The Redhead Plays Her Hand
Page 3

This was a fan base still very much on the fence about whether they wanted their Jack Hamilton involved with anyone, much less a woman quite a bit older than he was. After the pictures of me taken at the premiere came out, and subsequently died down, his adoring fans had moved on from me. But I was about to embark on my own high-profile job. The TV series would bring those pictures, and more like them, back up and into the spotlight.
I kept this in mind as I opted to keep the convertible top up. I cinched the ball cap down tighter on my head and turned out onto the canyon to make my way to Holly’s office. With my eyes peeled, I looked for those seemingly random tan sedans. That’s where the flashbulbs tended to come from. It was amazing how quickly you could get used to looking behind you when you were moving forward.
three
Okay, so we have the first three scripts done, shooting schedule in place, read-through next week. What else do we need to talk about? You know us TV stars, we have places to go, people to see.” I winked, stretching from my chair in front of Holly’s desk. The two of us, along with Michael, had been hashing over details for the better part of an hour.
Michael had fought for and managed to retain creative control from the network. This was his show, his creation, and while being funded solely by the network, he was still steering the ship. He was working closely with the director, making sure that as his show twisted and turned naturally from stage production to the small screen it retained its initial soul. David Lancaster was a well-known and well-respected director, who had worked on some of the best and most commercially successful series in the last ten years. He was also known for being a bit hardheaded, tough, and unyielding. He’d already shared some specific notes with Michael, and they were in agreement about the overall tone and content of the show. While Michael had experience in writing and directing, he’d never done it at this level, and he was understandably a bit nervous.
“Almost done. Just a few more things to talk about, and then we can call it a day.” Holly shuffled some notes on her desk.
“Thank God. I’m starving,” I moaned, standing and grabbing at some candy she had stashed on a shelf underneath her award for Manager of the Year. Which she had awarded herself.
I sat back down, offering a handful of jelly beans to Holly, which she shook her head at. She and Michael exchanged a glance, and Michael nodded at her slightly. She took a deep breath and then sighed. Then she brightened into her All-Business Face. All of this happened in about 2.7 seconds, none of which was lost on me. I gulped. Holly turned to face me now, and I heard the voice I had heard often but rarely directed toward me.
“So we got some notes from the producers after they watched the pilot. All good things, but I do have some feedback for you that they were pretty specific on, before we start shooting,” she said—Holly Newman the agent now speaking, not Holly Dillweed, best friend and gal about town.
I swallowed my jelly beans. “Okay, what’s up?” I asked, wondering what was about to go down.
Michael fidgeted.
“So you know you’re fabulous; we all do. I think you’re amazing. I mean it, really,” she said, not totally meeting my eyes.
“Okay, you’re amazing too?” I volleyed back, looking at Michael, who had stopped fidgeting and was now not moving at all. He was frozen, in fact.
Holly smiled a bit, then continued. “This show has a very specific look, very stylized, very Hollywood. Everything about this show will be over the top. You know this.”
“I do know this. Jeez, spit it out, Holly.” I popped another handful of jelly beans into my mouth.
“We need you to drop about fifteen pounds, Grace.”
The jelly beans congealed in my throat and lodged there.
“Or I should spit it out,” I joked, swallowing hard.
“Here’s the thing. This is very common. Producers are looking at the overall package—everything, right? They have tons of notes, from what kind of car you should be driving to whether the hardwood floors in your on-set home should be lighter or darker. Perhaps your hair should be a little more red. And, well . . .”
“My ass should be a little smaller,” I completed for her, placing the jelly beans back on the shelf and straightening up, lengthening my frame and pulling in my tummy.
“No, we actually got great notes on your ass,” she replied, shuffling through papers on her desk. I looked in horror at Michael.
“I was kidding!” I laughed, forcing my hands to unclench from the fists that had formed.
“Grace, come on, you’re beautiful, I—” Michael started, and Holly interrupted him.
“Here it is. The exact note is: ‘We need her to have a little more cheekbone, a little more jawline,’” she read, looking over her glasses at me as she finished.
“A little more cheekbone,” I repeated, mentally tallying how many miles I was already running in a week and wondering how many more I could squeeze in.
“Grace, look. Do you know how many times I’ve had this conversation with someone I represent? I honestly can’t count at this point,” she began tiredly.
“This sucks,” I succinctly pointed out.
“It does suck, but that’s the industry you’ve chosen. The good and bad, you get it all. You want less cheekbone, you move into the best friend category, okay?” she said, eyes blazing.
“Let’s look at this a different way, maybe—” Michael started, and I held up my hand.
“I’m a big girl—literally, apparently. I can handle this,” I said, and Holly sighed.
“I love you, ya little fruitcake, but this is the way it is. You’ve been given an amazing opportunity, one that other actors in this industry have been working toward for years and would live on lettuce and Diet Coke for months to get. You’ve got it. This is just part of the gig.” Her eyes softened a bit. “This is totally something you can do. I know you can.” She smiled.
“Hey, if that’s what I need to do, that’s what I need to do, right? Not a problem,” I assured her, smiling through my teeth.
“You sure?” Michael asked, clearly uncomfortable with this entire conversation.
“I got this.” I nodded.
“We good?” Holly asked.
“We’re good.” I nodded again.
We all sat together, quiet. Three friends who had found one another in a college theater class and were now working in their chosen industry, in positions most could only dream about. What a strange world this was.
“So, I hear we’re going dancing tonight? Tell me more,” Holly said, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up on the desk, indicating that the business portion of our meeting was over.
I started to tell her all about the plans for the evening, but all I could think about were those damn jelly beans.
Driving home I put the top down, no matter who could see. My mind was whirling. I needed some air. With the stereo cranked up, I navigated the streets of the city I loved, the city I worked so hard to get back to.
After leaving Los Angeles the first time, I spent several years—the better part of a decade really—smothering my feelings in smothered chicken. And burgers. And lots and lots of Doritos. I felt such shame that I hadn’t managed to even last a year in L.A. that when I came home I licked my wounds, and the inside of more than one Klondike bar wrapper. Then I cocooned. Years went by, and I found a great job that allowed me some creativity but all behind a computer. I didn’t go out much, didn’t date at all, and as the pounds packed on and my sadness grew, I lost so much of what was me, what Jack had so quickly identified as his Nuts Girl. I eventually pulled myself out of it, rallying big-time to come back to L.A. and try again. And within the span of a year, I was about to live out every dream I’d ever had, and the dream of actors everywhere. This would be my breakout role, one way or another.
So what’s fifteen pounds, really?
Nothing, except I already managed what I ate so carefully. And exercised religiously. Dating a younger man initially brought back so many of my fears—not good enough, not young enough, not thin enough—but it was finally good. It was really good with Jack, and I was content with how I looked. For the first time in a long time, I felt good when I looked in the mirror.
So they need fifteen pounds. If they asked you to dye your hair a deeper shade of red, would you do it?
Yep.
If they said your character should have blue eyes, would you get contacts?
I’m afraid of touching my eyeballs.
And yet . . .
Yes, I would do it.
So what’s fifteen pounds? It’s certainly not going to stand in your way of this . . . is it?
It really shouldn’t.
My phone interrupted my inner monologue. It was Holly.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop whatever it is you’re doing. Don’t let this freak you out.”
“Wow, you’re good,”
“That’s why I get fifteen percent. Which, based on the contract I negotiated for you, is significant. So trust me, okay?”
“I do; I do.”
“So stop it. Go home, get prettied up, and we’ll shake our asses all over town tonight. Now that’s an order.”
I smiled into the phone, giving up the fight even before it began. I pulled to a stop on Beverly, leaning my head back against the seat. Closing my eyes for a moment, I could feel the good sunshine soaking into my pores, the scent of the canyons ahead thick in the air. Smog, perhaps, but definite canyon mixed in.
“I’ll pick you up at eleven, dillweed.”
“So late? My God are we old.” Holly laughed.
“You said it.” I hung up the phone and headed home. To the home I shared with a twenty-four-year-old.
Fifteen pounds. I got this.
Atta girl . . .
“Jesus, look at that line!” I yawned, as we pulled up in front of Bar the Door later that night. Very much later that night. It was eleven thirty, and young Hollywood was out in force. Holly and I stepped out of the car to valet and made our way toward the front of the line. I looked down at my little black dress, glad Holly had talked me into dressing up a bit. Her instincts, as usual, were correct, as the ladies waiting to get in were dressed to the nines. Eyes—irritated eyes—pored over me as we walked up to the front. Eyes that said, Bitch, you better not get in before me . . .
Yes, every now and again it was nice to be dating the new It Boy. And also a Brit Boy.
“Jack said our names would be on the list,” I whispered to Holly as we approached the giant bouncer. His eyes were more appreciative than the ladies in line. He smiled as we walked up.
“Hi, we’re guests of Adam Kasen’s.” Holly grinned, blond hair swinging over her shoulder, swinging down low into her cleavage. She was looking good. Velvet ropes were pushed aside, smiles were bestowed, and we were ushered in.
In to a different world. Black walls, mirrored ceiling, bars everywhere, and music. Thick, screaming house music. Industrial, heavy, it pounded in my ears and got inside my brain. Everything about this place was sexy, and it was packed with sexy people. Dancing, mingling, kissing, this was no longer Los Angeles. This was Hollywood. And it was hot.
A bouncer inside immediately brought us to the VIP area, and there behind a double round of more velvet ropes was Jack. Reclining into a plush red leather banquette, he was drinking a Heineken and watching the scene. He was surrounded by young Hollywood hipsters. I recognized most of NBC’s fall lineup. It was a unique opportunity to see him in his element but unnaturally so.
He had no idea how strong his personality was, the innate star quality he possessed. The fact that he was unaware of it made him even more appealing. He was the only one who was unaware of it, however, and as we got closer I saw the girls, all the girls. But how could I blame them?
Some of the other guys from his film were there, hanging around but not hanging on. These guys were actors too, and they were in the same position Jack was in just two years ago: breaking in but not breaking big yet.
And there was Adam Kasen. He was the It Boy, the It Boy this town had bet everything on a few years ago. He’d been in Jack’s position back then: the one everyone wanted to work with. But rather than being smart like Jack, Adam rushed into big-budget after big-budget, huge movies that cost a ton and flopped miserably. A few bad reviews, a few scandals in the tabloids, and his star had fallen fast. He had a reputation for being difficult to work with, showing up late and, throwing tantrums—a nightmare on the set. A nightmare wrapped up in a very handsome package. Dark hair, deep-set brooding eyes, he was stunning. And a little bit dangerous, which explained why even though he was not nearly as in demand as he was a few years ago, he still had a blonde on each arm.
Jack was laughing at something Adam was saying. When the two first met, Jack had taken an instant liking to Adam, telling me how he had gotten a bad rap, that the stories told about him were exaggerated, that he was not the bad boy everyone had made him out to be. I hoped so.
Jack caught my eye as we approached, and a slow grin spread across his face. Draining his beer, he gestured for the bouncer to let us behind the ropes, and just like that, we were VIPs. He stood to hug Holly and then let his arm fall around my waist. A little too familiarly. I gently nudged back against him. I shook my head at him slightly, and he rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed was a picture of the two of us manhandling each other at a high-profile bar on Twitter in two minutes. He started to step back to a respectable distance but couldn’t resist dropping a quick kiss on my cheek, one that could have been interpreted as friendly, except for what he whispered in my ear as he let me go.
“Your tits look fabulous in that, Crazy,”