by Vi Keeland
“And let’s not forget Davis Milo is directing,” I add, suddenly feeling the need to point him out too, especially after the drink with him last night. I’m not quite sure what came over me, asking my director to have a drink and then practically daring him to follow me into Sardi’s, but I was pretty much floating on cloud nine last night, and there he was in my vicinity, giving me the best news of my life.
Not to mention, he’s almost too gorgeous for words. I’d never seen him up close and personal before yesterday. Sure, I’ve seen him while watching the Tonys and the Oscars, and I’ve heard other actresses go dreamy-eyed while talking about him. But there in the bar with him last night, I could feel it. I get why women dig him. He has undress me eyes. He looks like the kind of man who doesn’t ever break your gaze. Who walks across the room, all crazy possessive and marks you with a territorial sort of kiss. Pushes you against the wall, cages you in with his arms, and claims you. I wonder what it would be like to be kissed like that.
“I wonder if he’ll bring his Oscar to a rehearsal,” Kat muses, breaking my naughty reverie. I dismiss the thoughts of Davis, since Patrick is the man I plan to focus on. “I love that movie he did where he won it. Ransom.”
“Want me to tell him you’re a fan?”
“Oh, please do. Anyway, I need all the details about the audition scene with Patrick. I want to hear about the kiss with the love of your life.” Her eyes go wide and she motions with her hands for me to spill the details. “Does he know you’re the same gal who once sent flowers to him and asked him out?”
I blush. “No,” I say, red creeping into my cheeks. “I hope to hell he doesn’t remember.”
When I was seventeen, Patrick Carlson took over the starring role in Guys and Dolls at the Gershwin Theater with forty-eight hours notice. The lead actor had laryngitis and the understudy contracted a bronchial infection, causing the producers to cancel four performances. In one of those classic “The Show Must Go On” Broadway moments Patrick was called in, given two full days to rehearse, learn the staging, and the numbers, and take over the role for one week. I’d done the show at my school the year before and we lived in Brooklyn, so I bought one nosebleed ticket. I was on the edge of my balcony seat the entire time, mesmerized. I was sure he locked eyes with me when he sang that gorgeous duet I knew by heart, “I’ve never been in love before.”
Ironic, that it was that song. Ironic because, maybe, if I’d loved enough, things would have been different with Aaron.
But I could love Patrick in a pure sort of way that wouldn’t hurt either of us.
At the end of Guys and Dolls, I clapped and cheered and shouted “Bravo” during the curtain call, then hung out by the stage door along with other fans. I joined the crowd, waiting patiently in a sky blue dress that matched my eyes, and strappy sandals. When the group of men and women asking him to sign Playbills thinned and it was only me, I said hello.
He flashed me a smile, the warmest, kindest smile I’d ever seen. “Hi. I wanted to say you were amazing. I’m so impressed with how you pulled off this performance in two days. You were simply breathtaking.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
His hair was slightly damp, and his cheeks were red, and there was this glow about him. I knew that glow. I’d felt that glow. It was the mark of a job well done.
I held out a hand to shake. “I’m Jill. I’m an actress, too.” Then I waved a hand as if to dismiss the comparison. He was a Broadway star; I was merely a theater student with only a few high school productions to my name.
He shook my hand, clasping it in his. I wanted to carve that moment into relief, to hold onto the perfection forever. My hand in his. Him touching me. “Jill, I think that’s fantastic. How is it going? Tell me about some of the roles you’ve played.”
My eyes lit up. My insides fluttered as he leaned against the stage door of the Gershwin Theater, looking so relaxed in his jeans and a gray V-neck t-shirt.
“As a matter of fact, I played Sarah in Guys and Dolls last year in school.”
He smiled so brightly, then launched into the opening notes of “I’ve Never Been in Love Before,” inviting me with his warm brown eyes to join in. There we were, outside the theater, singing together. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the best night of my life.
Soon, he said he needed to get some rest since he had a matinee and an evening show the next day, but he walked me to the subway stop and I thanked him profusely, and he said he’d had a grand time.
Grand. Yes, grand.
I sent him flowers to the stage door a day later. I ordered them online, using money from my job at a bookstore, taking a particular delight in addressing them simply to “Patrick Carlson/Stage Door/Gershwin Theater.”
Then I wrote a note. “Hi. It was so fun meeting you. Would you like to get coffee sometime?”
Nerves aflutter, I hit send on the online order.
And I never heard back.
Maybe he thought I was a stalker. Maybe I was.
I suppose in some world, I wanted to believe the flowers had never arrived.
That’s what I tell myself. Because Patrick—my Patrick—would never have ignored me like that. He loved me like I loved him, right? He just didn’t know me yet, but when he got to he’d have to realize we were meant to be together, just as I knew he was the answer to all my problems. That when my world went to hell, he’d step in. The possibility of Patrick got me through so many nights and days when I was wrecked.
“What if he does remember?” Kat asks, bringing me back to the present.
I shrug. “I’ll improvise. I am a Broadway actress, after all.” Then I wink at her, hoping I’m doing a great job of acting confident.
But acting is really all I’ve ever done. Acting like I’m fine. Acting like what happened back then with Aaron wasn’t all my fault. I suppose now, six years later, I’m mostly okay. People who know me say I’m carefree, laidback, happy-go-lucky. Sometimes I truly am. Other times, I’ve become so damn good at the appearance of moving on that even I believe the illusion. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?
* * *
When I wake up before the sun has risen the next morning, and pull on a fleece jacket and yank my hair into a ponytail and head for the West Side bike path, I do what I have always done. I run off my regret. I picture it unspooling behind me, like a snake shedding, leaving the old behind. All the layers of remorse that I peel away. Someday, maybe even soon, I’ll have let go of them all.
I meet up with Reeve after a few miles.
“Try to keep up,” I shout at him, as he joins me mid-stride.
He rolls his eyes at me and keeps a perfect pace. I like running with Reeve because he is the only one who runs like I do. Full tilt. Nothing held back.
“Can I say I told you so?” he says after the first half mile.
“About not being able to keep up?”
“No, idiot. About the show.”
“By all means. Say it all day long.”
“Get me good seats for opening night.”
“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. continue
s. “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.
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 S
ardi’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.