She’d be more famous than Schiffer Diamond — and wouldn’t that show Philip and Enid Merle? The first thing she’d do with her money would be to buy an apartment in One Fifth. Even if it was a tiny one-bedroom, it wouldn’t matter. She’d haunt Philip and Enid and Schiffer Diamond for the rest of their lives.
The audition was at two, giving her plenty of time to buy a new outfit and get ready. Wrapping herself in a towel, she extracted a shoe box from under the bed and counted up her cash. It had taken her a couple of days to recover from Enid’s attack on her in the newspaper, but she had recovered, and when she did, she’d pointed out to Marquee that she was now genuinely famous and he needed to pay her more money.
She asked for five thousand dollars, which sent him into hysterics, but he agreed to up her payment to two thousand. So far, that had added up to eight thousand dollars; then there was the ten thousand Philip Oakland had given her and the two thousand dollars she got regularly from James Gooch. With James paying her rent and utilities, she’d been able to save twelve thousand dollars. Now she extracted three thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, which she planned to spend on something outrageous at Alexander McQueen.
Going into the boutique on Fourteenth Street, she immediately spotted a pair of suede over-the-thigh boots with buckles up the sides.
As she tried them on, the saleswoman cooed about how only she could wear them, which was all Lola needed to make up her mind. She purchased the boots, which were two thousand dollars, and carried them home in an enormous box. She zipped up the boots and pulled on the Hervé Léger bandage dress she had, in fact, bought a few weeks ago. The effect was startling. “Gorgeous,” Lola said aloud.
Full of brio, she cabbed it to the audition, although it was only seven blocks away in the offices of a well-known casting director. Going into the building, Lola found herself riding up in the elevator with a pack of eight other girls, who were obviously also going to audition. Lola assessed them and decided she was prettier and had nothing to worry about.
When the elevator doors opened on the fifteenth floor, there were even more young women, in every shape and size, lined up along the wall in the hallway.
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. “I need to talk to you about that,” he said tensely.
“So come over,” Lola replied.
“I can’t,” he hissed, looking around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “My wife found out. About us.”
“What?” Lola shrieked.
“Take it easy,” James said. “She found your sex column. And apparently, she read it.”
“What’s she going to do?” Lola asked with interest. If Mindy divorced James, it opened up new possibilities.
“I don’t know,” James whispered. “She hasn’t said anything yet. But she will.”
“What did she say?” Lola asked, growing irritated.
“She says we have to buy a house. In the country.”
“So?” Lola shrugged. “You’ll get divorced and she’ll live in the country and you’ll be in the city.” And I will move in with you, she thought.