The receptionist huffs out a sigh, unreasonably irritated by the question. “They’ll call you in the order you arrived. So yeah,” she smirks derisively. “I guess you’ll be next.”
Bloody hell. I’m not sure I can take sixty minutes of passive aggression. I make a decision and rise from my seat as inconspicuously as possible.
“I think I’m last so I’ll just wait outside for a bit, if that’s okay?”
“Sure, go for it.” The receptionist shrugs.
Outside I take a seat on a bench in the sun and let its warmth wash over me. I open my iPhone inbox and scroll down to this afternoon’s audition at Warner Bros. It’s a film about the first female students at Harvard Medical School in 1945. I skim the scenes again. They are fantastic.
I’m halfway through running my lines when a voice snaps me back to reality.
“Good call, it’s better out here. Mind if I join you?”
When I look up, the friendly Rose is standing in front of me gesturing to the bench beside me.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” I shuffle up as she sits down beside me.
“Well, that was tense.” She smiles, nodding back toward the casting office, her New York accent thick with vocal fry. She pulls out a packet of cigarettes and extends it in my direction.
“I don’t smoke,” I say in a tone that bizarrely suggests I’m not cool enough to do so, but then, I suppose, my new friend is disconcertingly cool. I take in her incongruous Rose Atwood outfit. She is not a natural Rose, though I have no doubt she could play her, but there’s a curl to her smile that suggests she couldn’t be further from the character in reality. And there’s something incredibly familiar about her. I must have seen her in something though I can’t quite put my finger on what it might have been.
She flicks her lighter open in one smooth roll of the wrist and lights her cigarette. Then flicks it closed and takes a drag, a thin gold bracelet jiggling against her watch. “You’re British, right?”
I smile. “I am. New Yorker?”
She chuckles. “Yep.”
“How are you finding it out here?” I ask.
“LA?” Her eyebrows crease momentarily before she answers wryly. “Good days and bad days, you know.”
“Yeah, I think I’m getting that. But it’s only my second day so…”
“Newbie.” She grins and grabs my wrist, in mock-solidarity, with her cigarette hand. I can feel the warmth of her cigarette tip close to the skin of my forearm as she continues, suddenly intrigued by me. “First time in LA? Oh my God. Jesus, how’s it all going?”
Her grip releases as she takes another drag and I look down at my unscathed arm. I realize I haven’t been touched by another human being since that casting director yesterday. I miss human contact. I had forgotten how, even toward the end of our relationship, George and I had been pretty tactile with each other. Close on the sofa, legs entwined and arm about my shoulders. I force the thoughts away.
“Yeah, it’s my first time. So far so good. How many times for you?”
She flashes me a mega-watt smile then rolls her eyes in answer to my question. “God knows, I’ve been out pretty much every year since I was a kid. Think I’ve got it cracked now, though.” She barks a laugh. I like my new friend. And I could definitely use a new friend out here. She’s a lot tougher than her compact frame would suggest. And that confidence. I bet she doesn’t take shit from her boyfriends. I bet people don’t just leave her without a word.
“Sorry, I’m Mia, by the way,” I say extending my hand.
She shakes it with another tinkle of bracelet. “I’m Emily.” She grins. “You were at the CBS thing yesterday too, right?”