The Comeback(74)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO





I’m sorry to interrupt, but could you move your hair out of your face?” the casting director asks, not unkindly. “It’s obstructing your words.”

“Sorry, yes, of course,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears. I want to point out that it’s more likely the sound of hundreds of cars rushing down the freeway underneath the parking structure that is obstructing my words, but I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors if I did. I’m already on the back foot, clearly having held everyone here for longer than they expected.

“And can you direct your dialogue more to me?” the producer says, folding his arms across his chest. He is standing slightly to the left of the camera. I look at John for confirmation, and he nods encouragingly.

“Sure,” I say, wiping my damp hands on my jeans. Even though it’s my first screen test in nine years, I think it’s unusual for the director, casting director and producer to all be here in person instead of watching the tape at a later date. I’m not sure if that means they’re taking it more seriously or they just happened to be on set today for the reshoots, but for the first time in years, I feel sickeningly nervous. Even though I memorized the lines last night, I’m still gripping the script in my hand, my fingers leaving damp marks on the paper.

I start over again but the entire time I’m trying to concentrate on the lines, I can already hear his voice in my head telling me how badly I’m fucking it up, that I’m too much of a liability, too fat, too broken to be given the job, that I lost my light years ago and the whole thing is a waste of time.

“I never asked for any of this, don’t you understand that?” I read, but this time the producer puts his hand up for me to stop.

“I’m sorry, something still isn’t working. Can we take the makeup off?”

“Sure,” I say as an assistant appears to hand me a face wipe. I can tell by the slight grimace on his face that his empathy levels are too high, that he probably feels things too strongly for this industry.

I turn around and wipe my makeup off, trying to compose myself. I know this is the thing I can do, the one thing that always came naturally to me. The assistant holds his hand out, and I drop the dirty face wipe into his palm.

“Do you mind if I go to the bathroom quickly?” I ask, and John checks his Rolex before waving me in the direction of the public toilets. I walk past him, ignoring the crew setting up on my way, some of whom stop what they’re doing to stare at me.

The toilet seat is yellowing, cheap, but I never actually learned to squat, so I unzip my jeans and sit straight onto it. I try not to cry out when my skin gets caught in one of the cracks in the seat. I feel like I can’t get enough air into my lungs, and I wish I’d listened in all those meditation classes Laurel made me do, but I could never seem to get the right parts to expand when they were supposed to.

While I’m peeing, two women walk in. One is wearing a red latex bodysuit and a tiny matching mask over her eyes, and her hair is scraped back into a ponytail heavy with extensions spilling down her back, nearly to her waist. The other one is dressed normally, and from the way she hovers around the first woman, I figure she’s probably her assistant or an old friend from school she brings with her for support.

I watch them both through the gap in the door, realizing that the woman in the mask is the lead actress in the film they’re reshooting in the parking lot. She was on a huge network TV show for a couple of years, and Nathan told me she had left it to make the move into features, booking John’s action movie as her first role. She’s a couple of years younger than me, and she seems glossy, uncomplicated, enjoying it more than I ever could, but maybe I’m too quick to judge.

“Did you see her?” she says, addressing her friend, while still staring at herself in the mirror.

“She looks different. Kind of like a caricature of herself?” the friend says, her words peeling up at the end as she watches the actress for cues.

“Right,” the actress says, leaning in and dusting something from her cheek. “But I think she’s still kind of beautiful. There’s something eerie about her.”

The friend leans in closer. “You know I heard they’ve already cast the role she’s auditioning for. I think they’re only seeing her today as a favor to someone.”

“Shit. And I heard she overdosed last year,” the actress says, making a sympathetic noise at the end.

“Did you read that interview she did? She seemed kind of unhinge—”

I cough loudly before flushing the toilet and unlocking the toilet door. The two women are horrified but they recover quickly, and the actress holds her arms out to embrace me even though we’ve never met and I haven’t washed my hands yet. I stand stiffly and let her hug me anyway, catching the eyes of my reflection in the mirror as I do. That’s when, from nowhere, I hear Emilia’s voice, as clear as if she were standing next to me in the bathroom.

They don’t want you to win.



* * *



? ? ?

I walk back into the corner of the parking lot and stand on my mark. Nobody is looking at me anymore, punishment for wasting their time while I was in the bathroom.

“I’m ready,” I say. “Give me one more take.”

The assistant turns the camera back on, and the producer stands behind it. I drop the script onto the floor at my feet and inhale a deep, shuddering breath.