Chapter 4 Beck, the Sporty One #3
Four weeks later, Beck sat in her office and read a text from a colleague.
You’re trending. But how? She had no social media presence, just a website.
But she was. The New York Post had an article on page six—My Time on the Casting Couch by Andy Ledfield, in which he, a young (ha!) actor new to the city, had been pressured into sex by “legendary” casting director Rebecca Morrow.
“I didn’t feel like I could say no,” Mr. Ledfield said.
“She held my career in her hands. You hear about how turning someone down gets you blacklisted. So I . . . I just went along.”
“You little worm,” she hissed. But yeah, the “legendary” was nice.
She should’ve had him come in to read and then just given him the classic rejection—They’re going in another direction. She’d been an idiot. And now Ezra wanted to settle, which yes, would be less expensive, but would also ruin her career forever.
She left Ezra’s office, opting to walk to her own, despite the ache in her right leg.
The beautiful summer day was wasted on her, the usually cheerful noise of Manhattan as comforting as the wails of a colicky baby.
If she went to trial, would her savings be wiped out in legal fees?
Ezra was an entertainment lawyer and a good one. In other words, very expensive.
She wished she had someone to call. Since the article had dropped, three of her colleagues had called to offer support and express outrage—but nothing in writing and no voicemails, of course.
Nothing traceable. Let me know what I can do, this will blow over, sorry you’re going through this, I have a meeting.
In other words, she was a hot dish of flesh-eating bacteria right now.
Beck knew the drill. Hollywood wouldn’t touch a suspected predator.
No, the days of looking the other way were gone.
Besides, she wasn’t a predator, she hastily reminded herself.
But people would stay on the sidelines till this was resolved.
It happened all the time. It infuriated Beck, not just because he was accusing her, but because by doing so, he sullied the legitimate claims. Too many people had been used in exchange for a part, a chance, an invitation. Andy was not one of them.
She got back to her office. She had an assistant, Rochelle, who lived in Tennessee and worked remotely and was, fortunately, paid by the hour.
Otherwise, she worked alone. Beck got some water, popped four Motrin—she shouldn’t have walked from Ezra’s office, because her leg was killing her now.
She checked her email, which was eerily scant.
A message from the assistant to the assistant to the fourth assistant director, saying they no longer needed her to work on their film and they’d be in touch if anything changed.
A message from a director she’d worked with twice, saying they’d been able to fill the part without her, but thanks anyway.
She rested her forehead on her hands. She did not feel good.
Her head ached, her leg throbbed and her intestines felt as if they were being strangled with fishing line.
She’d been in this business for twenty years and had a stellar reputation.
She made a decent living and had a pretty good retirement account.
But one accusation from an idiot man-child, and her career could be over, her future uncertain.
She had a bachelor’s degree in psychology.
That was it. In other words, she was qualified to do nothing else.
It would’ve been so nice to call someone.
Someone who would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she never would’ve done this, and would declare so publicly, standing by her side until the mess blew over.
But her industry pals would not risk being tainted by her if the allegations were never withdrawn.
That phrase, ride or die—she didn’t have those.
Once, she’d had three friends like that. Ironically, and tragically, the ride had turned into an actual die.
Her mother, now retired from the United States Army, would tell her she should’ve been smarter. Mom wouldn’t be wrong. With a sigh and her mother’s drill sergeant voice telling her to get her shit together, Beck straightened up and looked back at her computer.
A new email popped up on the screen, and with it a name she hadn’t seen in a quarter of a century. Surprise trickled down her spine like cold water.
Holy crap.
From: AudreyChevalierPorter@
To: Rebecca@, Micah@
Subject: Reunion weekend
Hello. I hope you are all doing well. It’s been a long time.
Beck, I’ve seen “casting by Rebecca Morrow, CSA” in a lot of TV shows and movies and looked you up.
Sounds like you’re very successful. And Micah, of course I know where you work.
I didn’t have an email for Jasmine, but I messaged her on Instagram (at least, I think it was her).
If you have her email, please forward this to her.
With our twenty-fifth reunion around the corner, I wondered if you would consider spending the weekend here, at Bitter Creek Farm, and seeing each other again.
Let me know if you can make it.
Best,
Audrey
Speak of the devil, and the devil appears.