One More Time(4)

I guess there’s a difference in knowing “the end is near”, versus “the end already happened and no one bothered to tell you.” I just thought I had more time.

A little bit more, anyway.

Acting has been my passion for so long, though I’m well aware it’s not the typical path for ex-models. Some launch cosmetics lines. Others get involved in fashion design or become judges on reality shows. A few shift to being magazine columnists. The majority scout and coach fresh new faces. Only a few lucky ones make the move into acting. The ones who transition earlier have the best chance.

I regret the jobs I turned down when I was younger now like eating before a bikini shoot. When I was with Tanner, I had frequent opportunities that I didn’t take advantage of for one reason or another. I suppose I took it for granted that those parts would come just as easily later on.

Now, thanks to TMI, it seems the whole world knows I’m up the second-career creek without a paddle.

Without acting, I have no fallback. I have a GED, earned backstage at international Fashion Weeks, but no college education. I have no contacts anywhere but with my agency, and the various casting directors who have promised to keep my headshot on file. I know full well that file is a blackhole. And no way am I moving back to Jersey.

Without acting, my future is a blank space.

And I don’t just mean because I have no other job prospects. I have no other life prospects. I don’t have a boyfriend-that-could-turn-husband-one-day. I don’t have a volunteer-gig-that-could-turn-into-a-passion-project. I don’t have a pet. I don’t even have a plant. There’s a great big hole of uncertainty waiting for me in the not-so-distant future and that void does nothing to heal the still gaping hole inside me from the past.

I’m alone and lonely, and I can’t even say I sacrificed love for an amazing career, because my career at the moment is a resume of boob parts and used-to-be-spokeswoman roles. No one would sacrifice shit for that resume.

I’m over and done.

But I don’t have to be...

My mood has gone from “relax and forget” to “screw this and everyone” so fast it has whiplash.

I step out of the bathtub and slip into my robe without even wiping the lavender-scented bubbles off my soaking wet body. I stomp into the kitchen, open the freezer and grab the ice-cold bottle of vodka I keep on reserve for moments just like this one. I close my eyes and take a giant swig.

That one’s for bravery. Once I’m sure it’ll stay down, I take another, this one to numb the pain of what I’m about to do. Then I dial Carrie Bonnaview’s cell.

“Please tell me you’ve come to your senses,” she says without so much as a hello.

“I want to be very clear that this is going to be a strictly professional situation,” I say. “I will go to work. I will act as Tanner’s love interest. I will go home. No rumor mills buzzing about our reunion. No happy, lovey press shoots. This will be a j-o-b job.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes?” I say. Then I say it again without the question in my tone. “Yes. It’s a yes.”

I hear Carrie jumping up and down in her living room. I roll my eyes, but I know she’s right to be excited. I should be, too. This is the break we’ve been waiting for years to materialize. This will be the thing to change my life. Then why does my stomach suddenly feel like it’s tied up in knots?

I bite my lip hard to keep the tears from welling up again as Carrie rattles off congratulations and a list of what happens next. I know I’ve made the right decision. It’s the only decision if I want my future to be better than what currently seems possible.

I just wish a better future didn’t depend so completely on the man who destroyed me in the past.





Tanner





“All right, Tanner. We’re going to need a few more minutes to re-light before we get the last take here. You can hold out another fifteen minutes before lunch, right?”

If I had a dime for every time I got asked that question, I could open my own movie studio. It’s not even a question, really. It’s framed like a question to make me feel like I have a choice in the matter. To put me at ease. Really, it’s a not so subtle reminder that if I fuck off to my trailer, people will remember.

Hurry up and wait.

Ask anyone in the film biz and they’ll tell you, that’s the phrase that defines set life, if not an actor’s entire life. I spend more time waiting around than I do on camera. What do I really get paid millions of dollars for? Sitting patiently.

It’s day one, shot one, and we’ve spent the past thirty-five minutes trying to decide if my character should arrive at this fake post office with the sun at his face or his back. The lighting guys are consulting with the camera operators who are talking to the director. It’s a first day conversation. Everyone wants everything just right. There’s a nervous energy on set. People are tiptoeing around me, making sure I’m as happy as possible at every single moment.

Except, of course, with no option of being happy in my trailer.

I get it. Doesn’t mean I have to like it. But I put up with it because, even after more than sixteen years in the business, I’m still as in love with this insane industry as I was as a wide-eyed fifteen-year-old full of fake confidence on the set of my very first movie back home in Sydney. Oh man, did I prep for that role. I was Teen Football Player Number Two. I had seven lines across two scenes. I spent all summer lifting in the gym and running dialogue with an acting coach to prepare.