Chapter 14 Bianca
BIANCA
The audience goes wild.
I just finished up my third set of the evening. Rouge forced me back onto the stage after Harrison was kicked out. I was thankful for it, to be honest. I needed something to get Harrison off my mind.
The way he took me in the grand suite, not caring a lick that we had a silent witness to it all in the corner.
In a way, that turned me on even more.
I’ve never been particularly adventurous in bed, but he ignited something in me. A curiosity for something more, one that hasn’t existed in me since my NYC days.
I take a bow and gesture to my musicians.
Even without Harrison there, my third set was some of the best singing I’ve done in months.
It’s incredible how much my voice is affected by my emotions.
I can still deliver on a day when I’m not feeling good, but it’s like pulling teeth to get some of my notes—especially those in my upper-middle register—to shine.
Tonight I barely had to think about my technique. The music flowed through my body.
Of course, that’s not to say my focus was entirely on my performance.
As a rule, I never have my phone on me when I perform.
If anyone needs to get hold of me during a performance, they have to wait until my next break.
A small vibration—or God forbid, an actual ringtone—could take me out of the moment and keep me from giving a good show.
Normally, I have no problem parting with my phone. I use it far too much in my day-to-day life anyway. But tonight, I can’t help wondering if Harrison has texted me.
I passed my business card into his jacket pocket discreetly as Chet was escorting him out.
I had a boyfriend back in NYC who used to be a pickpocket, and he taught me a few tricks.
I haven’t had much use for them until tonight.
I didn’t want Rouge to know I wanted to get into contact with Harrison outside of the club.
But I may have been too inconspicuous. It’s entirely possible he hasn’t looked at it yet.
I’m being silly.
Or am I?
There’s something about Harrison O’Rourke. Something that I haven’t seen in a man since… Since possibly ever, if I’m being honest.
And it’s not just the fact that we were doing it like bunnies barely an hour ago.
I give the musicians one more gesture to take a bow and then I make my way off the stage. I shuffle into my dressing room, locking the door behind me.
I open my phone, and… Yes! A text from Harrison.
Loved getting to know you. Any chance you’re free for dinner sometime?
My heart soars.
I’m being silly, getting this worked up over a man. But I don’t care.
It’s been so long since I’ve actually felt something other than pain or shame—or an unpleasant combination of the two—from being with a man.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath. I have to play this cool. If he saw how I reacted to a simple text, he’d probably go running for the hills.
I open my calendar. Today is Friday the thirteenth. Funny. Usually an unlucky day—at least according to those who are superstitious—but my luck has shifted for the better.
Of course, it wasn’t a lucky day for Mr. Calloway.
Tomorrow is Saturday, the fourteenth. I’ll be back at the club singing, but I could meet Harrison earlier.
I type out a quick response, checking it three times before hitting send.
Loved meeting you, too. I have to be back at Aces at 8pm tomorrow eve. Maybe an early dinner before?
Sent. Delivered.
The three little dots bounce on the screen.
Do you like oysters?
I’ve never had them, but I’m always willing to try something new.
Don’t hate the sound of that. ;)
Very funny. But that sounds good to me. Do you have a place in mind?
Yeah. Brassica Rex. Off Lake and State. Not too far from where you need to be after.
Great. It’s a date. Excited to see you!
I almost added a heart emoji to the end of that last text, but again, I want to keep it cool. He already sent me a winky face. Don’t want to overindulge.
I let out a sudden giggle. Aren’t oysters supposed to be an aphrodisiac?
Not that I need any help being attracted to Harrison.
I hope he isn’t just seeing me as some sex toy. I want him to date me for me.
Either way, I’m looking forward to it.
Hell, I’m actually excited. For the first time in a while, I’m excited about something.
I can’t remember the last time I was this excited.
Except…
I can.
Oh, shit.
* * *
I’ve prepared a dance call, three sides, and two songs for this audition.
I even memorized the sides—excerpts from the script that I’ll read for the production team—and the songs to show them I mean business.
I took the songs to a vocal coach on the Upper West Side to make sure they were as polished as possible, and I rented an entire dance studio at Ripley-Grier and perfected the dance call until my feet were sore and calloused.
I’m here to knock this callback out of the damned park.
I walk into the building where the callbacks are being held and take the elevator up to the seventh floor—a set of rehearsal studios known as Snowdrop Spaces. The elevator doors open and I’m greeted by a barrage of thin, blond women my exact age and height.
My heart sinks. I don’t stand out at all.
Some of the women here are even wearing the exact same outfit as me—royal-blue blouses and black dress pants. Underneath mine, I’ve got on leggings and a sports bra for the dance call, and I can’t help but wonder how many of them came prepared the same way.
I take a seat on the few inches of bench space available and wait for the proctor to call my name.
One by one the girls file in, some walking out with smiles on their faces, and some departing with their tails between their legs.
I’ve never gotten a callback for Skylight Productions before, but I’ve heard that the casting team can be blunt in the audition room. I have no doubt that some of these girls were told that their goals of singing on Broadway are pipe dreams.
Finally… “Bianca Montrose?”
I stand up. “That’s me.”
The proctor gestures to the door without a hint of emotion on his face. “Right this way.”
He opens the door and I walk inside. Three people sit at a long table at one end of the room. At the other end is an accompanist at an upright piano.
The man in the middle I recognize. He’s in his late forties with a salt-and-pepper beard and horn-rimmed glasses. That’s Laurence Shippe, the head of Skylight Productions.
He smiles as I enter the room. “Wonderful to see you, Bianca.”
I nod. “Thank you for your time.”
He gestures to a thin woman in a tracksuit on his left. “This is Daisy O’Casey, our choreographer.” He then nods to a young man wearing a newsboy cap and a plaid scarf on his right. “And this is Adam Seeler, our director. The gentleman on the piano is Jake Whiffle.”
I nod to each of them. “Thank you, thank you.”
I’m saying “thank you” a lot. Can’t act like I’m too excited about this.
Mr. Shippe turns to me. “Would you like to start with your sides or your songs?”
I turn to the pianist. “My songs, if that works for you.”
Mr. Whiffle smiles. “Of course.”
I sing both audition cuts flawlessly. That extra time with the vocal coach definitely paid off. I can tell from the nods and smiles from the audition panel that they’re happy with what they hear.
Mr. Shippe shuffles a few sheets of paper on his table. “And now the sides.” He looks up at me. “Do you need a copy for yourself?”
I shake my head. “I’m off book.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Very impressive, Miss Montrose.”
The sides go off well. I’m acting my face off without overdoing it. The fact that I’m not holding a bunch of papers in my hand frees me, and I hope it’ll set me apart from the other women in the lobby.
“Excellent work, Miss Montrose,” Mr. Shippe says. “And now for the dance audition.” He gestures to a screen in the corner of the studio. “Do you need to change into something that moves a bit more easily?”
“Not a problem.” I quickly take my top off and shimmy out of my black pants to reveal my leggings and sports bra.
Mr. Shippe gazes a little too long on my boobs, but he is a man. “Whenever you’re ready, Jake will play you in.”
The dance combo isn’t too complex in the beginning.
A few jazz squares, a grape vine stage left and back, and lots of swaying my arms to the beat.
That’s just a warm-up, though. The second half is where the acrobatics start.
I’ve been taking ballet as long as I can remember, and those moves are easy for me.
I get through the first half without a hitch, but right as I’m about to stick the landing of my second pas de bourrée, a sharp pain shoots through my ankle and I fall to the floor.
The audition panel groans as I take a tumble, and I quickly scramble back to my feet. “Sorry, may I try that one again?”
Mr. Shippe checks his watch. “I’m afraid we’re at time, Miss Montrose.
We have to bring the next auditioner in.
” He shuffles through a few more papers on the table in front of him.
“Please wait out in the lobby. At the end of this group of auditioners, we’ll let you know if you can go home. Thank you.”
Fighting back tears, I gather my outer clothes from where I stripped and walk out of the room.
I did so well and then fucked it all up on the damned dance combo. The dance combo that I just performed a dozen times perfectly in the dance studio I rented.
This is it. I know they’re going to cut me. There’s no point in me even staying to hear my name read out loud by the director.
Another girl—thin and blonde, just like me, but with better tits and lips—walks in after me. Two more take their audition before Mr. Shippe comes out with a list of names.
“Thank you all for coming to today’s auditions. I realize how hard you’ve all worked on these callbacks, and I wish I could cast you all. The following are released.”
He rattles off a list of names, and one by one, women get to their feet, pack their things, and saunter out of the room.
I keep expecting to hear my name, but then the strangest thing happens.
I don’t.
“Thank you again for your time, ladies.” Mr. Shippe nods to the few girls who are still slowly making their way to the elevators. “Everyone else, hang tight. We’ll be bringing you back in.”
Oh, my God!
I made it to the next round!
This is the closest I’ve ever come to booking a Broadway show.
But…
I fucked up the dance.
I fell flat on my ass.
And from what I understand about Reflections, Lisa is a very dance-heavy role.
Why wasn’t I cut?
Something isn’t right about this.