The casting director, standing in as McCarthy, delivers one of his lines and I wait a beat longer than I should to reply. Executive eyes rise again, I give my McCarthy standin a well-timed look, and a couple of the executives involuntarily laugh.
I chase their laughs with a couple more and the remaining dipped heads start to grudgingly lift. And suddenly everyone is listening. I win. The next scene is trickier. I take a position kneeling on the scratchy office floor while the casting director adjusts the camera angle for the next setup. This one is a scene from the final episode of the whole series. Everything has come to a head and we find Officer O’Neill’s husband pointing a gun at her having just shot McCarthy in the chest in a desperate standoff. O’Neill’s husband has reached the end of the line; backup is on its way but right now she is all that stands in the way of his escape. As the scene starts, O’Neill dives to administer first aid to a wounded McCarthy as her husband levels his gun at her.
The camera’s red light flicks on.
With shaky hands, I administer first aid to the prone body of an invisible McCarthy as he slips in and out of consciousness, blood pumping from his wound. I look up at my husband standin and start to talk.
The scene is going fine until I hear something raw in my voice. There’s an almost imperceptible crack in the way I tell my husband that I still love him. And the full force of the words I’m saying hits me, the sadness of them, because after everything the man I love has done, I do still love him. It’s pathetic but it’s true. I do still love George. Even though he’s deliberately hurt me, even though he left me for dead, I still want him so much. I miss him so much. And suddenly I’m talking to my George. The barriers between O’Neill and me disappear and this is my chance to talk to George, even if George looks like a forty-year-old gay casting director. And suddenly all the script’s lines, as hackneyed as final-episode lines can be, are eloquent and fluid and exactly the questions I long to know the answers to—but I know can never really be answered.
Why did you do it?
Why did you lie to me, for so long?
When did things change between us?
He tells me he’s not the man I thought he was. But I never thought he was anything but himself. He tells me he tried for too long to be something he wasn’t.
I ask him what kind of a man he wants to be.
George looks away, his eyes won’t meet mine. And then I tell him that if he goes, I won’t follow him. I tell him to go. To run away. I don’t care where.
He looks at me sadly, he doesn’t believe me, he thinks I’ll make things harder for him. I suppose, in a way, that was always our problem. He isn’t going to go without hurting me. He’d erase me rather than run the risk of having me get in his way.
So I make my decision, kneeling over my wounded friend, to do what I have to do to survive. My husband looks away for a second, and in that moment I pull my hidden weapon from the back of my waistband and turn it on him. He freezes. I hold him in my sight, finger on the trigger. And suddenly I—Mia—I realize I would do it too. If this really were George, if he had done this, I would do this. I feel a hot tear roll down my face and I let my weapon recoil back in my hands.
When I look up, the execs are staring back at me, rapt, and George is gone.
I had forgotten about them.
The casting director turns off the camera with a nod.
I hastily wipe my eyes and scramble up from the carpet. I take a breath and dust gross office floor crumbs from my knees. God, what a weird job this is.
Realizing the show is over, executive eyes flutter hesitantly back to iPhones and laptops. I get a couple of fair play nods and a broad smile and a thumbs-up from one of the women as I gather my things and say my goodbyes.
Once we’re out in the corridor, the casting director pulls me to one side, close and conspiratorial. It’s a bit closer than I’d ideally like as I’m pretty sure my mascara has run and I’m strongly aware that I need to wipe my nose. But I’m interested to see where this is going.
“That was fan-tastic!” He clutches my upper arm firmly for emphasis. “Seriously. You in town for a few more days? God, tell me you are?”
“Yeah. Three weeks, actually.” I smile.
“Fantastic. You…missy”—he jiggles my upper arm again for emphasis—“are my new favorite actor.” He says this with a level of intensity that, I’m not sure he is aware, could have been specifically designed to terrify British people. Also, I note, he still has absolutely no clue as to what my name is. I am apparently now called Missy, not that it really matters. “I’ll call…” He flounders for a second. “Who are you with over here again?”
“Michael Spector at United.”
“Oh, interesting, okay.” He nods knowingly. “I know Michael…” He winks.
God knows what that implies. I’m pretty sure Michael is married with kids.
“Great,” he continues. “I’ll talk it through with these guys, and I’ll call Michael. I wanna get you in for everything on my list. Well, not everything obviously. I mean, no one wants that.” He gives me a wry smile. I like this guy. He’s a lot to take, and my upper arm is a bit chafed, but I like him.
“That would be brilliant, Anthoni. I’d love that.” He squeezes my arm again.
* * *
—
When I get back to the studio’s car park and start the car the dashboard clock says it’s six-fifteen. Shit. Rush hour. I remember Leandra’s advice. Miguel’s advice. Bugger. I should definitely download a podcast for the trip. I turn off the engine and grab my phone from my handbag. After selecting a couple of things, I find myself opening up my Instagram account.
My breath catches in my throat. I have 1,287 likes since I shared my first post at the photo shoot four hours ago. Holy crap. I look at the follower count: 8,932. I don’t recall how many followers I had before I posted but it definitely wasn’t that high.
I scroll through the small profile photo-circles of my new followers. Who are these people?
Every now and then I see a face I recognize, another actor, a few friends, even weirdly some cousins I haven’t seen in years, but the photos are mainly of strangers. I skim their smiling faces and feel bizarrely elated. It’s an odd feeling, a weird sense of kinship, of acceptance by a new tribe. I suppose this is why people get so into all of this. It feels pretty good knowing all these people are interested in my life. Even if my life is just me advertising a gifted car.
Almost nine thousand followers in a few hours. That seems good, although now that I think about it, I recall Naomi Fairn’s numbers being up in the high 100k’s. I’m thinking about George again. And just like that my thumb flies up to the search bar at the top of the likes list and taps in George’s name before I can stop myself. No matches.
George hasn’t liked the photo. Obviously. I sincerely doubt he’s even seen it. But I wonder if she has. I tap on her profile and scroll-search for clues once more.
After a good bout of Insta-stalking I tap on George’s profile. There’s a new photo. My breath catches and I move the phone closer. A candid cast shot from the Catcher in the Rye rehearsal room last week. He’s surrounded by the rest of the cast, his arm casually slung over her thin shoulders as they both beam at the camera. I feel a hot burn of my rejection twist inside me and read the official Deadline casting announcement beneath it. They must be in New York already. There together. Filming starts in four days. Everyone we know must know he broke up with me by now.
There’s a tap on my driver’s-side door and I yelp in surprise. Jesus Christ.
It’s a studio security guard. I lower the window.
“Everything okay, miss?”
I glance at the dash clock: 7:03. Oh God. I’ve been obsessing for over forty-five minutes.
“Sorry, lost track of time. I’m…I’m just leaving now.” I fumble with my seatbelt and throw him as sane a smile as I can muster.
He looks at me slightly concerned. “Okay, ma’am. You have a good rest of the evening.”
6
The Favor