Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 77(@300wpm)
As a result, my life couldn’t be more perfect. I’m living in the Big Apple, comfortably ensconced in the arms of a sexy man, and pursuing my desire of becoming an actress. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, you could get a job, the voice in my head says ruefully as I enter the audition building. It would be nice not to depend on Blake for everything.
That’s true, but my lover doesn’t mind providing for me because he has so much money that it doesn’t make a difference. Besides, I have a secret, and my hand goes to gently rub over my tummy. All those nights of pulling out didn’t work, and I’m now ten weeks pregnant. It makes this audition a little pointless because the role I’m gunning for is as a showgirl, so it’d be odd if I were as huge as a whale. But I haven’t had a chance to reveal my pregnancy to Blake yet, so I’m auditioning today as if everything’s the same.
Once in the waiting room, I look around. Yep, the other girls look the usual suspects from the New York hopeful-actress scene. All the girls are pretty, but not too pretty, as we don’t want to distract the audience from the plot of the play. Quite a few are tapping their feet or humming silently as they listen to music in their earbuds because we’re going to sing a short number as part of the audition, as well as do a small dance. It’s fun, to be honest. I have my routine down pat, and I’m not nervous at all.
“Ms. Lane?” a woman with a clipboard calls from over by the side of the room. “Cindy Lane?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I say, jumping up. “I’m ready.”
She nods.
“Follow me, please.”
With a bright smile, I smooth down my skirt and trail the woman down a brightly lit hallway. She knocks on a nondescript door and then opens it.
“Mr. Follows is already inside waiting,” she says without meeting my eye.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping into the room. The door shuts behind me and I hear a click. It sounded like the lock, but it must have been my imagination.
Before me is a portly man whose stomach bulges out like he’s just eaten a whale. He’s dressed shabbily, but that’s not unheard of for Broadway producers. His hair is sparse and combed straight back using too much gel so he looks a bit like a grease money. Well, you can’t account for taste, that’s for sure.
He glances at his clipboard and then looks up at me.
“Ms. Lane, is it?” he asks in an oily voice. “How nice to meet you.”
I nod, putting on my brightest smile.
“I’m excited to be trying out for RazzMaTazzle,” I say in what I hope is an eager-sounding tone. “I’ve always dreamed of putting on a sparkly uniform and pretending to be a showgirl.”
He nods.
“Yes, that’s what all the girls tell me,” he hisses sibilantly. “Now I understand you have a piece ready for me? Something from My Fair Lady?”
I nod.
“It’s the song Eliza sings when she’s still selling flowers out on the street. It’s a classic.”
With that, I lift my chin and begin to sing.
“Lots of chocolates for me to eat—”
But George Follows cuts me off.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not the type of audition we’re looking for. Eliza Doolittle is a bedraggled mouse on the streets of London, whereas the character you’re auditioning for is a jaded showgirl. Do you have any other numbers to perform that would highlight your vocal skills and dance abilities?”
I stare at him, feeling dumb.
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t,” I say in a small voice. “Should I come back?”
He grins at me, and I feel like I’m looking into the eyes of a snake. His voice becomes even more sibilant as his gaze narrows.
“No need to leave just yet. Why don’t you sing the song “Come To Me” from Hustlers? It’s a showstopper, with just the right edge we’re looking for.”
I stare at him.
“Don’t you know it?” he asks carelessly. “Or are you not familiar with that number?”
“I’m familiar with it,” I say in a choked voice. “But Jane in Hustlers sings it while she’s taking her clothes off. She is a wannabe stripper, after all.”
“She is,” grins Mr. Fellows. “Which makes this number appropriately gritty. Now begin,” he commands.
I stare at him, blinking like a fool, but what choice do I have? I can’t storm out of here without seeming unprofessional. As a result, I begin to sing while swaying my hips half-heartedly.
“Mennnnn,” I hum. “Oh glorious mennnnn. Hot and handsome glorious mennnnnn.”
Trying to look enthusiastic, I twirl around a bit while shaking my booty and shoot what I hope is a flirtatious look over one shoulder. It feels so gross to be doing this, but I need to come off like a serious actress because George Fellows is a powerful, well-known producer on Broadway. If I turn in a less than stellar performance, he has the ability to blackball me from any future work.