“I’ll do my best,” I say, and I smile. I am happy to see my friend. Happy because I am out of my own head for a while. I can escape from my thoughts.
I am happy, I am happy, I am happy. The more I say it the more I believe it. Rinse, lather, repeat.
* * *
After we finish the run, I head back to my apartment. As I walk up the steps to the second floor, my phone rings. I dig around in the side pocket of my fleece jacket and pull it out. My agent’s name is flashing across the screen, and my heart gallops with a fleeting fear that I’m about to lose the job. That it was all an error.
“Don’t tell me Davis Milo changed his mind,” I say, stopping on the stairwell.
She laughs. “No, darling. Don’t ever worry about that. The producers sent me the contract already and I’m working on it.”
I breathe again and walk up the rest of the steps.
“But that’s not why I’m calling,” M.J. continues. “I just got off the phone with Milo. He wants to meet with you before rehearsals start.”
“Oh. Why?”
“He likes to meet with understudies to set their expectations. So you and I will go together to his office on Friday at ten in the morning. Does that work?”
“Yeah, I’ll see if my schedule is clear, M.J.”
Another laugh. “I’ll email you the address.”
After we hang up I unlock the door to my apartment, pour a glass of water, and sink down onto my couch with my laptop and everyone’s best friend in the world—Google.
I quickly cycle through his resume, though I know it by heart. The South Pacific revival he won his first Tony for, then an original production called Anything for You, followed by the play The Saying Goes. He’s worked on the West Coast too, and directed a production in San Diego at the La Jolla Playhouse three years ago that earned all sorts of accolades. Called World Enough and Time, the play was inspired by a line from an Andrew Marvelle poem, and there have long been rumors that it would one day become a movie. I find a photo of him with Madeline Blaine, the young actress who played the lead and then rocketed to show biz success, landing a starring role in a romantic comedy movie that made millions at the box office. She’s been on Maxim’s Hot List and now commands top dollar for her roles. Once I go down that photographic rabbit hole, I can’t resist looking up more pictures of him.
Because it’s hard to look away. It’s hard not to stare at his face with those eyes that seem to know you, and that hair that seems to beg for hands to be run through it. I click on a picture of him at last year’s Tony Awards with his arm draped around a stunning redhead. I zero in on the caption. Award-winning director Davis Milo and publicist Amber Surratt. Then, one from the year before, where his hand is clasped protectively around the waist of a black-haired beauty in a slinky gold dress. She’s a talent agent and she represents many of Broadway’s top stars. At a Broadway Cares event last year he’s seen with a well-known choreographer, who’s no doubt as flexible as she is gorgeous. His hand looks to be on her back. I touch my lower back briefly, as if I can recall the sensations I’d felt when he laid his hand there as he caught up with me in Sardi’s.
I lean into my couch pillow and arrive at two conclusions: one, besides the lone photo of him and Madeline Blaine, he seems to prefer the company of the women who work behind the scenes in the business. And two, he’s tailor-made for tuxes. The man just looks at home in a suit. He’s effortless, every bit of him completely effortless in black and white, with an easy and understated elegance. He wears the tux, rather than the tux wearing him. I run my index finger across a photo of him, tracing his outline absently, arriving at a third conclusion: I bet he looks best in a tux if you’re the one next to him when he’s wearing it.
I close my laptop and head to my bedroom, opening my tiny closet. I pick out something classy for my meeting, a pencil skirt and my favorite emerald green sweater.
Then I knock on Kat’s door.
“Come in,” she says, sleepily.
“Rise and shine.”
“Some of us don’t wake up at the crack of dawn, you know,” she says, and rolls onto her side, bringing her purple comforter snug around her neck.
“Hate to break it to you, but it’s almost ten. Well past the crack of dawn. Anyway, can I borrow your black pumps for a meeting later this week?”
“You know I have huge feet.”
I laugh. “You’re an eight. I’m a seven and a half. I’d hardly call that huge.”
“Bottom shelf in my shoe rack. But be careful. They’re true to size and I don’t want you to stumble.”
“Ha. I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet.”
“Then my Louboutins are your Louboutins.”
“One of the many reasons why I love you so much.”
I find the black beauties and return to my room, placing them next to the skirt and sweater. There. It’s the perfect ensemble.
Then I find myself wishing it were Friday.
Which makes no sense to me whatsoever. Except on a professional level. Because I want to impress him as an actress. That’s all.
Chapter 5
Jill
The office building is red brick with a gleaming glass door and huge potted plants inside the lobby, an eclectic mix of materials in the middle of the Tribeca neighborhood that’s teeming with industrial buildings, lofts and famous faces.
Surprising, because I somehow pictured Davis in a sleek, black office building in the middle of Times Square. But then, Tribeca is the epicenter of New York cool and claims Beyonce, Justin Timberlake and Leonardo DiCaprio among its star-studded residents, so I suppose it’s fitting that Davis keeps an office among the glitterati.