by Beth Merlin
“Competitive yes, but people do break in, if they have the chops.”
“Like me?” Sam pulled a shampoo bottle off the ledge, held it like a microphone, and began singing the famous song from the musical.
I snatched the bottle back and kissed him hard on the lips. “Go. I’ll see you tonight.”
“For one of your famous home-cooked meals?” he teased.
“Not if you want to live to see the wedding.”
“Maybe someone will give us cooking lessons for our wedding. I’m getting tired of takeout, aren’t you?”
I shrugged.
“Since I’m off the next couple of days, it might be a late one. You don’t have to wait up for me to get home,” he said.
“I’m going out with Merritt tonight, remember?”
Sam got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, and I watched as beads of water slid down his washboard stomach. He’d always had an athletic body but had been working out with a trainer these last few months, getting ready for the wedding too.
“That’s right, of course. What are you two up to?”
I held up my hand. “Nothing too crazy, scouts honor.”
He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side like he didn’t believe me.
“I promise. Besides I have Boot Camp in the morning,” I said.
He nodded. “Tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.”
“I will.”
I finished showering, slipped on my robe, and wrapped my hair in a towel. I sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up my phone. There was a text from Merritt saying she, Naomi, and Alec were about to board their plane from LA. I quickly dialed her number, but it went straight to voicemail. She must have already turned it off for the flight.
Merritt was my older (almost seven years) and, admittedly, much cooler sister. We looked a lot alike, both of us with sandy-blonde hair and light brown eyes, but at almost 5’9, she had a good seven inches on me. She lived in LA and was the showrunner for a long-running medical drama called Urban Healers about an inner-city ER. She met her wife, Naomi, on set when she was hired to consult on a three-episode arc. Naomi was a pediatric neurosurgeon who specialized in particularly aggressive forms of brain cancer. The two of them could not have been more different, my sister the free-spirited creative and Naomi, the more sensible academic, but they had a wonderful relationship and had just celebrated their fifth anniversary. Last year, they decided they wanted a family, and three months ago they had little Alec.
Tonight, Merritt and I were hitting the town. Naomi offered to watch Alec at the hotel, so we could have some one-on-one sister bonding time. Ever since our mom passed away a couple of years ago, we vowed that even though we lived on opposite coasts, we wouldn’t let more than a few months go by between visits. I texted Merritt to tell her to let me know when she landed and then quickly finished getting dressed for work.
The Gerber Casting Agency held all their castings in a nondescript building in the heart of Times Square. I always liked to leave at least forty-five minutes to subway over from our apartment in Tribeca. Once a sea of deserted warehouses, Tribeca was now one of New York’s hippest neighborhoods. Sam spent close to two years searching for the perfect home we could put our own spin on. He used every penny of his bonuses to put a down payment on an industrial loft with two bedrooms and one bath.
The apartment had exposed bricks, silver piping running across the ceiling, and huge white ornate Roman columns that separated the rooms. The realtor told us the space was used as a sweatshop back in the early 1900s. Sam thought the apartment’s unique history gave the place even more character, but I was never entirely comfortable with its sordid past. Over the last few years, we did a complete gut renovation, replacing the kitchen, bathroom, and restoring the original wood floors.
The apartment was gorgeous, but I’d always wanted to live a little closer to midtown and the action. Maybe it was my California upbringing, but to me, living in New York meant large high-rises and sidewalk bodegas. It meant running into your neighbors in the lobby and hearing their fights through the thin plaster walls. Our walls were concrete, and the building’s elevator opened directly into our apartment. The only time I ever saw a neighbor was when a package would get accidentally delivered to our apartment, and I’d walk the box or envelope over to its rightful owner.
As soon as I exited the busy subway station on 42nd Street, I immediately felt more like a New Yorker. I grabbed another cup of coffee from a street cart vendor and hurried over to the casting. Courtney was waiting for me outside the building.
“Stephen needs you to pick up his breakfast.”
I threw my head back and sighed. “You couldn’t have texted that to me, so I could’ve picked it up on my way?”
She ignored my comment and kept talking. “He wants an egg white omelet dry with Swiss, mushrooms, and bacon.”
I tilted my head and smiled. “I know his order by now.”
“Great, see you upstairs,” she said, spinning on her heels.
I zipped my coat back up and walked six blocks back to Stephen’s favorite deli. The cooks all knew me by name, as did the cashiers. They should—I’d been picking up Stephen’s breakfast, lunch, or dinner at least three times a week for the last nine and a half years.
One of the cooks leaned over the glass counter. “What’s the big man in the mood for today, eggs or oatmeal?”
“Eggs. Dry.”
“With Swiss, mushrooms, and bacon. What about you? Toasted corn muffin?”
“I’m still watching my carb intake,” I replied.
“What’s the official wedding countdown?”
“About eight weeks to go.”
He eyed me up and down. “Looking good, lady. If you change your mind about that slouch of a fiancé, I’m still available.”
I threw a few bucks into the tip jar. “Thanks, Mike.”
“Eggs’ll be up in a minute.”
I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler by the register, paid, and hurried back to the casting. The only thing Stephen hated more than lateness were cold eggs.
Chapter Three
Stephen Gerber was the owner of The Gerber Casting Agency, the world’s largest talent and casting agency across theater, television, and film. I’d started interning at the Gerber Agency when I was a sophomore at NYU. An older student in one of my theater classes mentioned an internship at a casting agency was one of the best ways to break into the business. The Gerber Agency typically only took one intern a semester, and I couldn’t believe my luck when I was hired.
Stephen was so happy with my work, he kept me on me for the next five semesters and then offered me a full-time job as a casting assistant when I graduated. I was reluctant to accept the position, but Sam convinced me it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. I originally only planned on staying with the Gerber Agency for one year, maybe two. I was currently going on ten.
Although my responsibilities steadily increased from year to year, Stephen was still of the opinion I was the only employee capable of picking up his breakfast without getting the order wrong. And while I used to resent the errand, the very healthy Christmas bonus he gave me every year made it much more tolerable. This year’s bonus was paying for our honeymoon—ten days in Southeast Asia, starting in Bangkok and ending in Bali. Neither one of us had ever been to Asia, and I’d been working on the perfect itinerary for months.
“Jo, do you have my eggs?” Stephen’s voice bellowed from the front of the room.
I hurried to the long, large table set up a few feet from the piano in the corner of the space. Stephen was seated in the middle, his assistant, Courtney, to his left, and Colin Stockard, a Senior Casting Agent, to his right. I placed Stephen’s eggs in front of him and pulled a stack of headshots out of my tote. I passed them down the row.
“We’re seeing the Rum Tum Tuggers first and then the Grizabellas,” I said.
Colin rolled his eyes. “This day can’t go fast enough. I loa
the Cats.”
I shot my head up. “Really?”
“Yeah, there’s no real story line, no plot, just spandex and spectacle. It’s the worst of the ’80s monster musicals.”
“How can you do what we do and hate Cats?”
Colin swung around to face me. “Let me guess, you were the girl who performed ‘Memory’ at your high school graduation ceremony.”
My face turned a bright shade of crimson.
Stephen turned to us. “Jo, who’s up first?”
I picked up his headshot and turned it over to his resume printed on the back. “Logan McDaniel. Credits include Hedwig in first national tour of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Fiyero in the most recent North American tour of Wicked, and Duke of Anjou, Elizabeth.
Stephen raised his eyebrows and mumbled the word Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the hottest ticket on Broadway, and much to Stephen’s chagrin, one of the few shows on the Great White Way that The Gerber Agency had not been asked to cast for. He was still holding a grudge about it.
Stephen put his hand behind his head and slid down into his chair. “All right, have him come in.”
Courtney jumped up and opened the door. A good-looking guy wearing a ’50s-style leather jacket and tight jeans followed her through the door.
“Have you auditioned for us before? You look familiar,” Stephen asked.
“Last year, School of Rock.”
“That’s right. You were pretty good.” Stephen turned to me. “Jo, do you remember why we passed on him?”
I sat more upright. “You were worried about his upper range.”
Stephen turned back to Logan. “How’s your upper range these days?”
“I was able to handle Perry Gillman’s score, sir.”
“Perry Gillman’s score. Good one,” Stephen snorted. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Logan handed the pianist his sheet music and walked back to the center of the room, where he belted out the opening number from Jesus Christ Superstar. He was fantastic, with just the right rock ’n’ roll growl to his voice and swagger in his step. In Cats, the Rum Tum Tugger was considered the “ladies’ cat” and rebel of the group. Andrew Lloyd Webber told Stephen he intended the part of the Rum Tum Tugger to be an homage to Mick Jagger. Even without knowing that fact, Logan was totally capturing Mick’s essence.
Stephen turned to me and lowered his voice. “Jo, what do you think?”
I leaned into the table. “He’s good. Maybe a hair over the top. Next time, I’d like to see if he can rein it in a bit.”
“Well, he did just graduate from the Perry Gillman school of overacting.” Stephen stood up. “Thanks, Logan, we’ll be in touch regarding callbacks by the end of today.”
Logan picked up his music off the piano and thanked us for our time. One by one, the rest of the actors came in for the Rum Tum Tugger, followed by the actresses trying out for Grizabella, the glamour cat best known for belting out “Memory” in the second act. While they were all talented, with impressive resumes, I could tell Stephen wasn’t sold on any of the women. When he really loved a performer, you knew it. His whole face lit up, while his knees bounced up and down.
Stephen stood up. “None of them are right. None of them. Jo, can you circle back to the agencies? We need to see some fresh faces.”
I jotted down his request. “Sure thing, Stephen.”
He looked up at the wall clock. “Is it lunchtime already? Jo, BLT on rye.”
I nodded and collected the headshots to pass to Courtney. One slid off the desk and onto the floor, and I bent down to pick it up.
She shook her head. “Girlfriend, that Boot Camp is doing great things for your booty. How many more weeks to go?”
“About eight weeks, or what Benji likes to call, ‘the final trial ’til the aisle.’”
“If you keep losing weight, your dress is going to be huge by the time you get down the aisle.”
“I have my first fitting tomorrow. My sister’s coming into town for it.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Speaking of which . . . oh, good, she landed. Courtney, could you do me a huge favor?”
“You want me to get Stephen’s lunch?”
“Could you? He gave me the afternoon off to spend with my sister, but it would be so great if I could head out now and surprise them at the hotel. It’s just a BLT.”
“I know I’m going to screw it up somehow.”
“He doesn’t like the ends.”
She scrunched up her nose. “The ends?”
“Of the bread. Make sure they only use middle slices. And although he says he wants a BLT, leave out the T. Stephen hates tomato.”
“No tomato, got it.”
“Now, if you really want to win him over . . . extra pickles.”
Courtney was scribbling furiously into her notepad.
“I owe you one.”
She waved her hand in the air. “I owe you about a million. Don’t mention it.”
Merritt and I ate dinner at the hotel with Naomi and Alec before heading out on the town. We hit up a few bars in the West Village before landing in one of Merritt’s favorites, the Cubbyhole. The Cubbyhole was a stand-up bar with limited seating room and limited space overall. Kites, lanterns, and other rainbow decorations hung from the ceiling, and there was an old-style jukebox in the corner of the room. We crammed into the crowded bar and found a quiet corner in the back. Merritt went to the bar and brought back two drinks.
She passed me my glass. “Grey Goose and seltzer with a fresh squeeze of lime? When did you stop being fun? I used to be able to count on you for at least a few tequila shots.”
The truth is, I used to be good for a whole lot more than a few tequila shots. In high school, and then throughout college, if there was a party, I knew where it was and who was hosting it. Nobody, not even Merritt, knew the true extent of my extracurricular activities. I kept everything balanced like a juggling act: how much I could drink and still function the next day; what nights Sam would be working late, and I could get away with throwing back a few extra; and which days I couldn’t drink at all because of an audition.
Sure, there were times I broke my own rules. I’d forget to throw away the empty wine bottles and Sam would come home to find them on the kitchen counter. Or, I’d end up missing an audition because I was too hungover or unprepared to go. But, when Sam proposed, I made a vow to clean up my act. Benji’s Bridal Boot Camp had done a pretty good job of keeping me in line although there were moments, especially with the wedding rapidly approaching, I crossed it.
I took a small sip and set it down on the high-top table. “It’s just ’til the wedding. Besides, I have Boot Camp in the morning.”
Merritt pulled the high-top toward her own chair. “Stand up. Let me look at you.”
I slid off my chair, and Merritt motioned for me to spin around.
“What have you lost, like eight pounds?”
I held up my two hands and wiggled all ten fingers.
“Ten pounds! Is this Sam? Is he pushing you to lose weight?”
I sat back down. “Sam? No, of course not. And it’s not about weight. I just want everything to be perfect.”
She softened her eyes. “Joey, you know there’s no such thing. It’s a wedding. If, at the end of that day, you’re married to the person you love, it was a roaring success. The rest is noise. Look at me and Naomi. Our wedding consisted of a justice of the peace and a taco food truck, and we couldn’t be happier.”
Almost five years ago, Merritt and Naomi originally planned on a large wedding at a beautiful winery in Santa Barbara that had a two-year waitlist. Between Merritt’s job and Naomi’s close ties to the community, their guest list quickly shot up to over three hundred. But, a month into the planning our mother’s health took a turn for the worse, and Merritt and Naomi decided to postpone their lavish reception in favor of a smaller, more intimate ceremony. My mother had been battling cancer for years, and they wanted to ensure she’d be well enough to attend. They promised her when she
was feeling up to dancing again, they’d throw the biggest, most spectacular party to celebrate their marriage. She died just seven months later.
“Have you been talking to Sam?” I asked.
She laughed. “No, why?”
“At this stage of the game, he’s a bit weddinged out. He’s basically left all the rest of decisions to me. Says he doesn’t care who sits where or what flowers cover the tables. He wants us declared man and wife and couldn’t care less what canapés we serve while it’s happening.”
“Good for him. Speaking of which, where is my future brother-in-law tonight?”
“Probably still at the office. His hours have been insane lately. Taking off tomorrow and Friday apparently means he’ll be there until at least midnight tonight.”
“I could never be chained to a desk all day.”
“It’s not as bad as you think.”
Merritt tapped me on the nose. “You gave up acting way too soon. If you pounded the pavement just a little longer, I know you would’ve gotten your big break.”
A few years ago, Merritt helped me land a small recurring role on her show, which allowed me to get my SAG card. She always believed in my talents as an actress and thought I abandoned the dream way too soon.
I forced a smile. “I’m happy at the Gerber Agency.”
“How is Stephen Gerber these days? Still picking up his lunch?”
“Very funny.”
“What are you guys working on?”
“Casting for the new production of Cats.”
“Ugh, I hate Cats.”
“You do?”
“A lot.” She stood up from her stool. “I have to pee. I’ll be right back.”
Merritt shoved through a small crowd by the bathroom and got in line, while I sucked back the rest of my drink. I hadn’t eaten much all day, and ever since eliminating carbs, it didn’t take much for me to get a buzz. I reached around my bag and pulled out my phone. There was a text from Sam. He was still at the office and didn’t want me to wait up, especially since I had Boot Camp so early in the morning.
