Bad Publicity

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “How are they doing? Do you think I might get seen?”

  The woman looked over her shoulder at the lounge, which was mobbed with shiny-faced actors in various states of readiness and repose.

  “Nah.”

  Isobel began to question her chances of success if she couldn’t even get into the approved waiting area, but she couldn’t bear to give up. She decided a break wouldn’t hurt, so she went downstairs to the McDonald’s in the building lobby and ate a Big Mac Meal, after which she felt nauseated and even more depleted than before, despite a large Coke.

  As the day wore on, it occurred to Isobel that there was probably a good reason why she was the only non-union actor wasting a day in the chilly hallway of the Equity building. But she was different, she reminded herself. She was right for this show, right for this role.

  And after all that Coke, she desperately needed a bathroom.

  She approached the monitor, who was herself wilting by this point. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Oh, come on!” Isobel protested.

  “Use the one in McDonald’s.”

  “It’s out of order,” Isobel lied as she wiggled back and forth. “Please! I’ve been sitting here all day.”

  For no reason that Isobel could explain, the old woman took pity on her. Or maybe she just didn’t want to clean up a mess. In any case, she closed her eyes as if hiding her lapse from herself and waved Isobel into the inner sanctum.

  Isobel ran straight to the bathroom. Two young women were standing at the sink, refreshing their makeup.

  “Jake Lyons won’t call me in for anything anymore because I crashed an audition of his once. Didn’t matter that I wound up being the director’s second choice, he still thinks I’m a pushy bitch,” said a pretty, trim redhead.

  “You are a pushy bitch!” Her friend laughed. “But he’s an asshole. He thinks I’m too ethnic for anything that doesn’t take place in the shtetl.” She glared in the mirror at her long, dark curly hair and prominent nose. “God, I hate casting directors!”

  After using the bathroom, Isobel returned to the lounge, trying not to be further discouraged by their talk. Superimposing her brightest smile over her tired features, she approached the supervisor of the Phantom auditions, a fey young man who wore his sense of importance as flamboyantly as he did his neon orange sweater vest.

  “I’m not Equity, but I was hoping I could sneak in if there’s a break in the traffic,” she said.

  He pursed his lips. “There are one hundred and seventy-four people signed up, including alternates.”

  “I don’t mind waiting,” Isobel said airily. “I’ve been waiting all day.”

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “One hundred and seventy-four,” he repeated in a nasal whine.

  Isobel swallowed. “Can I just wait?”

  He looked her up and down and shook his head in disgust. “Suit yourself.”

  Isobel had no intention of leaving the lounge now that she’d breached the gate, so she made herself comfortable on a seat by the window and watched. Every twenty minutes, the audition supervisor called more people to line up, keeping things moving in a calm, orderly fashion. Every time he called a name that wasn’t answered, he put an alternate on the line. A plan began to form in Isobel’s mind.

  At twenty minutes before five, the audition supervisor rose. “Listen up! Last group of the day.”

  Isobel darted out of view into the small hallway that led to the women’s dressing room and waited. In what appeared to be his last act of authority for the day, the supervisor added three alternates. Then he packed up his belongings and left the lounge past the podium, which the old rhinestoned broad had finally abandoned. Isobel ducked into the dressing room, refreshed her makeup as best she could and hummed a bit to warm up her voice. She couldn’t believe she’d been awake since before dawn. There was nothing more enervating than waiting, and she could only hope that her fatigue might have a relaxing effect on her voice.

  When she finally emerged from the dressing room, there were only two people left in line outside the audition studio. They both held small white information cards with their résumés. Isobel didn’t have a card, and suddenly she was more nervous about whether or not her little trick would work than whether she’d sing well.

  At last, the final auditioner, a middle-aged black woman, emerged from the audition studio. She stopped when she saw Isobel hovering in the doorway.

  The woman shook her head, confused. “I thought I was last.”

  “I’ve been waiting all day to get seen. I’m not Equity,” Isobel said.

  The woman’s features broke into a wide grin and she held the door open. “You go, girl!”

  Isobel strode into the room feigning more confidence than she felt, her heart pounding. The casting director and his assistant were packing up, collating stacks of white cards and résumés, and the accompanist, a good-looking, dark-haired young man with wire-rimmed glasses, was closing the piano lid.

  “Hi, I’m Isobel Spice!” she said brightly. They all paused in their tasks and looked at her, startled.

  “We’re done for the day. Come back tomorrow,” said the casting director, a gray-haired, pear-shaped man.

  “I’m actually non-Equity, and I’ve been waiting all day to get in,” Isobel said, trying to make it sound as if this were a perfectly fine way to pass the time.

  “You should be going to non-Equity auditions then,” said his assistant, a sharp-featured young woman with straight black hair and a cleft chin.

  “I promise you, it’s worth your time to hear me. I’m a classically trained soprano, and I’m perfect for Christine.” She marched over to the piano and threw her music down. “I’ll tell you what,” she continued, with false heartiness. “I’ll sing while you clean up. Let me entertain you!”

  She laughed too loudly, and when she got no response, she looked imploringly at the pianist, who was watching her with a bemused expression on his face. He opened the piano lid, sat down, and played the introduction of her song. Isobel shot him a grateful look, then started on cue. It was hardly her best, but it wasn’t as bad as it might have been, given the circumstances. Still singing, she walked over to the casting director and handed him her résumé.

  He put it in his briefcase without a glance. “Okay, thanks,” he said and left, followed by his assistant.

  “That is the love that’s pure,” Isobel sang to the empty room. “That is the love—the love that’s true.”

  Isobel faced her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Her skirt was rumpled, her ponytail askew, and she looked as miserable as she felt. She caught the pianist’s eye behind her in the mirror, and he smiled at her. She swallowed hard to keep from bursting into tears.

  “You actually got a longer hearing than most, you know,” he said. He had a lovely posh British accent.

  “Thanks.” Shaking with a combination of relief and disappointment, Isobel reached for her music.

  “Here, I’ll get that.” He closed her binder, thick with music, and handed it to her. “Most people, if they think of Gilbert and Sullivan at all, choose from a better-known operetta than Patience.”

  “I was practically weaned on G&S. It suits me. Although that wasn’t my best performance,” she said ruefully.

  “Even if it were, you’d have been casting pearls before swine. I hate to break it to you, but they’re not really looking. This is what’s known as a required call. Producers must hold them every six months to appear to give every union member a chance.”

  Isobel stared sullenly at her binder. “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse.”

  “Well, I think it was cheeky of you to crash the party. I’d like to hear you sometime when you haven’t been sitting around wilting all day.”

  Isobel felt her spirits lift. “You would?”

  He pulled a card from his wallet. “Here. May I have yours?”

  “I don’t have one.
But I could write down my name for you.”

  “Did you bring another résumé? You should always carry extras, you know.”

  Isobel brightened. “Of course!” She pulled another picture and résumé from her bag and handed it to him.

  “Lovely. And the Scottish spelling of Isobel. My mum is Scots.” He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Isobel Spice. I’ve got to run, but I’ll be in touch.” They shook hands, and then he was gone. She glanced down at his card.

  Hugh Fremont. Pianist/Conductor/Composer.

  She hoped he would call her, although she suspected he was only being polite, like any self-respecting Englishman. Nevertheless, she was enormously grateful to him. His smile and kind gesture were the only things that kept the day from being a total loss.

  TEN

  “Dove & Flight, this is Mike.”

  James had no trouble picturing the man on the other end of the phone. Mike Hardy, the short, squat, blond Human Resources director at Dove & Flight reminded James of a rook on a chessboard. Ginger Wainwright had been so eager to win Dove & Flight’s business that James had gone out of his way to woo Hardy via several alcohol-avoidant lunches. And what had it yielded? Another dead body on Isobel’s hands.

  “Mike, it’s James Cooke. How’s it going?”

  “Well, it’s been a bit hectic around here, what with the merger and all. Not to mention…well, the merger and all.”

  “I just wanted to see how Sharon Press made out today in Isobel’s place.”

  “No complaints.”

  As far as James was concerned, no complaints equaled a thumbs-up. “Glad to hear it. And you’re happy with Isobel?”

  “From what I hear, she fits right in,” Hardy said.

  “Good, good. Yeah.” James rolled a pencil between his fingers and pondered the pattern of bite marks. “Isobel told me about Jason Whiteley.”

  “Natural causes,” Hardy said briskly. “Nothing to do with us.”

  “Of course not,” James said. “Then again, that’s what I’d expect from a PR person.” His laugh echoed emptily over the receiver.

  “It was accidental,” Hardy insisted.

  “Of course,” said James, backtracking. “I guess I watch too much crime drama on TV.”

  “It was a heart attack, pure and simple.” Hardy’s voice seemed to be growing tenser, and James wondered which of them he was trying to convince.

  “Well, I just wanted to check on Sharon. If Isobel has to take any other days off, I’ll try to get her to cover.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you still want Isobel coming in?”

  “Her group really likes having her, and they can use the help,” said Hardy.

  “Great,” James said. “Assuming she’s okay with it, Isobel can stay as long as you need her.”

  He replaced the receiver and pushed his chair away, irked with himself for continuing to ask questions about Jason. It was ridiculous. He had to stop feigning excuses for these conversations.

  “Enough!” he said loudly to his empty office.

  Anna poked her head through the open door. “I completely agree! Let’s go get some coffee or something.”

  James smiled. He liked Anna’s irreverence. She made no bones about her position at Temp Zone being a stopgap until sales of her artwork reached critical mass. He also admired her disdain for Ginger, which revealed itself whenever their overpowdered, underdressed boss was out of sight.

  “We only have a few more days of freedom before Madame Mona comes back from vacation,” Anna said.

  “Who?”

  “The madam in Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. It was a movie with Dolly Parton years ago. Okay, I just dated myself.”

  “Better than dating me,” quipped James.

  Anna laughed. “You are very silly sometimes, you know that? It’s cute.”

  James had a sudden flash of what it might be like to date a mature woman like Anna. Someone who wasn’t a steamroller, who had a good head on her shoulders, and healthy self-esteem.

  “I swear, sometimes I feel like Ginger’s whore,” she said.

  Then again, maybe not, James thought, as he pulled on his extra large duffel coat. The phone rang. He glanced down at the caller ID. It wasn’t a number he recognized.

  “Hang on,” he said to Anna. “Temp Zone, James Cooke speaking.”

  “We never got to finish our little chat the other day,” breathed a husky female voice.

  James sighed and rolled his eyes at Anna. “Felice. I can’t talk right now, I’m just heading out.”

  “Then call me back,” she said and rattled off a number, which he scribbled down. “I’m at the Office of the City Medical Examiner.”

  “Right,” he said absently. Then his brain did a double take. “Hang on—the office of the what?”

  “The City Medical Examiner. We need temps over here just like anyone else, so don’t blow me off, James, or I’ll go to Temporama.”

  James put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Anna, “It’s a new contract. Give me a few?”

  She nodded and left him alone. James shrugged off his coat and sat down again. This was an omen he couldn’t ignore.

  “No kidding. That must be interesting.”

  “Nah,” said Felice. “Same shit, different office.”

  “Well, what do you need? Anything immediate?” he asked hopefully.

  “That’s why I’m calling. I need someone tomorrow. Who’ve you got?”

  “Isobel’s free,” James said nonchalantly.

  Felice didn’t respond.

  Great, thought James. Another one who’s jealous of nothing.

  “Come on, you want someone good for your first placement, right?”

  Felice sighed. “If she’s who you’ve got, I guess I’ll take her.”

  “She’s who I’ve got,” James said firmly.

  “All right. I need her all day.”

  James pulled out a fresh employment application and took down the details.

  “So, can we get together for dinner sometime?” Felice asked.

  He kept scribbling as he answered, “I’ve told you. I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

  “Um, did I say ‘let’s get together for a relationship?’”

  “Then why do you want to have dinner?”

  Her voice took on an extra layer of silk. “Because I like you. And I just gave you a new contract, so you owe me.”

  James set down his pen and took a deep breath. “Friendship doesn’t operate that way. Neither does work. So thanks for the contract, and I’ll be in touch.”

  And before she could protest, he hung up.

  That was progress. He had just steamrolled a steamroller.

  He glanced down at the employment form. Mike Hardy had given Sharon Press his stamp of approval. She could go back to Dove & Flight tomorrow, and Isobel could go to the Office of the City Medical Examiner, where she could snoop for information about Jason Whiteley to her heart’s content. As for him, he was finished making inquiries. He’d done his part. Anything more was up to her.

  “Anna?” he called out, grabbing his coat. “Let’s go get that coffee!”

  ELEVEN

  Isobel finished the tale of her wasted day at the Phantom auditions and looked expectantly at her friend, Sunil Kapany. They were sitting together at the bar at Vino Rosso where Delphi waited tables, enjoying the best wine they could afford with her employee discount.

  “Well, I’m glad I didn’t go with you,” Sunil said.

  “You don’t need to. You have an agent now,” Isobel reminded him.

  Sunil took a sip of pinot noir and brushed his dark, wavy hair off his forehead. “Fat lot of good that’s doing me. All he sends me out for are terrorists and deliverymen.”

  “Since when do terrorists and deliverymen sing?”

  Sunil swirled the wine in his glass moodily. “They don’t. He seems to have completely forgotten that he discovered me playing the lead in a musical.”

&nbs
p; Isobel looked down at the pretzels arrayed on her cocktail napkin. She never quite knew what to say when Sunil discussed the difficulty of his ethnicity. He had a gorgeous, rich tenor voice, but he was so obviously of Indian descent that his looks kept him from getting roles that would really showcase his talent. Isobel never felt more oppressively All-American than when she was discussing casting with Sunil.

  “When is non-traditional casting going to work for me?” Sunil addressed the bottles behind the bar dramatically.

  “You did just play Noah in Two by Two. That was non-traditional.”

  Sunil gave her a look. “They cast a Jew to play a Jew. How non-traditional is that?”

  “Yes,” said Isobel, “but remember, they didn’t know you were Jewish when they cast you. They only knew you were Indian.”

  “Indian Jews: the lost tribe,” said Sunil, toasting her. “Can’t beat the food.”

  “Have you told your agent you want to be seen for musicals?”

  “He says ‘I know, I know,’ and continues to send me out for third-world roles.” His voice grew pained. “Can you imagine what my mother would say if I played an Arab terrorist? She’d plotz!”

  Isobel couldn’t help but laugh. “What about opera?” she said, growing serious. “You’ve got the chops. And they’re not as hung up on appearances.”

  “I wish I liked it better,” Sunil said ruefully. “Of course, my dad would love nothing more than for me to follow in his footsteps and be a cantor.” He shook his head vigorously. “No way.”

  Delphi appeared out of nowhere and plopped onto a bar stool next to Isobel.

  “‘I had rather heat my liver with drinking.’”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Sunil. He turned to Isobel. “What is she talking about?”