Leah’s face faded behind a giant bottle of Fibercil. Michael quickly switched the channel to ESPN. Two commentators were discussing the Mets game. “The problem with major league baseball is there is no accountability. You don’t spend that kind of money without being guaranteed some results. If I were the Mets organization, I would be suing for every last dime I’d given Par—”
“Jesus,” Parker moaned. Michael quickly switched again, landing on some movie channel. He handed the remote to Jack, got up, walked to the windows that overlooked Central Park, and stared out, as Jack demanded that Parker explain more about the female shock jock who was harassing him to the point he couldn’t hit.
Leah Kleinschmidt. The One Who Got Away.
Well. Technically speaking . . . the One He Never Should Have Dumped.
Chapter Two
Los Angeles
Six Months Later
IN L.A., Leah Klein was dressed in a huge, thick robe and fuzzy slippers. Her hair was sticking up in two Mickey Mouse—like earballs on the top of her head, and she was holding a huge box of tissues stuffed under her arm.
The man across from her cocked his head to one side, studying her face. “Redder around the nose,” he said, because he was the director and could decree such things. “A lot redder. We want her to look like she’s been blowing more than her brains through there. Now she just looks like she’s had too much to drink. Let’s get this right, okay?”
Apparently, considering they were on what had to be at least the fiftieth take, getting a tissue commercial right was a lot harder than Leah could have imagined. Her agent, Frances, had said, “Just go without makeup. That oughta be good enough.”
Leah hadn’t quite known how to interpret that, but she had come without makeup and couldn’t wait to tell Frances that apparently her bare face didn’t look that ill.
A girl with two nose rings and a tongue and eyebrow stud suddenly popped up in front of Leah and started dabbing a brush around her face with a vengeance, shoving red powder into her nose and eyes. There was so much powder flying that Leah started wheezing and had to wave her hand in front of her face to get rid of the girl and the powder.
The director leaned in, his face looming large as he studied the newly applied powder and nodded. “Okay, Lisa,” he said as Leah blinked several times, trying to clear the cloud of makeup in them, “Let’s please try and get this done in this take, okay? Just dig down deep, think back to the last time you had a really bad cold, and let that emotion come out,” he said, making a digging motion with his hands.
“Leah,” she said, shaking her hands violently in front of her face to help her resist the urge to plunge her fingers into her eyes and wipe them clean of powder.
The director stared at her. “What?”
“Leah. My name is Leah. Not Lisa.” The idiot couldn’t seem to process what she was saying. “You, ah, you called me Lisa earlier,” she said, pointing over her shoulder to earlier. “I was just clarifying.”
He blinked, reared back, stabbed his hands high in the air and bellowed, “Great, Leah!” He dropped his hands to his waist. “Okay, Leah, let’s try and get it this time. Could you please try and get it right, Leah?”
Wow, he really meant it. Was she that bad? Did her acting skills suck so badly that she couldn’t play a sick housewife convincingly? If she was such a bad actress, then why was she here? WhywhywhywhyWHY did she keep taking these gigs?
Oh, right. Because she needed money. Needed it so desperately that she really didn’t want to lose this commercial—it was her second national, which meant residuals good enough to maybe get another car, and she was insanely desperate for another car. Her ‘98 Ford Escort had a bad transmission and started only about half the time.
“Hello! Earth to Leah!” the director snapped, startling her out of her thoughts. “I asked you, can we get this done?”
“Yes,” she said with a resolute nod, ignoring the smirks of the people behind the camera. Who were they, anyway? Did Fluffy Tissue really need five people to make sure this thing went down? It was a tissue for god’s sake!
“Fabulous,” the director snapped, turned around, and stalked behind the camera. “Okay, places!” he yelled.
Leah jumped up and hurried to her place. Because she was the only one with a place, she gripped her box of tissue and smiled brightly at her director.
“Look sick,” he said.
She dropped the smile.
“Action!”