One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [199]
This had to be a mistake. The line snaked through a doorway and into a small waiting room. A girl walked by with a clipboard. Lola stopped her. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m Lola Fabrikant. I have an appointment for an audition at two.”
“Sorry,” the young woman said. “It’s an open call. You have to wait in line.”
“I don’t wait in lines,” Lola said. “I write a sex column. The producers contacted me personally.”
“If you don’t wait in line, you won’t get to audition.”
Lola huffed and puffed but went to the end of the line.
She was stuck on the line for two hours. Finally, after she inched through the hallway and into the waiting room, it was her turn. She went into a rehearsal room, where four people sat behind a long table. “Name?” one of them asked.
“Lola Fabrikant,” she said, tossing her head.
“Do you have a photo and résumé?”
“I don’t need one,” Lola scoffed, surprised that they didn’t seem to know who she was. “I have my own column online. My picture is on it every week.”
She was asked to sit in a small chair. A man aimed a video camera at her while the producers began asking questions.
“Why did you come to New York?”
“I…” Lola opened her mouth and froze.
“Let’s start again. Why did you come to New York?”
“Because…” Lola tried to continue but was stifled by all the possible explanations. Should she tell them about Windsor Pines and how she’d always thought she was destined for bigger things? Or was that too arrogant? Maybe she should start with Philip. Or how she had always seen herself as a character in Sex and the City. But that wasn’t exactly true. Those women were old and she was young.
“Er…Lola?” someone asked.
“Yes?” she said.
“Can you answer the question?”
Lola reddened. “I came to New York,” she began again stiffly, and then her mind went blank.
“Thank you,” one of the producers said.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“You can go.”
“Am I done?”
“Yes.”
Lola stood up. “Is that it?”
“Yes, Lola. You’re not what we’re looking for, but thank you for coming in.”
“But…”
“Thank you.”
Opening the door, she heard one of them call out, “Next.”
In a state of confusion, Lola stepped into the elevator. What had just happened? Had she blown it? Wandering down Ninth Avenue toward her apartment, she felt numb, then angry, then full of grief, as if someone had just died. Climbing the worn steps to her apartment, she wondered if the person who had just died was her.
She flopped onto the unmade bed, staring at a large brown-rimmed water stain on the ceiling. She’d pinned her whole future on that audition—on getting the part. And now, two hours later, it was over. What was she supposed to do with her life now? Rolling over, she checked her e-mails. There was one from her mother, wishing her luck on the audition, and a text from James. James, she thought. At least she still had James. “Call me,” he’d written.
She punched in his number. It was nearly five o’clock, meaning it was a little late to be calling, as his wife sometimes came home early, but Lola didn’t care. “Hello?” James asked in a stage whisper.
“It’s me. Lola.”
“Can I call you right back?”
“Sure,” Lola said. She hung up, rolled her eyes, and tossed the phone onto the bed. Then she began pacing, walking back and forth before the cheap full-length mirror she’d placed against one of the bare walls. She looked damn good—so what was wrong with those producers? Why hadn’t they seen what she saw? She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying not to cry. New York wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. She’d been in New York an entire year, and not one thing had worked out properly. Not Philip, or her “career,” or even Thayer Core. Her phone rang—James. “What?” she said in annoyance. And then, remembering that James was one of her last meal tickets left at the moment, she lightened her tone. “Do you want to come over?” she asked.
James was outside in the Mews with Skippy, not daring to make this call in his own apartment.