God, what am I doing? Maybe I have gone insane.
There’s a long delay before his next message appears. A borderline-hysterical laugh pops out of my mouth after I read it.
Him: I’ll bring the rope.
13
Allie
I met my agent, Ira Goldstein, through a friend of my dad’s. He’s been representing me since I was twelve years old, and the very first gig he booked for me was a cereal commercial. I had only one line, which I still remember to this day:
“How could something THIS TASTY be SO GOOD for you? YUM!”
I’m pretty sure my dad still has a DVD copy of the commercial somewhere in our brownstone. I hope it’s locked up in his gun safe, because lordy, I never want that mortifying tape ever leaking.
Ira splits his time between the agency’s Manhattan and Los Angeles offices, so most of our interactions take place over the phone. Today he’s calling from LA.
“How’s my girl doing this morning?” he asks in the booming, jovial voice I’ve grown to love.
“This afternoon,” I correct. Rehearsal just finished, and I balance my phone on my shoulder as I button up my coat on the way out of the auditorium. “It’s two o’clock on the east coast.”
“Ah, right. Fucking time zones. They’re liable to make me senile. I never know where I am or what time it is.”
I laugh.
“You get a chance to read the Fox pilot I couriered over?” Ira is a no-nonsense, business-minded person, which I appreciate. He’s also a shark, but agents are supposed to be sharks, and I still adore him even when he’s trying to sell me on projects that I know he’s only chosen for the money.
“I skimmed it. It looked like it had potential.”
“Well, give it another read and don’t skim this time. I spoke to one of the producers last night. They’re really keen on having you come in to read for the part.”
“Remind me which part? Bonnie? Or was it Sarah?”
“Hold on. Let me check.” Papers shuffle over the extension. He’s back a few seconds later. “Bonnie.”
I swallow my disappointment. Damn it. I was hoping it would be Sarah. The pilot is for a thirty-minute comedy about three girls who hated each other in high school but are forced to room together in college. It follows them as they navigate their freshman year, learning about love and life and friendship while getting into many a pickle. It was described to Ira and me as an ensemble cast, but a well-known television actress has already committed to the role of Zoey, so clearly they plan for her to be the star.
The other two roles are up for grabs, but I would’ve preferred reading for Sarah, the prude who needs to learn how to let her hair down. I could’ve had some fun with that.
Bonnie, on the other hand, is the airhead of the trio. She’s got some funny lines, but she’s dumber than a bag of rocks. Her flaky personality and one-digit IQ are enough to set women’s lib back a thousand years.
But maybe I’m worrying for nothing. Maybe the writers have a meaty arc planned for Bonnie. It doesn’t make sense to have three female leads but only develop two of them, right?
“It’s the perfect role for you, sweetheart,” Ira raves. “You can play the cute ditzy type in your sleep.”
Yes. I can. But I’m not sure I want to. Every role I’ve ever had has been the cute ditzy type. It would be nice to broaden my horizons, stretch my acting muscles a bit.
Except…this is network television, for crying out loud. I have a chance to co-star in a pilot that, going by the buzz already surrounding it, will undoubtedly be picked up for a full season.
“I’ll give it another read tonight,” I promise. Then I try to conjure up some enthusiasm about potentially playing Bonnie, but I’m not feeling even an iota of wheeeee!
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve read anything that’s triggered my wheeeee! meter. The last project I was excited about was the play I did for Brett Cavanaugh this summer.
“Casting starts in February,” Ira tells me.
I furrow my brow. “That’s almost three months from now. Why did they cast the part of Zoey so early?”
“They wanted to lock down Kate Ashby before another network could poach her. The producers are wrapping up the final season of their other show, and then they’ll be ready to get the ball rolling on this project. They want you to fly out on February sixth.”
My stomach drops. “I can’t. Widow opens on the eighth. We have dress rehearsals that week.”