Chapter 18 Lainey
That evening, Hannah and I are in the bathroom, primping for dinner, when my agent texts. She says she’s about to call, and I need to pick up—it’s important.
The phone rings one second later. I answer it on speakerphone, so I can finish contouring my cheeks with a bronzing stick.
“Are you sitting down?” she asks me.
Hannah and I exchange a look in the mirror.
I freeze, then yell at her. “That’s a terrible question, Casey! This better be good news.”
“It is. It’s fantastic news.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and resume my contouring. “You’re lucky,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“You remember the big audition you just blew off?”
It’s clearly a rhetorical question considering the amount of shit she gave me for the decision.
“Vaguely,” I say as Hannah winces.
“Well, it turns out that your little hard-to-get maneuver worked. Because…” Casey pauses, keeping me in suspense. “They. Want. You.”
“They want me for what? Sales Associate Number 2?”
“No, Lainey. They want you for the lead! They want you to play the Pigeon Girl.”
Hannah gasps, then covers her mouth with both hands.
“Is that so?” I say, waiting for the catch.
“Yes. I just got off the phone with Brad.”
“Pitt?” Hannah whisper-shouts.
I shake my head.
“Lainey?” Casey says. “Did you hear me? You’re Brad’s first choice!”
Hannah grabs my forearm, gripping it tightly in excitement.
“Ow,” I say, pulling away from her.
“Lainey? Are you there?”
“Hmm. Yes. I’m here,” I say. “So who else passed on it?”
“Nobody. They asked you first.”
“Wow. That’s incredible,” I deadpan, then whistle. “They wanted me over Margot Robbie?”
“Margot Robbie is way too pretty for this role.”
“Why, thank you.” I smile.
“You know what I mean, Lainey. This character is not a blond bombshell. She’s a quirky brunette. You read the script, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say, though it was more of a quick skim than a read. I had been planning to do a deep dive on my flight to L.A. But then Hannah called.
“So if you actually read it, you should realize that Margot Robbie isn’t right for this role—”
“What about Issa Rae? Rose Byrne? Kristen Bell? Anna Kendrick? America Ferrara?” I rattle off. All comedic actors. All bigger names than I am.
“They’re too old to play this role. At thirty-two, you’re on the cusp of being too old yourself.”
“Again. Thank you.” I laugh.
“Hey. No point in sugarcoating it.”
“What about Emma Stone? We’re around the same age.”
“Jeez, Lainey. I don’t know. Maybe Emma was their first choice. Maybe she had a scheduling conflict. Maybe the script didn’t speak to her. Maybe she was too expensive for their budget. This is a small indie film. But it’s an amazing opportunity for you. Why are you trying to give this role away?”
“I’m not trying to give anything away. I’m just managing expectations,” I say. “And besides, I don’t like being lied to.”
“Well, then you’re in the wrong business, my friend.” Casey chuckles.
I sigh, conceding the point, then ask if they’ve made me an official offer.
“No. They wanted to check on your availability first.”
“And? What’s the timing?”
“Well, that’s the only small catch. They would need you soon.”
“How soon?”
“Next week.”
“Next week?”
“Yes, but only for two scenes. It’s, like, a four-day shoot. Five max. The rest of the filming is scheduled for August and September.”
“Well, then it’s a moot point. Next week doesn’t work for me,” I say.
Hannah looks at me, aghast, then whispers, “Yes! It does!”
“Why doesn’t it work for you?” Casey demands.
“Because I’m on a trip with my friends. I already told you that,” I say, as Tyson pops his head into the doorway.
He’s clearly been eavesdropping on our entire conversation; he looks as appalled as Hannah.
“I’m sure your friends will understand once you explain.”
As Tyson and Hannah start nodding, I close my eyes and turn my back on them, feeling my stubborn streak kicking in. “I’m sorry, Casey. Next week is out of the question,” I say, determined not to let work—any work—interfere with our time together.
Casey groans and calls me impossible.
I apologize again but hold firm.
After a long pause, Casey says, “Okay, Lainey. If that’s your decision, that’s your decision. But as your agent, I have a duty to tell you that I think you’re making a huge mistake. And as your friend, I can tell you that you’re a complete idiot—”
“It won’t be the first time,” I say. “Or the last.”
Casey lets out a loud, weary sigh, then says, “When do you return from your trip? I can see if they can push it back a bit.”
“Not for another couple of weeks. We’re in Capri now—as you know—and then we’re headed to Paris. We don’t even have a return flight booked.”
She sighs. “Okay. But could you at least ask your friends how they’d feel about a few days in Buenos Aires instead of Paris? They could come with you.”
“Hell, yes!” Tyson says right out. “I’d love to go to Argentina!”
Casey hears him and says, “See?”
Tyson grabs the phone from me and says, “The answer is yes, Casey.”
She laughs. “Thank God! Someone there has some sense!”
“Yes. Someone does,” Tyson says, smiling. “I’ll give the phone back to Lainey now, but please know that her entourage will be sure she gets to Argentina.”
The second I hang up with Casey, Hannah and Tyson both pile onto me, hugging me as hard as they can. Hannah’s enthusiasm is on brand, but Tyson’s reaction is surprisingly effusive.
“Are you sure about this?” I say, looking at Hannah. “I feel bad about Paris.”
“Are you kidding me?” she replies. “Paris can wait.”
“But you’ve already been waiting so long,” I say.
“Exactly. So what’s a little longer? Besides, we’re going to Buenos Aires!” Hannah says.
“Vamos, Argentina!” Tyson belts out, pumping his fist in the air.
I smile, then say, “Maybe we can still go to Paris after Argentina?”
“Maybe,” Hannah says. “But I think I’d be pushing my luck with Jada if we did that.”
I nod, as Tyson and Hannah both stare at me, grinning.
“Holy hell, Lainey,” Tyson says. “This is incredible.”
“I know! You’re going to be a movie star!” Hannah says.
“Yeah, right,” I say, waving them both off. “You heard her. It’s a small indie film.”
“Still. It’s a movie,” Hannah says.
“Yeah. You got the lead role in a goddamn movie.” Tyson smiles and shakes his head like he can’t believe it.
He proceeds to walk out of the bathroom, and a second later, I hear him on the phone, calling down to Alessandro. He shares my news and asks for a bottle of champagne to be sent to the room. He then asks if we can possibly change our reservation to something less casual. More celebratory.
After a long pause, Tyson says, “Yes. That’s perfect. I appreciate you, man.”
I walk into the bedroom, look at him, and say, “Who are you and what did you do with Tyson?”
He shrugs, giving me an “aw shucks” look. “I can’t help it,” he says. “I’m so proud.”
“Of little ol’ me?”
“Yes, you.” He grins.
I smile back at him, a feeling of warmth filling my chest. He’s always been supportive of my acting, but this time feels different—probably because it is. I can act blasé all I want to, but the three of us know that this is a way bigger deal than being part of a large ensemble cast on a Hulu show.
Hannah and I finish doing our makeup, then join Tyson on the balcony.
“So what did Alessandro say, anyway?” I ask.
“He said to congratulate you. He didn’t know you were an actor.”
“That’s sweet,” I say. “But I meant what did he say about dinner?”
“Oh. That. He got us into L’Olivo. In Anacapri. It has two Michelin stars.”
“We don’t need anything that fancy,” I say.
“Yeah, we do,” Tyson says. “This is big-time. Now, c’mon. Give us the full scoop.”
“I really don’t know much yet,” I say, trying to remember what Casey told me back when I thought I was a long shot for the part and that going to L.A. was probably a waste of my time. “It’s a romantic comedy. Called The Pigeon Girl.”
Tyson’s eyes light up. “Oh, very cool. I love pigeons.”
“And you made fun of Gus for loving dogs?” I say with a smirk.
“First of all, I didn’t make fun of him. I just told him to get the hell out of my room. Second of all, pigeons are actually smarter than dogs.”
“Yeah, right!” I laugh.
“True statement,” Tyson says, nodding. “I saw a documentary on them. They’re smart as shit. They pass the mirror test of self-recognition. They can differentiate letters of the alphabet, as well as human faces. One just sold for almost two million dollars in a bidding war.”
“Why would anyone spend that kind of money on a bird?” I ask.
“Pigeon racing. It’s a thing.”
“That’s nuts,” I say, as the reality of my news starts to sink in. I sit up a little straighter, feeling a wave of pride.
“And what does the Pigeon Girl do, exactly?” Tyson asks.
“The typical romantic comedy thing,” I say. “She falls in love, gets her heart broken, pieces her life back together. You know the drill.”
“Yes. But I mean—what does she do with pigeons?” Tyson asks. “Why is she called that? Does she train them? Raise them? Collect them?”
“I didn’t read the whole thing yet. But she has, like, one as a pet—and I think she has it deliver a message to this guy she likes—”
“See? That’s what I’m trying to tell you! They’re smart as shit!” Tyson says.
“Is it a happy ending?” Hannah asks.
Tyson immediately puts his hands over his ears, closes his eyes, and says, “Hey. No spoilers.”
“It’s a romantic comedy, Tyson,” I say. “There’s your big clue that the ending is happy.”
“Whatever. I like to be surprised.”
“Since when?” I ask.
“Since now,” he says.
“Who else is in it?” Hannah asks.
“I’m not sure. Casey mentioned Adam Driver a few weeks back, but I don’t know if they got him…. Oh! And Andrew McCarthy is my father.”
“Oh my gosh!” Hannah says. “Summer would be so happy! She loved Pretty in Pink!”
“And St. Elmo’s Fire.” I glance nervously at Tyson. If he’s fazed by Hannah’s mention of Summer, he hides it.
“Who’s the director?” he asks.
“Ed Burns…Oh, and I lied,” I say, smiling at Hannah. “My agent actually was talking about Brad Pitt.”
“Oh, my goodness! I knew it!” Hannah squeals.
“Wow,” Tyson says, shaking his head as he stares at me with such sweet sincerity and pride. “This is incredible, Lainey. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say, hit by a wave of déjà vu. The moment feels so familiar, yet I know it hasn’t happened before. I chalk it up to a dream.
A few minutes later, the champagne arrives. Tyson opens the bottle, then pours our glasses. As he raises his and says, “To our movie star,” I realize where I’ve seen the expression on his face.
It was the way he used to look at Summer during her races. I can so clearly picture him now, leaning over the chain-link fence encircling the track, yelling her name, and cheering for her. At cross-country meets, we could get closer to her, finding her at the finish line. Sometimes she’d be gripping her knees, catching her breath, her chest heaving, her cheeks bright red. Other times, she would be collapsed on the ground, flat on her back, covered with sweat and grass and dirt—and sometimes, when she got spiked, blood.
Regardless of her performance, Tyson always looked at Summer with pure respect and intense admiration.
“Thank you,” I say now, holding his gaze, then smiling at Hannah just before we all take our first sip of champagne.
As Tyson looks out over the horizon, I admire his profile. At some point I think you stop noticing the way your friends look. You just see them as who they are. But in this moment, he looks so handsome.
I feel a wave of affection for him—along with a deep appreciation for his friendship. I’m just so glad he’s in my life. That he and Hannah both are.
He suddenly turns and looks at me. “What?”
I shake my head and smile. “Nothing.”
“Then why are you giving me that look?” he asks, almost seeming self-conscious.
I lower my gaze and run with it. “Your jacket,” I say.
“What about it?”
“It’s wrinkled.”
“It’s linen,” he says, smoothing one lapel, then the other. “Linen can be a little wrinkled.”
“Hmm. Well, it’s a lot wrinkled. You might want to iron it or something.”
“You might want to mind your business,” he says.
“You might want to get a life.”
He stares at me a beat, shrugs, then says, “Why the fuck you ain’t eat it cold?”
I burst out laughing as Hannah looks at both of us, confused. “Eat what cold?” she asks.
“A ham sandwich,” I say, still laughing as Tyson beams back atme.
“Huh?” Hannah says.
I try to explain the viral video Tyson shared with me a few years back. It was an argument between two little boys in which one burns his sandwich and the other asks him why he didn’t just eat it cold.
“I still don’t get it,” Hannah says.
“It’s like the ‘Charlie bit me’ video,” I say. “You have to see it to get why it’s funny.”
“Oh,” she says, nodding.
“Trust me,” I say, smiling at Tyson and enjoying our inside joke. “It’s hilarious.”