by Lynn Ames
“Dara, just think about this. It’s Broadway, for chrissakes. It’s a three-month run. Limited engagement, packed houses, you get to go back to the live stage and show your acting chops, and you have room in your schedule to do it. What’s not to love?”
Dara turned and glared at Rick Church, the man who had been her agent since she signed her first movie contract ten years ago. She started ticking items off on her fingers. “It’s New York. It’s three months. It’s New York.”
Rick threw his hands up. “What do you have against The Big Apple?”
Dara opened her mouth to answer, then thought better of what she’d been planning to say. She shook her head. “I told you a long time ago I have no interest in being that close to my hometown.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Be reasonable. You’re already in New York, and it’s Broadway. You have to finish closing up your mother’s affairs anyway, right? Please.” Rick pressed his palms together in a prayerful pose. “Please?”
“Why is this so important to you? Surely we’ve got plenty of other offers on the table that would be more lucrative than this.”
“You’ve got the big Spielberg shoot coming up, and I’m trying to give you enough prep time for that. But this is a long-term strategic move for you.”
“Seriously? That’s what you’re going with?”
“Hear me out.” Rick gestured to the seat across from his desk. “And please sit back down. You’re making me nervous as hell.”
Reluctantly, Dara complied. “Let’s have it.”
“The backers for this show are the same guys who just took over 722 Films. You know, the ones who are fronting the mega-budget production of On the Wings of Angels.”
Dara’s heart skipped a beat even as she tried to limit her expression to one of mild interest. “The Constance Darrow novel adaptation I asked you to try to get me cast for?”
“That’s the one.”
“Very tricky.” Dara whistled appreciatively. “You think by doing the Broadway show for them, that’ll give me the inside track for the role of Celeste in the movie.”
Rick nodded, a self-satisfied smile playing across his lips.
Dara squirmed in the chair. Just thinking about staying in New York, even for a brief few months, made her palms sweat and her head spin. But the opportunity to play her own title character on the big screen was something she’d been dreaming of since the publication of her debut novel. She tried to calculate her chances of getting the film role without the advantage doing the stint on Broadway would give her. “When do we have to commit?”
“Yesterday.” Rick slid a sheaf of papers across the desk. “I’ve already reviewed the details of the contract and negotiated out most of the onerous requirements for practice schedules, et cetera. All you have to do is sign on the dotted line.”
Is that all? Dara picked up the pen and began reviewing the document. Halfway through, she set down the pen and folded her arms over her chest. “Rick, you know I love you and I respect you. You’ve done fantastic things for my career. With you as my agent, Colin as my PR guy, and Carolyn as my business manager, I’ve been in the best possible hands. I’m confident that I still am. But I won’t take this play just in order to get a movie role. I won’t. I’ll either be right for the role of Celeste or I won’t—on my own merits.”
“I think you’re making a big mistake, Dara. This is how the game is played—”
“I’m not interested in playing games. I’m interested in making powerful movies and playing great parts. Nothing more. Are we clear?” Dara noted the look of displeasure but chose to ignore it. “Are we?”
“We are.”
“Good.” Dara stood. “Anything else?”
“I spoke to Colin. He didn’t want to bug you while you were dealing with your personal issues, and he knew we were going to sit down today. He tells me he has calls in to Dave Letterman and the network morning shows for interview slots. How long are you planning to stay in New York?”
“I’ll be in town for the rest of the week. After that, I’m going back home where I belong. If Colin can get any of the shows lined up for the next few days, I’m in. After that, it’ll have to be something LA-based.”
“Okay. I’ll let him know and one of us will be in touch.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Take care of yourself, Dara.”
“You too, Rick. And say hi to that wonderful wife of yours.”
“She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
“Me too,” Dara answered, as she headed out the door.
Rebecca stood in line at the TKTS booth in the middle of Times Square waiting to get a half-price ticket to a Broadway show for tonight. This was her last getaway of the summer before the fall semester got underway and she was planning to make the most of it. A couple of Broadway shows via TKTS and a museum or three would make her very happy.
“Excuse me?”
Rebecca turned to see a cute twenty-something trying to get her attention. Normally, she would’ve ignored a stranger in New York, but this girl looked harmless enough. And she was wearing a T-shirt that identified her as a staffer for the David Letterman show. Rebecca had always wanted to be in the studio audience for something like that. “Yes?”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
“You mean other than standing in this line?”
“How about if I gave you another option?”
Rebecca noted that she had pretty dimples when she smiled. “I guess that depends.”
“Fair enough. You look like a smart woman.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“So, here’s a question for you. Who said, ‘Well-behaved women seldom make history?’”
“Seriously? That’s your question?” Rebecca’s eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. “Okay. Although the quote is widely attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt, it actually belongs to Harvard University Professor Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, who wrote—”
“Stop! You can stop anytime now,” the woman said, laughing. “Color me impressed. I knew you looked smart.”
“Thanks.”
“How would you like to come sit in the audience for the Letterman show today?”
“What time?”
“Be there at 2:00.”
“For real?”
“Yup.”
“Who are the guests?”
“Oh, I think you’re going to like this. How do you feel about the hottest actress in Hollywood?”
Rebecca’s mouth fell open. Surely this woman didn’t mean…
“You’re telling me you don’t know who Dara Thomas is, but you can fire off Laurel Thatcher Ulrich without thinking?”
Rebecca shook her head. “It’s not that.”
“So, you do know who she is?”
“I certainly do.” Rebecca accepted the ticket being held out to her. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome. Happy to make your day.”
Rebecca stepped out of line. Broadway would have to wait until tomorrow. She checked her watch. It was 11:45. She would have just enough time to get some lunch, change her clothes, and head off to the Ed Sullivan Theater on Broadway, eight blocks from the hotel.
Dara sat in the makeup chair and listened as the makeup artist talked about her boyfriend troubles.
“You know, I’m just an old-fashioned girl. I think the guy should pay for dinner once in a while. Don’t you?”
“I do.” Dara smiled in the mirror. “And I think you should stick to your guns. You are absolutely worth a dinner and a lot more.”
The young girl stood up a little straighter. “Thank you. Next time he asks me to do something I’m just going to—”
“Ms. Thomas?”
“That’s me.” Dara watched the reflection as a trim, business-like woman with a dour expression approached.
“I’m Lucy Dunn, the show’s producer.”
“Nice to meet you.” Dara noted that Lucy’s fingers were white where they gripped an iPad. She im
agined that being a producer on a show like David Letterman’s must be incredibly stressful.
“You too. Um, I thought I’d go over a few things with you before you go out there and see if maybe there’s anything in particular you’d like to chat about.”
“Sure.”
“Mr. Letterman may or may not have time to stop by and say hello before show time.”
“I understand.”
“Right. Well, Mr. Letterman wants you to be relaxed and have a good time. There’ll be one commercial break during the segment. You’re the primary guest tonight, so the interview will last approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. Of course, the idea is to entertain the audience.”
“Of course.”
“So, if there’s anything you can think of that’s quirky, or interesting, or funny that you’d be willing to talk about that maybe you haven’t talked about in other interviews, that would be great.”
Dara tried not to blink as the makeup artist applied her eyelashes. “I’m assuming the audience wouldn’t find anything humorous about my mother’s recent death.” She enjoyed the horrified look on the producer’s face perhaps a little more than she should have. “I’m kidding.”
“Oh. Heh. Of-of course you are.” The woman shifted from foot to foot and Dara almost felt sorry for her.
“How about if we talk about the day on set during the filming of Rock Me Gently when my leather pants split wide open in the middle of the big production number?”
“That will work.”
“Do you want to know the details now?”
“No. Mr. Letterman likes to have some spontaneity in the interview.” The producer checked her watch. “Okay, well. Fifteen minutes to show time. You’ll head from here to the Green Room and I’ll come get you from there.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Dara watched the producer’s retreating form.
“She’s wound a tad tight, that one, but she’s good at what she does,” the makeup artist said.
“I’m sure that’s not an easy job. I don’t envy her.”
The makeup artist was about to answer, but whatever she was going to say died on her lips as David Letterman strode up to Dara’s chair.
“Hi. I’m Dave.” He put out his hand for Dara to shake.
“Dara.”
“I know.” His smile was boyish and engaging. “Listen, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t want to talk too much now. I prefer that our interactions are fresh for the audience. I just wanted to let you know I’m a big fan and I’m looking forward to this. You can stick around afterward for the other guest and the closing musical act if you want, or if you have someplace to be…”
“No, I’m good. I like Nickelback, so I’ll stick, if that’s okay with you.”
“Love it. Well, I’m off to do the monologue. See you in a little while.”
When he was gone, the makeup artist whistled.
“What?”
“You must really rate, that’s what.”
“What do you mean?”
“In the three years I’ve been working on this show, I’ve only ever seen him come back here to personally meet a guest twice. Once was Meryl Streep, and the other was President Obama.”
Dara raised an eyebrow. “That’s pretty heady company.”
“My point exactly,” the makeup artist agreed.
“In that case, I feel honored. But tell me, does he know your name?”
The makeup artist shook her head.
“Now if he did, that would’ve impressed me more.” Dara winked.
“You’re really sweet, you know that? Most big-time stars don’t give me the time of day.” She smudged Dara’s eye shadow one last time. “We’re done here, by the way.”
“Thank you, Christie. You did a great job.”
The makeup artist looked startled. “You know my name?”
“I told you—”
“But you never asked me, so how did you know?”
“I like to know who is making me look so good. So I asked the associate producer who brought me up here.”
“Oh. That’s super cool. Wow.”
Dara smiled. “Glad I could make your day.”
As if on cue, the associate producer appeared to escort Dara to the Green Room. She could hear the audience laughing at the monologue as they walked down the hall. She would be on in a few minutes.
After an hour standing in line outside and another forty-five minutes standing in the lobby, the studio audience was ushered into the theater. By sheer luck, Rebecca got a great seat in the third row, just to the right of the center camera, and just to the left of the right-side camera. From this spot, she’d be looking directly at Dara Thomas.
She fiddled with her necklace, making sure it was perfectly centered. Why on Earth it mattered, she didn’t know. It wasn’t like Dara Thomas was going to see her out there or notice her. Still, for whatever reason, Rebecca was a little nervous.
She’d taken extra care when dressing and applying her makeup and had added a dab of perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. She’d never sat in the studio audience for a show like this, so she had no idea what to expect. She wished she’d thought to bring a sweater. The theater was freezing! Still, she knew she’d have chosen style over comfort for this event regardless, on the off chance that… What, that Dara Thomas would meet your eyes across a crowded room? What’s wrong with you?
Fortunately, Rebecca was saved from her own thoughts by some comedian she’d never heard of, who came out first and told lousy jokes to warm up the audience. Then the band came out, and she immediately recognized band leader Paul Shaffer. Finally, the announcer intoned those famous words, “Ladies and gentlemen, David Letterman!” The crowd cheered and clapped.
The monologue was funny and Rebecca laughed along with everyone around her. When it was done, they went to a commercial break. Rebecca thought it odd that Letterman didn’t interact with anyone. He simply sat down behind his desk and looked at his index cards. The band was playing and the sound was deafening, amplified no doubt by the smallish size of the venue.
The light on the camera to her left turned red, indicating that was the “live” camera, and Rebecca’s stomach tightened in anticipation. She had no time to stop and analyze her reaction, though, because Dara Thomas was striding out from behind the curtain to her left and walking toward Letterman.
CHAPTER NINE
Holy Mother of God. Rebecca vaguely remembered to close her mouth. She was sure she’d never seen anyone, male or female, as glorious as this in all her life. Dara’s dress was low cut, but classy. The fabric was smooth and silky and the material clung to her in all the right places. She was tall—nearly as tall as the host—and looked him in the eye as they brushed cheeks. Granted, she was wearing three or four-inch heels, but still, she was taller than Rebecca expected. When she sat and crossed one leg over the other, her dress hiked up just enough to reveal an expanse of toned thigh.
After Dara was seated, the crowd continued to clap and whistle for several minutes as she waved and motioned for them to settle down.
“I think they like you,” Letterman said.
“So it would appear,” Dara agreed. “Either that or they’re cold and they’re just trying to get their circulation going again.”
Immediately, Rebecca was charmed by Dara’s engaging manner. Her smile was easy and effortless and the bit of self-deprecating humor seemed genuine. Rebecca thought Dave was equally smitten.
“Good one,” he acknowledged. “So, you don’t mind if I just sit here and stare for a few minutes, do you?”
Dara gave the host a saucy look. “I don’t. But I imagine it might get a little boring for your viewers.”
“Don’t worry. They’re staring too.” Letterman propped his chin in his hand and gazed at Dara for several seconds. The audience ate it up.
To Dara’s credit, she didn’t flinch.
“This feels a little awkward, doesn’t it?” Letterman said.
“I don’t know
. I’m not the one staring.”
Letterman laughed and sat up straight. “Touché. Still, I imagine you’re fairly used to people staring at you.”
“Why would I be?”
“Why would you be?” Dave asked, incredulous. “Why would you be?” He looked at the audience. “She looks like that and wants to know why folks would stare.”
“Are you used to people staring at you?” Dara asked.
“Me? People don’t stare at me. They avert their gaze.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“Oh, my, folks. She’s stunning and sweet.” He leaned over and took Dara’s hand to kiss the back of it. “How is it that we’ve never had you on here before?”
“You haven’t asked.”
Dave ran his index finger inside his shirt collar. “Is that true? Well, remind me to fire myself later.”
“Okay, but the network might object.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” Letterman quipped. “Have you seen the ratings?”
Dara laughed, and Rebecca was enthralled. She was quick on her feet, had an excellent sense of humor, and the most radiant smile.
“Now that you’ve put me in my place, I’m so flummoxed I hardly know where to go from here,” Letterman said.
“This is probably where you ask me a question,” Dara offered helpfully.
“Can I just say, thank God you’re here to help me out. I don’t know how I’ve made it all these years, just bumbling along without you. If the actress thing doesn’t work out, I’d absolutely give you a job as my sidekick.”
“Good to know I have a Plan B to fall back on.”
“Ah, yeah.” Letterman paused for effect. “Alrighty, then. Where was I?”
“You were about to ask me something deep and probing.”
“Well, when you put it that way…”
The audience cracked up as Letterman blushed. “Are you sure you don’t want to rephrase that?”
“Are you sure you want me to?” Dara asked. Her voice was a throaty purr that reached all the way to Rebecca’s gut and below. She crossed her legs and shifted in her chair. Suddenly the air seemed a little warmer.
