By the end of the whole interview parade, I’m exhausted, sick of answering the freaking stupid questions, hungry, irritable, and ready to collapse in my hotel room. My day isn’t over, yet, though.
The press junket finally over, I leave the hotel and climb into the second row of a blacked-out Escalade. I honestly don’t even know where I’m going, next. Jen, my assistant, is in the seat beside me, iPad in one hand, stylus in the other, Bluetooth earpiece in her ear, carrying on a rapid-fire conversation. I have emails to look at, and I should prep for whatever nonsense is next, but I’m just tired. So I lean my head back against the seat and just…rest.
Finally, I hear Jen end the conversation. “So, Westley.”
“Mmmm,” I grunt.
Jen is terrifyingly efficient, mind-bogglingly organized, and absolutely indispensable, but personable she is not. To be honest, I hired her specifically because she’s no-nonsense, kind of scary, and not in any way that I would ever be distracted by. It just seemed like smart business to keep those lines clearly demarcated. She’s tall, almost six feet, and I would call her build svelte. Not skinny, but svelte. Brown hair she keeps in a tight braided bun, minimal makeup. She’s older than me by about ten years, and I know absolutely nothing about her personal life. I know she’s great at her job, which is getting me where I need to go, and keeping track of…well, everything in my life.
“Next is a table read for Singin’ in the Rain.”
I groan. “It never ends.”
“Such is the price of fame.” She doesn’t look at me as she speaks, instead keeps her gaze on her iPad; she’s gotten the art of multitasking down to a precise science.
“When do I have five minutes to myself?” I ask.
“You have some time to yourself tomorrow afternoon. About two and a half hours, after your dance intensive and before more table reading.”
“Excellent. During those two and a half hours, I do not exist. Not even for you.”
She smiles wryly. “Understood.” We’re nearing the studio, so I sit up straight and start putting my brain into actor mode. “You were invited out with several of your co-stars tomorrow after the table read. You had me put you down as a maybe. I think you should go. It would be fun for you, plus time to bond with your co-stars.”
“All right, fine. I could use a night out anyway.”
“It’s actually a night in. It’s at Ryan’s house up in Malibu.”
“Even better.”
She’s still double-checking even as we pull up to the studio where the read is taking place. “Last thing—your dance instructor wanted you to pick a piece of music and choreograph your own two-minute dance. I need to block off some time for you to work on that.”
“Try to schedule it before the lessons, so I can work on that, practice it, show it to him, and then have the lesson all in one block.”
“That would mean the days you have dance, you’ll be in the studio for literally half the day.”
I unbuckle and open the door. “It’s Singin’ in the Rain, Jen. I can’t just learn, like, one five-minute dance sequence. I have to be a dancer.”
She sighs, shrugs, nods. “True.” A moment of work on the tablet. “So that’s a six-hour block of dance, with a break for lunch, four days a week.”
“That’s a lot of dance,” I say, laughing. “Good thing I enjoy it.” I check my phone. “What’s after this?”
“Dinner with Marty. He’s pitching you a couple projects.”
“Can it be an email? Unless it’s got music in it, I’m gonna say no. This project is just reminding me how much I miss music.”
“I think that’s a discussion to have with Marty in person.”
“Fine, but I’m not going anywhere fancy. I’m not wearing a damn tie.”
She huffs a laugh. “The reservations have been made for a month and a half. But it’s not fancy. You’re fine like you are. Also, you’re Westley Britton. I don’t think they’d refuse to seat you because you’re not wearing a tie.”
“Okay, I for real have to go, now. Anything else?”
She scans her iPad one last time. “That’s it for now.” A smirk. “Unless you want me to schedule a second date with Alessa.”
I roll my eyes. “That wasn’t a date, number one. We were discussing how to make the scene work, because it wasn’t working as directed. She really, truly is my friend and nothing more, number two. And number three, just no. I don’t need you scheduling my romance, Jen.”
“What romance? I’ve worked for you for two and a half years, and that one date with Alessa is the closest I’ve seen you come to anything like romance.”
I shrug. “I’ve been busy. You know my schedule better than I do—I really would have to schedule dates. And so far, I’ve just not met anyone worth dating. Alessa is beautiful and talented, and part of me wishes it was like that, but the spark just wasn’t there. Alessa and I talked about it.”
“So you’re not a monk?”
“Not hardly.”
“What with you never going on dates and rarely even going out drinking with your co-stars, I was kind of starting to wonder.”
This irritates me. “Jen…” I suppress it, though; it’s understandable. “I’m just focused on my career.”
“Understood.” She shoos me. “You better go. I’ve heard the director doesn’t appreciate tardiness.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
As I head into the studio for the table read, though, I wonder if my pursuit of career was getting in the way of having a life. Finding someone.
How am I supposed to find someone to share life with if my time is scheduled off and blocked out every minute of every day from six in the morning till midnight?
The table read is…fine. It’s a table read. I’ve watched the original a hundred times until I know the dialogue by heart. I can do the original classic footwork blindfolded. I know my character—I know his secrets, the things you’ll never see on the screen but which make him a real character. I know most of my lines; the script itself is still a work in progress, getting tweaked here and there at every table read, and I anticipate it being massaged further when we get to actual rehearsals and filming.
After that, Jen whisks me off yet again for my dinner with Marty Conlan, my agent.
Our table is in a back corner of a dimly lit LA industry-popular spot, where actors, directors, agents, and producers and such can meet with a minimum of cameras and staring. Marty stands when I arrive, greets me with a handshake that turns into a hug. Marty is the archetype of the garrulous, overly friendly, overly chipper sort who invariably says “I’m a hugger” when he meets you for the first time. He’s medium height, portly, always a little red in the face with a bead of sweat on his upper lip and a tendency to keep his arms down to hide pit stains. Blond-brown hair, receding, and a goatee that does his round face no favors. But Marty is the agent. He knows everyone. He’s been an industry insider since forever, and has a large percentage of the industry on speed dial, and is on a first-name basis with anyone who’s anyone. He’s freakishly easy to talk to, and can wax endlessly and knowledgeably on topics ranging from politics to sports, ancient history to the development of modern music from classical through pop-rock.