Over Her Dead Body(56)

“Thank you for the opportunity,” I said, then began gathering my things. I had brought several wardrobe choices and my full makeup kit, but wound up doing the whole thing in a plain black T-shirt with my hair in a simple ponytail. I had offered to change my look between takes, but she’d said it wasn’t necessary, that my “talent” would pave the way. After seven years of being told it’s all about “the look,” I found that notion refreshing, though not entirely credible.

“You’re very talented,” Louisa said, and I almost cried.

“That’s kind of you, thank you.” I hated when people said I was talented. At this point I would have much preferred they told me that I sucked, that I should give it up, go back to school, find a new career. Someone please just give me a reason to walk away already!

“You don’t believe me.”

“It’s not that,” I said. I chose my next words carefully. I wanted to be honest, but she had just spent her whole morning putting me on tape, and I didn’t want to whine to the one person who was trying to help me. “It’s just that I haven’t had much success. And I don’t know why that is.” My dad always used to say “the cream rises to the top.” If I really am “very talented,” then why am I still sludge at the bottom of the glass?

“Because you are in the most competitive profession on the planet!” she shot back. “It’s not the most talented who break through. It’s the most connected.”

“Not always,” I objected. I knew plenty of stories of actors who broke through on sheer talent. Sarah Jessica Parker famously grew up on food stamps. Two-time Academy Award–winner Hilary Swank was so down and out she once lived in her car. I’m not saying I had Hilary-level talent, but I objected to the idea that talent didn’t matter.

“What do you think the A-list is?” Louisa asked. What everyone aspires to be, I thought, but didn’t say out loud.

“The most talented actors?” I said, because—obviously.

“Wrong!” she said sharply. “The A-list is a club. With a tightly guarded entrance and dues most people can’t afford.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I played along. “So how do you get into the club?”

“You have to know someone on the inside. Befriend them, impress them, give them a reason to want you to succeed.”

“But . . . don’t you need talent for that?” I asked. I mean, you can’t impress if you’re terrible.

“You need some talent,” she replied. “But you don’t need the most talent. You just need enough to not embarrass them for advocating for you.”

I knew I wasn’t the most talented, but I wasn’t an embarrassment! “So what am I doing wrong?”

“What you’re doing wrong,” she said, “is not making the right friends. You need friends who can open doors, not friends who are banging on them right alongside you.” I thought about the old, tired cliché—it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. I had always rejected it, mostly because it was gross and disheartening.

“I don’t have those kind of friends,” I said. I had never been one to befriend someone for their connections; I didn’t even know how to do that.

“I do,” she said. “And based on what you showed me today, I would have no problem advocating for you,” she said. “You’re more than worthy of a seat at the table.”

I remembered those photos above her desk, pictures of her with some of the biggest stars of her time—Sharon Stone, Viola Davis, Faye Dunaway, Sidney Poitier. So I had to ask, “So . . . you’ll introduce me?”

She popped the memory card out of the camcorder and pinched it between her finger and thumb. Then, with a wink and a smile, she spoke the words I’d been waiting my whole life to hear: “Consider it done.”





CHAPTER 45




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LOUISA


No, I wasn’t going to introduce her to anyone. Not because she wasn’t worthy. I’d meant it when I’d said she was talented. Her audition was good. She took direction. She showed versatility. She got there. She’d impressed me, and I’m not easy to impress.

I wasn’t going to introduce her to anyone because I didn’t know anyone. I wasn’t in the club anymore. I’d had my membership stripped from me when I got sick. Hollywood hates weakness. It doesn’t care if your cat died, your kid died, you have the flu, strep throat, food poisoning, the plague. The show must go on! There are no sick days. If you don’t show up for work, the town replaces you. Immediately. The line of people who want your job is long and hungry. There are always viable candidates. Always.

So no, I would not make introductions for my pie-eyed ingenue. I liked her well enough, but she was going to have to figure it out on her own. No one held my hand when I was trying to get a foothold. Hollywood was a boys’ club, and if you were a woman and you wanted in, you had to do whatever the boys wanted. As a casting director I’d heard all the stories—the one about the actress who was molested by her costar, had to give the producer a blow job, had to get naked in her audition. I once walked into a meeting with a director who closed the door and dropped his pants during my interview. Why? Because he could. Did I run or cry or tell anyone? No. There was no one to tell. They were all in on it. We sucked it up. We did what it took to get and keep our jobs.