Ashley didn’t sound anything like Silvia Hernandez, who was in her fifties with a heavy smoker’s rasp, but Nathan had never spoken to her; he would never know. As for all the other “parts” I’d had her read, those were just interference, so she wouldn’t connect the dots when she learned of my passing. The NDA I’d had her sign served the dual purpose of making sure she wouldn’t talk and getting her legal name for the will. Maybe my safeguards were overkill—she was plenty gullible, and I hadn’t had her speak any incriminating details like my name or how I’d died. But I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. The devil’s in the details. And I didn’t become a rich bitch by being lazy.
I wasn’t the best casting director in Hollywood in my day, far from it. I was successful because I worked the hardest. I took every job, no matter how small. If the production couldn’t pay me, I took a producer position—partial ownership of the production in exchange for waiving my upfront fee. My male counterparts never did that, never had to—no one would dare ask a man to work for free. But my willingness to punt my payday turned out to be a stroke of genius—the very thing that turned me from a working stiff into a player. Sometimes I got burned; productions folded, I never got paid. But I didn’t care about those. Because the shows that did get made more than made up for the ones that didn’t. My 5 percent of that movie or pilot that became a big hit translated into big money—millions of dollars over the years. My willingness to make unconventional deals was the difference between getting by and getting rich. While other casting directors were fighting for table scraps, I was quietly building a library of titles that became the backbone of my business.
I deleted all the superfluous takes about broken promises and wistful farewells and cued up the one I needed. After twenty-five years in casting, I knew when I got it without having to play it back. The actors knew it, too. They often emerged from the great takes with no memory of doing them, so lost were they in their performance. That was the enigma of acting. You need to be completely present—hear, feel, taste, see everything the character does. But you also need to lose yourself so completely in the role that you disappear. It’s a paradox of the most intriguing kind, and why—even after twenty-five years—working with actors still thrilled me.
I closed my eyes as I listened. “This is Silvia Hernandez . . . I am very sorry to have to tell you this . . . Your aunt is dead.” Her performance was so good I got a little verklempt. I regretted I couldn’t let Nathan in on my ruse—the news of my death would surely cause him some distress, and I could have used his help. But his loyalties were clearly divided, so he would just have to suffer along with the rest of them.
Part one of my plan （the setup） was nearly complete. All that was left was to leave the message on Nathan’s voice mail. I would do that early tomorrow, while he was still sleeping, so that he would hear it when he woke up.
Part two of my plan （the payoff） was considerably more involved. I would have to work fast to get all the logistics in place. Ashley had nailed her “audition.” But her role in my grand production was not over yet. The best castings usually lean into an actor’s intrinsic qualities—Jim Carrey as the zany loudmouth, Bruce Dern as the ornery stoic. Ashley’s wide-eyed na?veté was perfect for the role I’d cast her in. Unfortunately, she saw the role differently than I did, and had talents that escaped even a veteran casting director like me.
CHAPTER 46
* * *
ASHLEY
I was so excited when I left Louisa’s I nearly skipped all the way home. Not just because I’d killed the audition—I’d killed auditions before. I was excited by what my new casting director friend had said when I’d asked if she would make introductions for me. Consider it done.
Yes, there were stories about actors who had broken through on talent alone—stories I told myself to keep me going year after year. But I always knew that for every Sarah Jessica Parker, there were a thousand actors who got their shot because of who they knew. And now, not only did I know a big-time casting director with connections up the wazoo, she had invited me into “the club.” I knew in my bones that my life was about to change, that my patience had finally paid off, that I was about to get into the game I had so far only watched as a spectator.
I didn’t want to jinx my good news by shouting it from the rooftops （“I’m going to get a casting!”）， but I was dying to tell the one person who had endured my every up and down: Jordan. I thought sharing good news would be a good way to break the ice after my horrific blunder from the night before, when I’d ugly cried all over him and then proposed freaking marriage! Of course that marriage pact was a joke. We were hammered, and having a backup spouse was the stuff of silly rom-coms, not real life. I was ready to have a good laugh about it, go back to being roommates, friends, not getting married—now or ever. “Sorry for falling apart on you last night,” I would say. “I don’t know what came over me!”