Nine Women, One Dress(31)
Poor Austin Williams. He was an unknown, cast as Ms. Winston’s charming, rebellious husband. Yesterday he was let go for no apparent reason. At least that’s what the press said. All they knew was that he was to be replaced by his understudy for the run of the show. But the real story was obvious from the first dress rehearsal: the unknown Austin Williams was a star. You felt it the moment he stepped onstage; he owned it the minute he spoke his first line, and as each line left his lips you became more and more glued to him. Glued in such a way that you would find it hard to avert your eyes in case you were to miss one movement, one breath, one perfect utterance in that perfect southern drawl. The problem was, he wasn’t meant to be the star. Ms. Winston was. And when put next to this beautiful specimen of theatrical perfection, she was reduced to scenery. Faded right into the background. That is, until she spoke and her painfully inaccurate accent, waxing and waning like a crescent moon, shocked you into paying attention to her again, only making you more grateful to have Mr. Williams there to both save and steal the show. Clearly Ms. Winston was no dummy, and though everyone kept telling her how wonderful she was, she knew that next to Mr. Williams she would not survive.
The reason I knew this? The screaming from her dressing room was so loud that the dressers and I literally locked ourselves in the costume room. It lasted for days. The producers were on edge, the director unhinged, and the other actors took to hanging out in the costume room as well, since it was the farthest from the carnage. I even had Austin’s understudy, a sweet kid from Juilliard, gluing sequins. And then yesterday the main producer came asking for him. He looked like he’d just returned from war.
He said, “Kid, you’re on.”
The kid jumped up, knocking over a box of sequins. “On…for rehearsal?” he asked, confused.
“On for the run of the show. The Playbills are being reprinted as we speak.”
New York magazine agreed to reshoot the photo on a moment’s notice, and I called my very favorite saleswoman in all of Manhattan, Ruthie from Bloomingdale’s, to see if she could help me with the dress. She told me she thought she could, and I agreed that I would stop by the store tomorrow.
The next day when I walked in she came out from the back room to greet me with a smile and the Max Hammer. I knew she’d come through. I’ve known her almost the entire time she’s been here. You don’t see so many of these tried-and-true New Yorkers anymore, the hardcore no-nonsense type. I always love doing business with Ruthie.
“Here you go!” she said, handing me the dress. “It’s the last small. I nearly lost it to a customer right after I hung up with you yesterday. You may have to steam it out—it’s really made the rounds, this dress, seen a lot of action.” She laughed.
“So has the actress who’s wearing it, I’m told!”
She laughed harder. I was happy the dress wasn’t perfect. I hated being entrusted with a brand-new dress and then returning it in poor shape. I was confident that Jordana Winston would stretch it, stain it, and then leave it in a ball on the floor. Especially since she’d asked to keep it through the opening-night party.
“I’ll have it back to you early next week. Is that okay, Ruthie?”
“Absolutely,” she said, adding, “Break a leg, little black dress!”
CHAPTER 17
Me and My Beard
By Jeremy Madison, Movie Star
Hank planned to take care of the whole Albert-is-the-love-of-my-life media panic with another staged performance. He wasn’t even consulting Albert or me anymore, just barking orders. That night Albert and his boyfriend were to “bump into” paparazzi outside Nobu 57, where they would explain the entire misunderstanding and emphatically restate that Jeremy Madison is not gay. They would both joke about how they wished he were, for the sake of gay men everywhere. Hank felt that the world would believe it coming from two gay men. It would be a perfect Hank Haberman production.
I vowed to do my part for integrity by ensuring that at least the statement “Jeremy Madison could not be reached for comment” wouldn’t be a lie. I planned to be wheels up by four p.m. on my way solo to a private Wi-Fi-free beach without a reporter in sight. I figured I could use some alone time to think—until Natalie called to check on me, when I decided some Natalie time would be even better. Though I had sworn off rejection, I couldn’t resist inviting her to come along. I had fun with her, and she was the perfect distraction from everything I was trying to escape.
“Do you have any time off coming?” I asked.
“I do…but I’m supposed to put in for it in advance. Why?”
“I need a vacation. I want to lie on a beach for a few days. Want to come with?” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too desperate.
“Mmmm, beach sounds heavenly. When were you thinking?”
“Um…now?” I held my breath.
“Ha, I love it. Let me see if Tomás or Ruthie can cover for me. Give me ten minutes.”
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” I asked, laughing at her blind willingness. Maybe she does like me after all.
“I don’t care—all I need to know is beach. We’ll be like Thelma and Louise! Maybe we’ll even pick up Brad Pitt somewhere along the way!”
It was like a one-two punch: she saw me as her gal pal, and she wanted Brad Pitt. “Okay, call me back,” I somehow recovered enough to say.