Over Her Dead Body(55)
I gave my plan a fifty-fifty chance of success. Of course I was rooting against this sad little actress remaining my benefactor. I was tired of my medical purgatory. I wanted to see the great pyramids of Egypt, the northern lights in Finnish Lapland, Der Rosenkavalier in Vienna while I still had teeth and could wipe my own behind. I hadn’t hustled my whole life to slow rot in a chair. So this was my last-ditch effort. I’d done something similar when they were children, with jars of marbles. Telling them “You’re not getting your allowance unless . . .” was a lot less effective than “These marbles represent your allowance. I’m taking them away if you don’t . . .” It worked particularly well with Winnie: she got into Stanford because of those marbles. So perhaps a hearty dose of negative reinforcement was once again the ticket. If not, at least I’d get a good show. Not quite Der Rosenkavalier, but high drama nonetheless.
“OK,” my lawyer said, somewhat glumly, as if he had a vested interest in me being a pushover. “I’ll draft these changes and send them over for your review next week.”
“No,” I said. “I need it done today. Come to the house. How’s one o’clock? I’ll prepare lunch.”
There was a long pause. I knew what was coming.
“Is everything OK, Louisa?”
And I smiled to myself. “Never better.” Because my coconspirator was on her way over to give the performance that could change her life, and pretend-end mine.
CHAPTER 44
* * *
ASHLEY
“Can you do it sadder?” Louisa asked, from her perch on the high-back sofa in her parlor. I’d been at her house all morning, recording takes for this mysterious “crime procedural” she’d offered to submit me for, stupidly letting myself believe—yet again!—that I had a chance of booking it.
“Yes, of course,” I said. Conjuring sadness was not a problem for me. I could just think about how long it had been since I’d had a boyfriend (forever), my financial situation (dire), my inability to make something of myself after seven years of trying (pathetic). If that didn’t get me there, I could conjure the all-too-fresh memory of making a jackass of myself by proposing marriage to Jordan. What kind of idiot proposes marriage to a man she’s not even in love with? I mean, how desperate can a girl get? Of course he (literally!) turned his back on me—I was a big fat loser on every front. I had a lot to cry about these days. On the bright side, at least Louisa was giving me an opportunity to—as we actors say—“use it.”
“OK, let me know when you’re ready.”
I closed my eyes and let the sad thoughts roll in. I’m a failure. I’m a disappointment. I wasted the best years of my life.
I glanced down at the script. We had already done it twice; I probably didn’t need it anymore, but casting directors don’t care if you look at your pages during auditions—they trust you can memorize lines. They want to know if you can get there emotionally, make you believe the pain behind the words is real—quite doable if, like me, you’re in pain.
I took a deep breath and looked into the lens. “I’m ready.”
Louisa started the camcorder, then pointed at me: Go!
“Hello, this is Silvia Hernandez,” I read. Louisa hadn’t specifically told me to do an accent, but some of the dialogue was in Spanish, so I decided to lean into it. Louisa had encouraged me to play, show off whatever accents I had mastered. I had already broken up with my boyfriend as a haughty Brit, and said goodbye to a lover as a heartbreaker from Down Under. Being able to do accents—like being able to sing and dance—indicated that an actor had serious training, Louisa had said, and would separate me from all the other gals who were counting on pretty faces and hot bodies to get them noticed. So I took her at her word, dusted off my accents, and did my best to impress.
“I am very sorry to have to tell you this,” I read, “but I have some very sad news. Very sad.” I conjured my most agonizing memories—how I wasn’t there when my dad died. How I’d made him worry up until his last breath. How my mom still worried. Shame and sadness poured into my chest, my lungs, my belly. I’m sorry I let you down, Daddy. Sorry I abandoned Mom. Tears caught in my throat and I choked on them. “Tu tía está muerta,” I said, in my best Spanish. “Your aunt is dead. Please tell her children. And do not worry, I know her wishes and will make the arrangements.”
Louisa gave me the thumbs-up and clicked off the camera. “That was wonderful,” she said. “Absolutely wonderful.”
I wiped my eyes and thanked her. “Any other parts you want me to read?” I asked. I had been there for over two hours and already read for a half dozen roles, but I loved acting—I could do it all day.
“I think we got it,” Louisa said. “I’ll submit it right away.”
“Thank you,” I said, then got up to go.
“Oh, wait,” she said as soon as I’d stood up. “I need you to sign this.” She slid a contract toward me—some sort of confidentiality agreement making me promise I wouldn’t reveal the details of the script to anyone, or post anything about it on social media, they could sue me if I did, blah blah blah. I had done these before.
“Here you go,” I said, after I’d signed and dated the NDA. I wanted to ask more questions about the job—Who are the producers? What network is it for? Am I auditioning to be a series regular? A recurring? A guest star?—but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I wasn’t exactly in a position to be picky—if it paid the bills for a few months, then my answer would be yes. As long as I could keep my clothes on and didn’t have to kiss too many weirdos.