be mutually beneficial,” he suggests. “Don’t you?”
This can’t really be happening.
I close my eyes, and I breathe.
You’re not twenty-three.
You’ve lived half your life.
What would you do if this monster came for the twins?
I know exactly what I would do.
I’m a mom.
“Mutually beneficial, huh?” I take a step toward him. “You think so?”
He heaves a breath that stinks like cheese from across the room. “Oh, I know so. Come here, sugar.”
I walk toward him, pulse pounding overtime. “You like girls like me?” I purr, twirling my hair for good measure.
Two more steps.
Almost there.
“Come to Craig,” he says.
Seriously?
I close the gap, I hitch back one foot, and I do it.
I knee this pig in the nuts, for every last multimillion dollar he’s worth.
“Owwwww!” he screams. “You little . . .”
And then, I do it again.
And just to make sure I’ve really driven my point home, I release one more dropkick to his groin, on behalf of every woman in this town—every woman everywhere—who’s ever thought for one half second that she had to sell herself short.
Who’s thought she had to sell herself, period.
I grab my purse. “You’re all going down, you know that? Every single one of you. The reckoning is coming for you—and I’m going to make sure it happens a heck of a lot sooner than a decade from now.”
I rush out the door, wiping my nose, infuriated.
If I feel so strong, why am I crying?