The Actor's Guide To Greed

by Rick Copp

  After several rings, a harried, familiar voice picked up. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Isis, it’s me,” I said, shoving a finger in my free ear to block out the car horns and sirens of early-morning London.

  “Who?” she said, sounding hurried and uninterested.

  “Jarrod.”

  There was a slight pause as she considered my unexpected call before she answered in an anguished whine. “It wasn’t my fault!”

  “What? What wasn’t your fault?”

  “Charlie’s fine. He just twisted his ankle when he fell down the stairs.”

  “Charlie fell?”

  “The doctor said it could’ve been a lot worse.”

  My head was spinning from both my overindulgence in champagne and this latest revelation from Hollywood.

  “Where’s Charlie now?”

  “He’s in the backyard with the physical therapist. He’s very cute, by the way.”

  “Charlie?”

  “No, the physical therapist. Well, Charlie is too, but you should see Chad. What a hunk.”

  “I really didn’t need to hear that detail,” I said. “How did he fall?”

  “He wanted some water and went against my instructions and tried walking up the stairs. The bullet wound started to hurt and when he went to touch it, he lost his balance.”

  Our house was inverted, meaning the living room, dining room, den, and kitchen are on the top floor, with the bedrooms located on the lower level.

  “Where were you, Isis?”

  Another long, considered pause.

  “Isis?”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “Just tell me.”

  She sighed. “There was a sale at Kmart on Martha Stewart pillow cases. I just couldn’t pass it up.”

  “I told you not to leave him alone!”

  “I know! But they were 30 percent off. You and I both know that doesn’t happen every day. And we need to support Martha after she had to serve that horrific jail sentence.”

  “Isis . . .” I said, mustering up an admonishing tone.

  “I told Charlie you wouldn’t want me to go, but he insisted. He promised me he’d be fine. But I heard your voice scolding me the whole time, which is why I rushed to get there, so the scratch is partly your fault.”

  “Scratch? What scratch?”

  “More of a dent, really. I drove your Prius. You said I could.”

  “In the event of an emergency!”

  “You don’t call a 30 percent off sale at Kmart an emergency? I got some new sheets for you too!”

  “What happened to the car?”

  “I was so worried about getting home to Charlie, I guess I wasn’t concentrating on my driving and didn’t see that steel pole . . .”

  I took a deep breath. “How bad is it?”

  “It’s just the back end of the car. You barely notice it. At least when you’re standing in front of the car. I don’t care what the witness said. I didn’t crush the whole bumper.”

  “Crushed? A witness used the word ‘crushed’?”

  “Yeah, but he was a big drama queen.”

  “Isis, I don’t want you driving my car again.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m never getting behind the wheel again. Besides, it’s making all kinds of funny noises now. Doesn’t seem safe to me.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. Stay calm. Stay calm.

  “I have to pick up Snickers at the vet later today,” she said. “But don’t get excited, I’ll take a cab.”

  “Vet? Snickers is at the vet?”

  “Didn’t you get my e-mail?”

  “I just got here last night!”

  “She got into that package of candy bars we bought for Charlie. Ate every last one.”

  “Chocolate is toxic for dogs!” I yelled.

  “I know. That’s why I didn’t want to take any chances and took her straight over to the emergency room at the pet clinic. But Dr. Aboulafai looked her over and said she’ll be fine. He just kept her overnight for observation.”

  I wanted to ask clairvoyant Isis why she hadn’t predicted any of these disasters before I left. I could practically feel her quaking on the other end of the phone. I had put her in charge of my home, and she was botching the job. But I wasn’t about to make things worse by chewing her out. Dealing with stress wasn’t her strong suit.

  I stopped in front of the entrance to the Apollo Theatre. “Okay, I’m at my first rehearsal, so I better hang up now.”

  “Break a leg,” she said and giggled. “Then you and Charlie will have a matching set.”

  “I thought you said he twisted it!”

  “He did! It was a joke!”

  “I’m not sure I’m going to last four months here with everything falling apart back home.”

  “You need to calm yourself, Jarrod. I have everything under control back here. Trust me. Besides, you may not be there for as long as you think.”

  “Why? What do you see? Is the play going to be a disaster?”

  “No. But someone’s going to leave it early.”

  “You mean quit? Who?”

  “Is there a Connie? Or Clara?”

  “Claire? Claire Richards?”

  “Yeah, her. She’s going to leave.”

  “Why? What’s going to happen?”

  There was empty air. I assumed Isis was channeling her spirit guides to get me more information. I was wrong.

  “Chad is coming up from the backyard with Charlie now, Jarrod. I have to go and see if he needs anything. He’s so damn sexy. Bye!”

  Click. She was gone. And I stood paralyzed on Shaftsbury Avenue, my life back home in Los Angeles crumbling.

  There was nothing much I could do from here. Laurette was in Maui with Larry. My parents were in Florida. My sister was in Maine. I had to put my faith in Isis and pray she could eventually pull her act together.

  It was time to meet my director and fellow castmates. When I entered the theater, I was hit with the choking smell of cigarettes. Most of Europe has yet to adopt America’s no-smoking policies in public places. A long cardboard table and chairs were set up on stage with a stack of scripts in the middle. Coffee and assorted pastries had been placed on another table off to the side. Wallace self-consciously talked to Claire as she poured herself a cup of java. He was as starstruck by her as I had been. Liam watched him from a third-row seat, a scornful look in his eye. I wondered if he was capable of smiling.

  I recognized the other players who huddled in a circle, getting acquainted, near the front of the stage. Our esteemed director Kenneth Shields, bright, full of energy, and a rising star according to the London theater crowd. Kenneth was in his mid-thirties, boyishly handsome, and despite his receding hairline and doughy build, had managed to date a number of beautiful English actresses—most of them named Kate, from Winslet to Beckinsale. Kenneth was a terrific talent, and from all accounts, he was acutely aware of that fact. Still, I was excited to work with him and knew if anyone could get a decent performance out of me, it would be him. Kenneth was chatting up two of my costars, the flamboyantly gay Sir Anthony Stiles and the strikingly handsome Akshay Kapoor. Sir Anthony, a dusty, graying, weathered old coot, had a spotty career that was decaying rapidly until he officially came out as a homosexual. Suddenly he found himself cool again. All the hot directors wanted him on their marquees. I had read about his resurgence with a religious fervor since it had obvious parallels to my own public coming-out. I knew less about Akshay, a dashing East Indian man in his late twenties, around six feet, with wavy black hair gelled to perfection and a heart-melting, manipulative smile that showed off the most faultless set of teeth I had ever seen. Wallace had told me that Akshay was a big star in his native Bombay, appearing in a number of Bollywood movie musicals. More recently he was cast in the leading role of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s personal salute to his homeland, Bombay Dreams. Akshay was, in a word, stunning, and I couldn’t help but notice all the women, not to mention a few of the men, continually stealing
glances his way.

  Wallace spotted me out of the corner of his eye and waved me over. My stomach was flip-flopping as I made my way to the stage.

  As I walked up onto the stage, Claire, who harbored not even a trace of a hangover from the night before, threw out her arms and grabbed me in a tight hug.

  “So good to see you, you sexy beast!” she said, without even the slightest hint of sarcasm.

  Liam shifted in his seat and let out an audible groan.

  Claire’s declaration drew everyone’s attention and I felt all eyes in the room sizing me up and down.

  Kenneth ambled over and shook my hand and offered a half smile as he said, “I look forward to working with you, Jarrod.”

  Sir Anthony was right behind him. I stuck out my hand to shake, but Anthony pushed it away and hugged me. He also squeezed my left butt cheek, just as Claire had done when I first met her. Was this some old English theater tradition I was unaware of? Or was I blessed with two famous admirers? Only time would tell.

  Akshay nodded in my direction but kept his distance. Was he just aloof, or did he consider me beneath him? I had prepared myself for the possibility of my fellow actors looking down on me. I was a lowly sitcom star, and one from the eighties at that. Of course, I thought my troubles would come from the revered Claire, but she was the one who blurted out my familiar catchphrase upon meeting me, thrilling me beyond belief. So if Akshay was going to be the one to give me attitude, so be it. I could handle him.

  Wallace trotted over and clapped me on the back. “Is this fucking cool or what?”

  “Isn’t Katrina coming for the reading?” I asked Wallace.

  He scoffed. “Please. She said she already knew the ending so she was going to visit some museums, which is total bullshit because I caught her pilfering three of my credit cards from my wallet. She’s off shopping. We won’t see her until well after dark.”

  I nodded, still trying to squash my nerves. The first reading of the script was about to start, and though I had spent a whole week going over my lines, trying to nail my intention and emphasis, there was the very real possibility that I would be exposed as a fraud once I uttered my first few words.

  Wallace prattled on about how he and Katrina were happily ensconced at the Savoy, how they dined with the producers the night before, how excited everybody was, but I let his rambling bounce right off me. I was too busy concentrating on not passing out.

  Kenneth cleared his throat and clasped his hands together. “All right, everyone, I think we should get started.”

  The moment of truth. I kept telling myself, “Please don’t be bad. Please don’t be bad.” I took a seat between Claire and Sir Anthony. Claire smiled at me and squeezed my knee with her hand. I turned to Sir Anthony. He did the same.

  Akshay sat on the other side next to Wallace. Kenneth stood at the head of the table. There was an empty seat across from me. When I left LA, Wallace had phoned to tell me that the crucial role of Lady Quagmire was still left to be cast. Offers had gone out to acting goddesses Dame Judi Dench and Dame Maggie Smith, but both had turned the role down flat. It was a delicious role, full of hilarious one-liners and showy moments, but alas, it was a small supporting role.

  Kenneth broke into a smile. “Welcome to our first day of rehearsals for Murder Can Be Civilized. I’m very excited about this production. It’s been my dream to work with most of you here.”

  Most of us? I had no delusions that he was including the prepubescent star of Go to Your Room. My insecurities were slowly coming to a boil.

  “Now as you know, we’ve had quite a time casting the Lady Quagmire role, and I feared we might have to postpone the production. But our producers called in a favor, and it is with great pleasure that I can tell you our casting is complete.”

  Kenneth raced over to stage right, as if some grand entrance had been preplanned for the read-through. He shot out an arm, and like a footman introducing the queen, bellowed, “Please welcome to our little company Dame Sylvia Horner.”

  I gasped. Out loud. Sylvia Horner, though nearly eighty, was still a vibrant presence in the theater. She shuffled out like a shy ingenue, her white hair pulled back in a tight bun, bowing and curtseying demurely as most of the cast erupted in enthusiastic applause.

  She looked frail, her tiny frame hunched over and her bony hands begging for the ovation to stop. In a scratchy, weak voice, she said, “I am overcome by your reception. I am just so proud to be included in such a distinguished company of actors.”

  It was all an act, of course. Sylvia Horner was at heart a tigress and enjoyed mauling lesser actors who dared invade her hallowed space.

  Sir Anthony leapt to his feet and kissed her hand. Not to be outdone, Akshay kneeled at her feet and stammered on about what an influence she had been on him in his youth and to this very day.

  I stayed in my seat. Not out of disrespect, but out of complete and utter paralysis. Sylvia was going to be sitting directly across from me, watching me as I read my lines from the play. I wanted to go home. This was too much pressure.

  Sylvia kissed Kenneth on the cheek and took her seat. She winked at me. I nodded, a frozen smile plastered on my face. Everybody was smiling. Everybody except Claire. She was ashen faced, trying desperately to hide her fury. This was an actress who had just been sandbagged. She was undoubtedly assured she would be the only living legend to grace the cast. I’m sure the producers thought it a wildly brilliant idea to bring Claire Richards and Dame Sylvia Horner together onstage at last. But they knew what Claire’s reaction would be, and nobody had the balls to tell her beforehand. The task was left to the show’s director, and he chose to downplay the ramifications by saving the announcement until it was too late.

  Once all the fanfare revolving around Dame Sylvia’s entrance died down, Kenneth got down to business and launched into the stage directions that set the scene and got the play off and rolling. Luckily my first line wasn’t until page fifteen, so I had time to brace myself and prepare. Dame Sylvia had the first line, and she took her time getting it out. She wanted everyone to savor the moment. A line reading from the great Dame Sylvia Horner.

  “I say, isn’t it time for tea and crumpets yet?”

  Genius. A toss-off, but so full of power and presence. The only problem was, she had the disturbing habit of spitting when she spoke. And not just a thin sliver of saliva here and there, either. She lobbed huge balls of white, foamy spit! I dodged the first one but got nailed in the nose and right cheek with two more hits. I was going to need a towel after her lengthy speech in the second act. As a courtesy, the management would have to provide umbrellas to the first three rows of the audience.

  I also could smell the gin on her breath from across the table. Her slow, deliberate line reading wasn’t because she was making a meal of the text. Her eyesight was blurry from extreme intoxication and she was having trouble homing in on what the words actually were. What was it about aging English actresses and their unadulterated love of alcohol?

  Claire sat motionless. Her face was masked with indifference, but internally, it was obvious she was ready to blow up and attack someone. Hopefully I wouldn’t get caught in the line of fire when the time came. She was never going to stand for this. She would quit before she allowed Dame Sylvia to steal her thunder. This must have been what Isis saw in her premonition.

  And as I leaned forward to grab a napkin so I could wipe the spittle from Dame Sylvia off my face, Sir Anthony reached around behind me and pinched my butt. I flashed him a scolding look. He replied by pinching it again.

  We were off to a rollicking good start.

  Chapter 4

  Over the next week, rehearsals for Murder Can Be Civilized became a free-for-all for boorish behavior. Dame Sylvia and Claire not surprisingly despised each other and went out of their way to make each other look bad. I took copious notes, hoping to one day write a memoir of this juicy experience. The diva feud at the Apollo Theatre would undoubtedly rival the divine quarreling between Bet
te Davis and Joan Crawford in the early sixties when they shot the camp classic Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Most of the company took Dame Sylvia’s side because Claire’s antics were wildly out of control. If fresh flowers weren’t delivered to her dressing room each morning, she would stalk out of the theater and back to the Savoy until the situation was rectified. She made a habit of undercutting her costars by sighing loudly or shaking her head in disgust if she felt their line readings were not up to snuff. Kenneth, who seemed so powerful and in control at the first script read-through, slowly disintegrated and by the second week was Claire’s personal lapdog. He knew she was the star and would get butts in the seats on opening night. Dame Sylvia, though just as revered, was a supporting player. This was Claire’s show. Claire knew it. And she was going to remind everyone of that fact every minute of every day. But she threatened to quit so many times, the producers got nervous and set about finding an understudy just in case she stormed out right before a performance.

  There was only one person in the entire company who managed to escape Claire’s devastating wrath. Me. For some reason, she found me “captivating” and “hilarious.” She would sit in the back of the theater, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, when I was up onstage, quaking in my Nike Air Jordans and mumbling my way through my scenes. If one of my lines was just the slightest bit humorous, I would hear Claire guffaw in the back, clapping her hands and bellowing “Good show, Jarrod!” in her thick, scratchy upper-crust British accent.

  This quickly isolated me from the rest of the cast. Dame Sylvia, who couldn’t remember my name anyway, had no use for an American has-been. Akshay, distant from the beginning, just seemed to snarl whenever he saw me, as if my mere presence was insulting to him. Sir Anthony was afraid to talk to me out of fear his idol Dame Sylvia would disapprove. This, of course, didn’t stop him from continuing his habit of pinching my ass whenever no one was looking. Wallace, who sat quietly behind the director and was still in a state of disbelief over the fact that his little stage thriller was actually on its way to an opening night, wisely chose to ignore me. So did his wife, Katrina, on the few occasions she showed up at the theater with a dozen shopping bags dangling from her arms to check on our progress.