Emily nodded, unsure of what to say. Was Lara leaving a good thing or a bad thing? It was the end of an era, she supposed, but maybe her next agent would actually take her calls.
“I’m so sorry,” Lara said again, pressing her hands to her face. “Are you very angry?”
“Angry? No, not at all.”
“Honestly, I agonized over telling you right before your audition today, but I figured it might give you the fire you need to really nail it this time. I mean, I’m sure it’ll be hard at first, finding new representation, but—”
Emily froze. “Wait, what?”
“Inevitably, it’ll be a bit of a transitional—”
“Hang on.” Emily shook her head. “What new representation? Don’t you just pass me on to another agent here?”
“Oh.” Lara’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, darling, I thought I’d been clear.”
“Clear about what?”
Lara looked down into her lap. “I … Look, there’s no easy way to say this. I’m so sorry, but the agency isn’t absorbing my client list.”
Emily felt her mouth slacken.
“All the agents are at capacity right now.” Lara paused and shook her head. Silently, she moved closer and reached out for Emily’s hand, squeezing it as though she was dying. “Darling, I’m afraid you’re out. I really am so, so sorry.”
CHAPTER SIX
SCOTT
FROM THE doorway of a Soho café, Scott watched the windows of a gray building on the opposite side of the street. He checked his watch: 10:17 A.M.
His phone buzzed in his hand. Without breaking his gaze, he answered the call. “Scott Denny.”
“Scott!” a voice bellowed. “My man! It’s Tom. You got my message?”
“I did.” The entrance of the building was still. No one had gone in or come out for over twelve minutes. “And you’re welcome. I didn’t do much, though. Nothing that you wouldn’t have pulled off yourself, given time.”
“Are you kidding?” Tom laughed. “I’ve been trying to get my foot in that particular door for years. I owe you several drinks, mate.”
“No need, we’re all square.” Scott shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The door remained shut, the windows still. “I’m grateful for the returned favor, by the way. I know it’s a little unorthodox.”
“Nah, it’s the least we could do.”
“I appreciate it.” A shadow crossed one of the windows. It hadn’t been difficult to track the agent down. Nor had it been hard to access her personal information. There was a lot of detail available online these days.
“Lara reckons Emma wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. She wasn’t making any money, and it’s all about the money, right?” Tom chuckled.
Scott rolled his eyes. He barely knew Tom Stanhope—they’d met just once, at a function several years ago—but it had been laughably easy to convince Tom otherwise. A few names dropped here and a boozy lunch there, and Tom seemed to think they went way back. By the time Scott had offered to tee up the job of a lifetime for him, Tom would’ve done anything for his “brother from another mother”—including asking his fiancée to drop one of her least successful clients so that Scott could keep his most promising new protégée.
“She was surprised, though.”
“Who?”
“Lara. She said she couldn’t imagine Emma having a knack for investments.”
A flurry of movement across the street caught Scott’s eye. The door to the building had opened, and a hunched figure was scurrying out. “Emily,” he murmured, following the figure with his eyes.
“Sorry?”
“Her name is Emily.” Hanging up, Scott began to move.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY
IN A quiet side street, Emily’s vision blurred with tears. Dropped. Cast off. Thrown away. The very worst thing that could happen to an actor. She knew what it meant: the same thing had happened last year to an old friend from drama school, a poor unassuming Welshman who had immediately disappeared from the London scene never to be seen again. It was like he’d died. No one even talked about him anymore in case the mere mention of his name was enough to bring a plague of obscurity down on the entire West End.
No, come on, hold it together. She dabbed at her face with the sleeves of her cardigan, trying to save her makeup. She had one audition left. There was still hope.
She checked the time on her phone. Fifteen minutes to sort herself out and pull off the performance of a lifetime. You’ve got this, she told herself. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the pages she’d been emailed. Just breathe, go over the lines, you’ll be okay.
But the lines danced in front of her eyes, mocking her. The audition was for a chewing-gum advert. A girl is about to be kissed by her date, read the summary, but the foods she’s eaten at dinner jump out and threaten to ruin everything. A fight ensues. The chewing gum wins.
Well, okay, so it wasn’t Shakespeare. Emily rolled back her shoulders. Doesn’t matter, she thought. I’ll still nail it.
But the last drops of her optimism were leaking away and humiliation was taking over, powering through her body like termites through dead wood. She wasn’t even reading for the role of the girl; she would be auditioning to play an onion. A karate-chopping, street-fighting, costume-wearing onion.
What a fucking joke. She crushed the pages of her “script” in her fist. Who had she thought she was kidding? She couldn’t make a living like this, with or without an agent. She flashed back to the previous week, when she had been asked, in an airless box of a room, to tackle a makeshift obstacle course in the manner of a “sexy cat.” Then another bizarre memory, this one of standing on a chair delivering a monologue while a director lobbed newspapers at her. Another, of singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to a tub of butter.
The tears ran freely now, running down her nose and into her mouth. I hate myself. She pushed the words into every corner of her wretched body. Her stupid dream was the only thing that had kept her going, and now it had evaporated before her eyes. What was she going to do now? Where was she going to go? How would she ever get another agent? She had nothing to show anyone—no show reel, no showcase, not even a performance in a shitty advert as an onion, for god’s sake! No one would ever hire her again. She would have to leave London. She would have to—
“Hey.” A voice crashed into her careering train of thought.
Emily recoiled. Wiping her nose on the sleeve of her cardigan, she ducked her head and walked away in the opposite direction.
“Hey,” the voice called again.
She kept moving. Probably just some crackhead wanting change.
Lara’s words wouldn’t leave her alone. You’re on your own. Her face had been full of pity. You’re out. I’m so sorry. Shame burned like acid in Emily’s gut.
“Hey, wait.”
Weaving her way past a group of school kids, she snuck a look back. There was a man in a dark-blue suit just behind her, walking fast. Definitely not a crackhead. Oh god, it’s not one of those charity people, is it? She sped up. No way was she about to stop and chat to a stranger about the plight of polar bears when her entire life was crashing down around her.