Someday, Someday, Maybe: A Novel

by Lauren Graham

  “SUCCESS!” Barney wheezed into the phone.

  The director will be here in Los Angeles today, along with a few producers and The Network and The Studio, who I picture as an assortment of people who wear suits and nod in unison, just like The Client was on my commercial. Everything happened so fast that the last few days have been a blur. Travel plans were made and my deal had to be negotiated quickly. I missed my appointment with Dr. Leslie Miles, and I didn’t have time to have that dinner with Dan, or to consider how—or even if—I wanted to respond to the message from James Franklin. If I get the job, I’ll make seven thousand five hundred dollars every episode we film, which is just a little over half of what I made all of last year, so I’m doing my best to stay focused.

  I’m keeping my eyes on my own paper.

  My father wanted to meet me in the city the day before I left. “Let’s go to the Oak Bar at The Plaza,” he said, with unusual flourish.

  “Really? Dad, I don’t know—I have so much to do for the trip.”

  “This is a special accomplishment. And I want to see you before you go.”

  “Well, okay then. Would you like to … should we invite …?” I stammered.

  “I think just us, don’t you?”

  “That sounds nice,” I said, relieved.

  At the subway token booth, I splurged and used one of the crisp twenty-dollar bills fresh from the cash machine I’d just visited in preparation for my trip. “I’ll take five, please,” I said, recklessly spending the $6.25, even though it made no sense since I’d be leaving the next day. The token clerk hardly flinched, but in the almost imperceptible widening of her eyes—something I suppose I could have imagined but assured myself I didn’t—it kind of seemed like she was giving me the New York City token-booth clerk version of a thumbs-up.

  My father was tucked in a leather chair in a corner of the bar, under a massive mural of a snowy horse-and-carriage scene. With his crumpled newspaper and brown cable-knit cardigan, he looked comfortable and warm in contrast.

  “There she is!” he smiled when he saw me, putting down his half-finished crossword, and my heart swelled at the sight of him. We’d been here twice before: after my college graduation, and then for his fiftieth birthday, and I was proud my trip to Los Angeles ranked among those other reasons to celebrate.

  He was, as usual, full of questions about the part, and the cable station that he’d never heard of before. “But how can they charge people to watch television? Television is free,” he said awhile later, nursing a gin and tonic.

  “Regular television is free. But cable is, in some ways, better than regular television.”

  “Then why don’t they air the cable shows on regular television and make better free television?”

  “Well, because, they do things on cable that you can’t do on regular TV.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, there’s—you can curse on cable, and show nudity.”

  “I’d pay more just to hear proper English and have everyone keep their clothes on,” he said with a mocking frown. “And you said the salary is less on cable than it would be on a network?”

  “Yes. That’s what Barney told me.”

  “But if they’re charging me and the rest of the audience to watch, shouldn’t you get paid more than what you’d get acting on the free channels?”

  “I think it has something to do with the ads on network TV.”

  “So you’re telling me if I sit through the ads for those strange air-freshener capsules, my daughter’s salary somehow gets higher?”

  “I guess. Something like that.”

  He threw his hands up in surrender. “It makes no sense to me,” he said, squinting happily. “But I hope you get it. I’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

  Until that moment, I hadn’t really thought about the fact that getting the job would mean I’d have to move, away from my father and my friends. And Dan. I shut my eyes and squeezed them tightly. I couldn’t think about that yet. “I love you, Dad.”

  “Me too, hon.”

  Afterward, there was a wait for a cab, and so we stood side by side on the carpeted stairway outside the hotel, watching as the doorman in the gold braid—trimmed cap expertly signaled to the passing taxis, waving them into the entrance, then gesturing grandly to the next passenger in line.

  “You know, Franny, she would’ve been so proud,” my father said, his voice a little raspy. I was taken aback at his mention of my mother—we seemed to talk about her less these days. My eyes filled up instantly at the thought of her, and what she might think of me today, and tears stung my eyelids. But I kept looking straight ahead, willing myself not to cry, not here.

  “I worry that you expect the worst sometimes, because of what happened,” he continued softly, and I managed just a small nod. “Imagine the best for yourself now and then, won’t you, hon?”

  My vision was blurry from the tears I’d held back, but when I wiped my eyes and looked up again, I suddenly recognized what had been right in front of me this whole time, the dramatic, almost theatrical backdrop that loomed large, setting the stage behind the doorman hailing a cab, and a strange, throaty laugh escaped me.

  Dad gave me an odd look. “What is it?”

  As I admired the water cascading down the tiers of the fountain across from the hotel, I remembered the conversation I had with Dan all those months ago, when we hardly knew each other, and when everything I wanted had seemed so far out of reach. And I thought how wonderful it was to see her tonight, the glorious bronze goddess statue shining at the very top.

  I looked over at my dad, smiling. “It’s—Abundance,” I told him.

  “There you go,” Linda, the hairstylist, says, and I look up from the script in my lap to see that while I’ve been daydreaming, my hair has been ironed stick straight. It’s completely smooth and shiny-looking, an effect I’ve attempted unsuccessfully a thousand times in the past. But now I look more like a stock broker than a goofy dog-walker. All my other auditions for this part were with my other hair, my real hair, and although it strikes me as somewhat funny that I’m suddenly protective of the aspect of my appearance that drives me the most crazy, I also have a wave of panic that the people I’ve been auditioning for won’t even recognize me.

  “Oh—wow—it looks great. But, um, it’s a little different than …”

  “The producers asked that all the girls have their hair blown out today,” she says, flashing a smile that tells me that’s the end of our discussion. “Now, down two chairs to Makeup!”

  “Oh. Great. Thanks.” I’ll have to resign myself once again to accepting all the decisions made about me that don’t seem to factor me into the equation. I shuffle down to where the dimply blond is just finishing up with a tiny, pale makeup artist wearing a beret and a worried expression.

  “It’s just, I’m not really a red lipstick person?” the blond says from the chair to her own reflection and then stands to examine her face more closely, bringing it just inches from the mirror and narrowing her eyes. She shakes her head and takes a tissue from a nearby box, then wipes off her perfectly applied shiny cherry gloss. The tissue makes a messy smudge around her mouth, leaving her lips looking stained and dry. She steps back from the mirror, pleased with her work. “Like that,” she says to the makeup artist. “I like it blotted.”

  The makeup artist nods and smiles weakly, and the blonde struts down to Hair as I slide into her recently vacated chair.

  “Sally,” the makeup artist says nervously from beneath her beret, and I shake her hand, which feels cold and a little damp.

  Sally methodically goes about cleaning her station, snapping shut the open compacts and putting the used brushes aside. She peers at my face closely for a moment, then lightly brushes her thumb over my cheek. “You feel a little dry,” she says, though not unkindly.

  “I just flew in from New York this morning,” I say apologetically. She nods, as if she knows exactly what to do in that case, and begins to assemble a new gro
up of brushes and glossy plastic containers in an assortment of sizes and shapes, lining them up around the perimeter of her workspace.

  “Do you have any preferences or allergies I should know about?” she asks, and I hesitate for a second before shaking my head no. It’s silly, but I’m reminded of the first time I was ever asked that, on the Niagara detergent shoot, and I have to force down the feeling of disappointment that even after all I’ve been through, I still don’t have an answer to such a simple question.

  As she continues to set up her station, I think I see her hands trembling. Or is that my imagination? Maybe she’s cold from the air-conditioning, too.

  “Is that blowing on you?” I say, pointing to the vent on the ceiling. “Because I’m freezing.”

  She steals a glance at me from beneath her beret and says under her breath, “Sorry, no. I mean yes, but it’s not that.” She ducks her head shyly. “It’s just that it’s my first day—my hands are shaking because I’m new.”

  “Oh,” is all I can think of to say, and then I smile in what I hope is an encouraging way.

  Sally smoothes a cotton ball over my face, then begins to apply a thin layer of foundation with a silky brush.

  I don’t know why I’m so surprised that someone else is new. I guess it’s sort of a shock to realize anyone could be more of a novice than I am. In the last three years I’ve become used to always being the one in the room with the least experience, and it never occurred to me that someday that wouldn’t be the case, that someday it would be someone else’s first day.

  Sally starts to bring a now familiar object close to my face, something that was completely foreign to me only a few months ago, and though it’s small, something about it reminds me of how many things I’ve learned since the day I set my deadline three years ago, things both profound and trivial. Not just these smallest of signs, but larger ones, too, that tell me I’ve changed: being able to recognize the meaning in the story my mother named me after, the warmth in Barney Sparks’s voice, and the sincerity in Dan’s brown eyes—all of them telling me that maybe, little by little, I’m heading in the right direction.

  Now just inches away, Sally is looking at me expectantly. “Shall I …”

  I take the eyelash curler from her outstretched hand.

  “Thanks,” I say with confidence. “I can do it.”

  32

  RING RING RING

  CLICK

  I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave me a message.

  BEEEP

  “Hi, Dan, it’s Franny. I’m calling you from my hotel room, in Los Angeles. Crazy, right? How are you? Umm … so … yeah, I think it went well today. Really well, actually. We’re supposed to find out tomorrow—hopefully I’ll know something before I get on the plane. Hey, did you watch Law and Order tonight? The teacher did it! I didn’t see that coming, did you? You probably did, knowing you. Anyway, it’s strange, but, I wish you could see what I’m looking at right now. The hotel is right next to the studio where we had the test—it’s this giant high-rise building that overlooks this massive freeway, which sounds really awful I know, but my room is so high up, and the cars are so far away, that the lights below are actually pretty, can you imagine that? It sort of puts everything in perspective. It reminds me of when I cross the bridge on the D train—oh, I’ll just tell you at our dinner, it’s hard to explain. Anyway, I’ve been standing here for a while, just watching them, and—shoot—you know what? I just realized—oh—I forgot about the time change, I think it’s really late there. I’ll hang up now. I just wanted to tell you, well, that I was thinking about—”

  There’s a click and a rustling sound, and for a moment I think the phone’s gone dead, but then Dan’s sleepy voice comes on the line. “Franny? Is that you?” he says.

  “Yeah, hi, it’s me,” I whisper. “Sorry—did I wake you up?”

  “Yes, but, no … I mean, it’s good, though. Let me just turn off the machine … the tape is still recording—”

  “Dan, you’re half-asleep. Is it too late?”

  “Not at all … I’m happy, I mean, I just … I’ve almost got it. I can almost reach the … aha! There. Now then, Franny, tell me every—”

  BEEEP

  Acknowledgments

  I could not have done this, or gotten anywhere close, without my genius editor, Jennifer Smith. Jen, I was so fortunate to have you as my mentor in this process. Thank you for believing in me, challenging me, and accepting my loose interpretation of “deadline.”

  Esther Newburg is the ideal literary agent: smart, honest, funny, tough, and as dismissive of my early doubts as she is toward anyone who doesn’t love the Boston Red Sox. Thank you, Esther, for sending out this manuscript way before I was ready for anyone to read it.

  My sister, Shade Grant, was a tireless champion, cheerleader, and best friend throughout and contributed immeasurably to this book. Shade, your ambition, intelligence, kindness, and excellent fashion sense would have made our mother so proud.

  Thank you, Diane Keaton, for responding to some long boring story I was probably telling with “You should write a book,” instead of “You should really save this for your therapist.” Your inspiration meant the world to me.

  My early readers were invaluable. Thank you to Allison Castillo, Hannah Elnan, Ellie Hannibal, Ratna Kamath, and Mae Whitman, for your notes and friendship.

  Thank you, Kathy Ebel, for being friends with me even back when I wore that jumpsuit, and for your generous writerly support and encouragement.

  I am blessed to have a team who represent me in my actor life with the perfect mix of humor, vision, love, and cold-blooded aggression. Thank you to John Carrabino, Adam Kaller, Caryn Leeds, Gary Mantoosh, Leslie Sloane, and Eddy Yablans.

  Thanks also to Sam Pancake, Oliver Platt, Gary Riotto, Jen and Pete, and everyone at Parenthood. None of you had anything to do with this book, but I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to say how important you’ve been to me.

  Thanks, Mom, for living with creativity, originality, and bravery. You paved the way for me to imagine the possibilities. Your beauty, wisdom, and sparkling laugh are missed.

  Thank you, Dad, for always letting me buy as many books as I could carry, and for reading to me every night until I thought I was too cool. This book, not to mention my acting career, is a direct result of all the funny voices you probably got tired of doing.

  Thank you to Karen, Chris, Maggie, the Grahams (Cousinhood!), Mama and all the Grants, Roman and the Krauses, and all their loved ones. I’m lucky to have a colorful family, filled with interesting stories and excellent storytellers.

  Thank you, Peter, for carrying my dresser up the stairs all those years ago, for keeping me company in the office when inspiration eluded me, and for the thousands of other gestures of your strength and kindness. I love you so.

  About the Author

  LAUREN GRAHAM is an actress best known for her roles on the critically acclaimed series Gilmore Girls and Parenthood. She has performed on Broadway and appeared in such films as Bad Santa, Evan Almighty, and Because I Said So. She holds a B.A. in English from Barnard College and an M.F.A. in acting from Southern Methodist University. She lives in New York and Los Angeles.