Bliss (4 page)

Good for you
, thought Sophia.
Now shut the fuck up!

“Am I bothering you?”

She didn't mean to be short with Marina, but Sophia was finding it hard to focus on her sides as it was. Demi's breakup had really thrown her, and she couldn't take on another person's problem at the moment. “I really need to read this,” she said, holding up the page.

How much longer could she keep going on auditions that didn't pan out? She was exhausted, working at the club all night, then studying for and schlepping to auditions during the day. It was hard to stay positive when all the feedback had been neutral, negative, or nonexistent.

Marina said, “You should take some classes, too, for fun. Sometimes I go to an evening workshop at Ta-Da for drop-ins, just something to do. It's very low pressure.”

The assistant director with the iPad called out, “Marina Tanner?”

“Oh, my god!” said Marina, jumping up. “Wish me luck!” She bounced into the audition room, leaving Sophia to study the sides. A few minutes later, Marina came out, beaming. She mouthed to Sophia, “Nailed it!” and then practically skipped down the hallway.

Poor delusional girl
, thought Sophia. But at least she's staying positive. She thought she nailed every audition, too, especially when she first started out. Christ, did she sound like a grisly, embittered veteran at twenty-one? Wince. A few more girls went in and out of the room to read. Sophia's eyelids grew heavy, but she wasn't sleepy. More like weary.
Don't go there!
she yelled at herself in her head.
Stay positive!

A text came from Agnes: “Are you there?”

“Here,” she typed back.

“Call me the minute it's over.”

After nearly an hour, Sophia's name was called. Instantly wide awake, she mentally recited her mantra—
Walk like a star! Walk like a badass!
—and entered the room of judgment.

Three people sat behind a table, two men and a woman, all middle-aged with blank expressions.
Can't you muster a little smile? Come on, people! You have jobs!
Sophia stood on the blue tape mark in the center of the room. The woman turned on the video recorder on the table. Sophia introduced herself to the writer, director, and casting agent for
Niagara
. While examining her head shot, they asked about her previous work (not much to tell). The trio sized her up to see if she matched the physical type they were looking for—slim, tall, mane, good face. Apparently, she passed the first hurdle.

“Whenever you're ready,” the director said, holding out his hand in the “please proceed” gesture.

Sophia exhaled. She opened her mouth to deliver the opening lines of the pages she'd memorized … and couldn't remember a single word.

“Are you okay?” asked the woman, the writer.

“I need a prompt.”

The casting agent said, “‘It's all about control.'”

Yes, that was the first line. Sophia cleared her throat and said, “It's all about control.” And then … nothing. A blank. A void in her head where the words were supposed to be. “I'm so sorry, this has never happened to me before.”

The CA repeated, “‘It's all about control. Self-control, and controlling other people.'”

Sophia said the line, praying the rest of the material would magically pop into her head. Nope. Her mouth was dry, like she'd swallowed sand. “Can I glance at the sides? I've got this. Just a quick look and…”

“Thank you,” said the director, this time giving her the “please leave” hand gesture. She was only halfway out the door when she heard the writer say, “Well,
that
was a complete waste of time.”

Too stunned to be crushed, Sophia walked out of the room in a daze. A text came in from Agnes: “How did it go? Call me.”

Sophia couldn't bring herself to reply.
What happened?
Leandra would blame Demi for upsetting her mojo. But then again, Leandra would blame Demi for climate change, the recession, aliens attacking the planet. Demi would blame Leandra for shit-stirring and suffocating her. Last night, Sophia had stared at her vision board and tried to manifest getting this part. Why wasn't
The Secret
working?

Because I'm just going through the motions
, she thought.

She had to admit the truth. Her focus was off. She was staying up all night (for work and after), making out with randos, sleeping late, blowing off workouts, eating like shit. She had to get her head in the game.

Sophia rode the elevator down to the street with half a dozen other would-be stars. Some looked happy; most were dejected. She refused to put herself in that camp. She had to do something to break out of this negative mind-set and sharpen her edge.

Maybe Marina was right. Taking an acting class might be a good idea.

*   *   *

That evening, Sophia entered the front door of the main building at the Toronto Academy of Dramatic Arts for an evening workshop for amateurs and students. As instructed by the website, she came ready to deliver a monologue. She was going to do the
Niagara
sides, just to prove to herself that she could do it. After a fall, you have to get back on the horse. Right now,
Niagara
was her horse.

She opened the classroom door. If Marina was there, Sophia might have to turn around and leave. There was only so much perky she could stand in one day. A dozen other people were seated in plastic chairs in two rows (no Marina, thank god). It was a nice mix of older and younger, male and female, a few people of color, including herself. It wasn't a typical acting class of young beautiful people, which was a relief. Sophia took an open seat. A man went to the front of the room and introduced himself as Wesly Shamrock, a part-time professor at the school. She put him in his late thirties, handsome, thin, with a quasi-brogue like a footman on
Downton Abbey
.

“I see a new face tonight,” he said. “Come on up here. Show us what you got.”

Sophia jumped right up. This kind of felt like performing for her parents' guests at dinner parties when she was a kid. When she was done, maybe they'd give her candy! She clicked to the front of the room in her sensible pumps.

Wesly said, “What's your name?”

“I'm Sophia Marcus, originally from Vancouver, but I moved to Toronto for the acting opportunities.”

“What are you performing for us tonight?”

“It's a monologue from a show I auditioned for today and…”

“Proceed,” he interrupted. Okay, backstory not needed. Got it.

Sophia exhaled and imagined herself the mean girl, the reigning Regina of high school. Without the pressure of it being for real, Sophia remembered every word of the monologue, and really got into it. When she finished, the group applauded and she took a cheeky low bow. She waited for Wesly's verdict, but he just sat there, shaking his head at her.

“So?”

“Obviously, you're gorgeous and your reading was competent,” said Wesly. “But I have to ask: Why on earth are you trying to slog it out in the acting world? It's dog-eat-dog, dog-puke-dog, dog-shit-dog, dog-eat-shit, and so on. This goes for all of you. Unless you can't see yourself doing anything else, get out now! Run for your lives!”

Sophia had certainly heard that before—although not in such gross detail. “Here's my advice to you, Sophia from Vancouver,” he said. “Go to Los Angeles and ride shotgun in some rich man's Ferrari for the next ten years. A sexy girl like you shouldn't have to work. You won the genetic lottery! Cash it in!”

“Ka-ching!” she said, pulling an imaginary lever.

He smiled smarmily. “So who's next?”

Sophia took her seat, grinning, squinting at him, imagining she could squash his head like a bug if she wanted. He'd written her off as just a pretty face. Wesly took himself seriously, though. His comments were all borderline cruel disguised as helpful. A classic case of “those who can't do, teach drama.” Throughout the rest of the class, Wesly kept up the refrain—“Quit now, before it's too late!”—no matter how good or truly awful the monologues were.

Acting school might be a good idea, but not here, and not with Wesly Shamrock. When the workshop ended, Sophia was beyond ready to bolt.

“Excuse me, Sophia?”

A guy tapped her on the shoulder as they filed out of the room. He was around her age, very handsome and as pretty as she was. “Yes?”

“I'm Scott Warren,” he introduced himself. “I really enjoyed your monologue. You're really good. Don't listen to Wesly.”

“You didn't do one,” she said.

“I went last week, but didn't have anything new. Sometimes it's cool to just watch. If you're free sometime, we could grab a coffee. My friends are bored with my talking about acting and auditions,” he said.

She laughed. “Same.”

If he were hitting on her, she would have hesitated. But she didn't get that vibe. As if to confirm her suspicions, he said, “It's not a date. You're not my type.”

“Really.”

“Meaning female. My type has XY chromosomes.”

Okay, then. “I'd love to have coffee,” she said, smiling. She might not have gotten any acting tips here, but maybe she'd get a new friend.

*   *   *

“Fuck them all. God, I hate casting agents,” said Renee, a bartender at CRUSH where Sophia was a bottle-service waitress. Like Sophia, Renee dreamed of stardom. She'd done some catalog modeling and, awhile back, starred as the Molson Canadian Girl in a commercial. They commiserated together, which Sophia appreciated. Renee was stunning. Perfect abs, toned arms, workout obsessed, beautiful face, and long brunette hair. But she was out for herself. Other people could be selfish but Renee was the ultimate “it's all about me” person.

Sophia wore her uniform of full makeup, a black minidress with a sequined bustier, and black leather thigh-high boots. The club was empty now, and freezing. In a few minutes, hundreds of people would crowd the dance floor and Sophia would run from table to table for six hours, logging a marathon in high heels. Renee didn't have it any easier behind the bar. She'd pour thousands of drinks, and do the physical labor of restocking the bar every hour and managing the guys who hit on her. She flirted huge tips out of them, which was how she paid the bills.

“I've never blanked like that before,” said Sophia. “It was terrifying.”

She expected Renee to give her the “It happens to everyone” speech. But instead, Renee said, “Maybe it's a blessing in disguise.”

“How so?”

“I'm going to quote the Buddha now, so brace yourself. ‘In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.'”

“So I should live more gently?” asked Sophia, laughing. The two of them often talked about when to let go of the dream, if ever, and usually encouraged each other to give it more time.

“Are you still going to LA?” asked Renee.

Sophia was planning to go to Hollywood in a month for pilot casting season. Agnes had set up some auditions for her. She'd have to take time off from work, which would be a financial blow. But, as Agnes said, “Now or never.” Especially after today, Sophia was wondering if a better description of her acting career was “now
and
never.”

“What's going on with you?” she asked Renee. “You had an audition this week, right?”

A blast of music came through the speakers. Sophia and Renee turned to wave at DJ Squayla, tuning up her boards. On either side of the DJ booth were platforms with poles for dancers. Below the platforms were several of the club's VIP tables. More tables skirted the dance floor. The hierarchy of seating status was determined by location, location, location. The closer to the DJ, the better the table, the flashier the customers, the bigger the tips.

“Less talking, more working,” boomed Vinnie Cardinale, forty-five, Toronto's poor-man's version of Tony Soprano. Fat, balding, a lover of polyester shirts, he owned CRUSH and had been her boss for three years. Renee immediately poured him two fingers of whiskey. Vinnie sipped it delicately, smacking his lips. “That's the stuff,” he said. “Renee, what's this I hear about you going to Los Angeles?”

“Wait,
you're
going to LA?” asked Sophia.

“Bobby's got a big mouth.” Bobby was another bartender at the club. He knew, too? “I was going to tell you tonight,” said Renee, seeing Sophia's expression. “It wasn't definite until yesterday.”

“What wasn't definite?”

Vinnie talked over her. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“A month. I'll be back for Canada Day in July,” said Renee. “Unless.”

“Unless?”

“I'm a hit and you'll never see me again.”

“Bullshit!” said Vinnie. “If you make it big, I'm coming to LA and you can give
me
a job.” He laughed at his own lame joke, which was his prerogative. “We open in five minutes. Sophia, you're working section one tonight. Don't say I didn't do anything for you.” Section one was like a shark tank, but the tips might be enormous. She took a deep breath, found her inner superwoman. She can do this; she can do anything.

Vinnie continued on his rounds, checking the various stations and staffers before the all-night party started. Renee filled a sink with ice, and loaded more beer into the fridge behind the bar. “It's no big deal,” said Renee. “It's just a commercial for Skyy vodka.”

“
What?!
Congratulations! That's fucking fantastic!” It really was.

Renee must have liked Sophia's reaction. She smiled broadly, letting her happiness come out. “It's good money,” she said. “Great exposure. It's going to take me places, I'm sure of it. Sorry I didn't tell you right away, but things have sucked so hard for so long for you.”