I adjust my purse strap, walk a few feet away from the building in case anyone’s looking in the lobby, and check my makeup in the side mirror of a car parked outside. Good. I still look freshly made-up, and there are no lipstick marks on my teeth. I press a hand against my belly because anxiety is flooding my veins. I don’t know what to expect from my first official meeting with a Broadway director. What sort of expectations does he want to set with me? The initial excitement is behind me, so I’m glad my agent will be here. I scan the block for her, hoping to catch a sight of her marching purposefully towards me, looking all tough and agent-y with her shoulder length brown bob and kickass attitude.
I check the time on my phone, when I see a text message from her marked as urgent. I click it open. Jill darling!! I’m so sorry. I’m stuck on the Metro North, and my train is delayed a whole frigging hour. But you’ll be fine!! You’re there, right?
I write back with a Yes, don’t worry about me, then I turn the phone off and head inside, talking myself down from these nerves. There’s no reason for me to be nervous. I’ve been cast, and I’ve already had a drink with him, and we chatted and got along swimmingly. Everything will be fine, and these are first job jitters that I’m going to ignore.
There. Done. Ignored.
I am confident. I am bold.
I push open the glass door, and enter the lobby, which has a warehouse-y, unfinished feel to it with exposed pipes and concrete walls painted a bright white.
I stride purposefully to the security guard behind a counter, and inform him where I’m going. Davis Milo. Second Floor. He tells me I’m on the list so I sign in, and take the stairs up one flight.
I find his office at the end of a long, quiet hallway. The door is slightly ajar, so I knock.
“Come in.”
His voice is strong and deep, and something about it calms my nerves. This is the man I teased about casting me as Tevye. I’ll be fine.
I open the door and he’s seated behind a large oak desk that’s spilling over with scripts and sheet music. I would have pegged him as a neat freak, but his desk has a slightly unkempt look to it, which is all the more surprising given how impeccably he’s dressed. He’s wearing a navy blue shirt that looks crisp and freshly laundered, and pressed charcoal slacks. His dark brown hair is slightly mussed up, as if he were running a hand through it right before I walked in. What’s most out of tune with my expectations, though, is the music playing from his computer. It’s not Rodgers and Hammerstein, nor is it Sondheim. He’s listening to Muse, and I almost want to hum along to the lyrics I know so well from “Madness.”
He looks up from his screen, meets my eyes, and almost seems like he’s about to smile. Then he makes his face impassive, and simply nods in greeting.
Neither one of us says anything for a beat, and the only sound is the music.
“I love this song,” I say to break the silence between us.
He starts to speak, but instead he leans over, hits a button on his keyboard and turns the music down.
My nerves return. Did I do something wrong?
Then he rises and walks over to me, offering a hand.
I shake his hand, and it’s awkward. I mean, I’ve already pretty much tackle hugged the man back on the street outside Sardi’s when he gave me the news. Now we’re back to some sort of uber professional dynamic.
“Good to see you again, Ms. McCormick.”
Ms. McCormick?
Oh. I get it. We’ve done the celebratory drinks, and now we’re all business. “And you as well, Mr. Milo.”
I wait for him to correct me. To tell me I can call him Davis. To return to the witty banter of the other night. But instead he peers down the hall. “Where’s M.J.?” he asks, and he seems annoyed that she’s not here.
“She’s stuck on the train. She can’t make it.”
“You and I can chat for a few minutes then. There’s a hook on the door for your coat,” he says, and I take off my coat and hang it up. He gestures to a beige couch and I sit, crossing my legs. A chair is angled across from the couch and it only seems natural that he’d sit there. But he glances at his desk, an almost painful look in his eyes, as if he’s deeply considering the seating arrangements. He pushes a hand through his hair, messing it up again, and the tousled look he now has going on is terribly inviting. Even though I know I shouldn’t think of him that way. I shouldn’t notice his looks, but if he weren’t my director I’d surely send his picture to Ellie for her hot guy collection.
He finally sits in the chair. “I called this meeting because you probably have the most difficult job in the show.”
I lean forward and listen eagerly. Whatever weirdness is in the air doesn’t matter anymore. This is the important stuff—his first direction for me.
“Being an understudy might be the toughest job on Broadway. You have to learn all the chorus parts you regularly play, as well as another role. You’re essentially rehearsing two parts. You’ll be in nearly all the chorus scenes and songs, but you also have to know Ava cold. And you might not ever go on.”
I nod, knowing some understudies warm the benches for an entire run. “Right.”
“But some understudies have to go on at a moment’s notice, and if that happens, it’s the sort of event that can make your career,” he says, and there’s an intensity now to his voice as his body language shifts. He’s leaning slightly closer to me, the change in his tone loosening him up. “And I’m going to expect that of you. You’re going to need to know all the lines backwards and forwards, all the songs inside and out, and all the blocking will have to be committed to memory,” he says, his dark blue eyes locked on mine. He’s so passionate as he gives me his instructions that it nearly erases his earlier coldness, and this change reminds me how much he must love directing.