He also can sell water to a fish. Which means, when he thinks a role is perfect for me, it’s hard to say no. Also complicating things is that he’s rarely wrong.
As I sit down across from him and let him order drinks for us, I can tell he has ideas that he’s going to sell me on, roles I’m going to resist and will inevitably end up saying yes to. I’m already contracted for three films over the next eighteen months, which means either he’s looking into the next two to four years, or he’s intentionally overbooking me to create demand.
He’s sneaky like that.
When we have whiskey sours and house salads, he finally dives into his spiel. “So, Wes. Singin’ in the Rain. Table reads. How goes it?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Dance lessons?”
“Cranking it up to six hours a day starting next week. Choreographing my own number.”
He nods thoughtfully, points at me with his fork, on which is speared a piece of arugula and red onion. “Have someone record it as if it’s stolen footage, and I’ll have it leaked. It’ll be great.”
I give him a confused frown. “Why don’t I just, you know, record on purpose and post it on purpose?”
He waves with his fork, then chomps down, speaks while chewing. “Making like it’s illicit makes it more fun for the people. Like they’re getting a peak at you that they’re not supposed to. It puts you on a pedestal while humanizing you at the same time. Especially if you’re sweaty and tired and look like a billion bucks.”
“I don’t like gimmicks, Marty.”
“It’s not a gimmick. It’s a strategy. Trust me. Then we’ll do an interview about the footage, and by the time the movie premiers, people will be nuts to see you dance.” He stabs the air with his fork in time with his next words, creating a headline. “‘Westley Britton—singer, songwriter, actor, and now dancer. What can’t he do?’”
“Get a solo recording contract?” I suggest.
“Nah, you’re past that, Wes. Trust me on this.”
“Past that? That’s my dream, Marty. My music, my way.” I pause as the server comes by with our main courses, and then resume haranguing my agent. “I love acting. I really do. I want to continue taking roles, and the more musicals that come by the better, but dramatic roles, comedy, action, I want to do it all. But Marty, even if it’s a one-off thing, just one album, one tour—I want it to be me, on a stage, playing the songs I write.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, as we dig into our meals. After a few bites, he slows down and addresses my point. “Wes, you gotta trust me. I have a plan.”
“And that plan is what?”
“Remember all the publicity around A Star is Born? Brad and Stephani were all over the place, singing, doing the song together. And Brad isn’t even actually a musician. Stephani is, obviously, but that’s different. My plan is something like that. I’m looking for the perfect script, okay? The perfect vehicle to put you on screen and stage, as you, using your talent with a guitar, your songs, your star power. But…on the big screen and the stage. We’ll turn it into a tour. ‘You’ve seen the movie, now see the show—Westley Britton, live, for a limited time only.’ Like that. You just have to be patient.”
“And do a bunch of movies in the meantime.”
“Sure. You said you like acting, right? You’re good at it. You’ve got it, kid. You’ve got the charm, the looks, the talent—you just have to put in the time. You’re young. You’ve got less than half a dozen big titles under your belt, and yeah, you’re making waves. People know you. Producers and directors are starting to see what I saw when I got you Ask Me Again. But you need more roles. More draw, more star power. You want the project that puts you back on the map as a real, serious musician? You gotta work for it. Because projects like that come along once in a lifetime. And while you’re waiting for it to come along, you gotta put int the work so you’re in a position to take it on and do it justice.”
I nod, thinking. “Fine. So what’s next? I know you’ve got projects you’re itching to pitch.”
“You got my emails—you responded to them.”
“Yeah.” I smirk. “But if it was a real pitch, you’d bring it to me in person. None of the pitches you’ve ever sent me via email have ever been the real pitch you want me to see.”
He grins. “Ah, you’re on to me, I see.” He reaches to the side, to his briefcase on the bench beside him. Opens it, slaps a thick folder on the table in front of me. “You’ve done the heartthrob rom-com, you’ve done the coming-of-age bit, you’ve even sort of done the superhero bit, but I’m still working on a real leading superhero role. You’ve got the buddy cop flick after Singin’ in the Rain, then the James Dean biopic, and then the western. And yes, you’re sticking with the western. All my sources say westerns are making a comeback—that script is on the leading edge of a whole crop of westerns in production right now. It’ll be hot when it hits, trust me.”
I shrug. “I do. So what are these?” I open the folder and pull out the top script of four, skim the first few pages. “Reads like a political spy intrigue sort of piece.”
“It is. But I’ve got people attached to that script that you wouldn’t believe. I like you for the villain, actually. You need a turn as a villain, you need to flex your chops as something other than the good guy, the heartthrob, the twinkling smile and great hair.”
“So tell me about the role.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, read it first. I want your take on the script, I just wanted to let you know what I’m thinking. You could read for the hero, but that’d be the obvious angle.”
I skim a few more pages, nodding as I read some of the villain’s dialogue. “I can see it. A different look for me, maybe a little bit of a rasp. A scar, maybe.”
He grins, gesturing at me animatedly. “Exactly!” He points at the folder. “Read the rest. Tell me what you think. But I’m sold on the idea of you as a villain. Chicks dig the villain.”
I laugh at that. “Chicks dig the villain, huh?”
He snorts. “Maybe you kids say something else. What did I hear my kid say the other day? Something about someone named Stan? It was weird. But he says weird shit. He said the pork chops I made slap. Like, they slap? What does that mean?”
I laugh. “It means he liked them. They were good.”
“Oh, I thought so.” He pauses, eyes me. “So. Changing the topic. Alessa Howell.”
I shake my head, hold up a hand. “Nope.”
“Wes, come on. You need a name attached to yours. Some shots of you kissing a girl. Not a scandal. Just some tabloid gossip. Some talk. Alessa is perfect—she’s not famous enough to steal the spotlight from you, and she’s got that edge. I know you went out once. Just go out with her again. Get seen. Plant one on her.”
I sigh. “Marty, no. The dance video, sure. But I’m not dating anyone just to start the gossip machine going on my love life. I want to be known for my talent, my work, not for who I date.”
“It’s about relevance, Wes.”