Chapter 1
Pat
“Stop acting like the character is mad,” the casting director shouted at me. I frowned. The character was clearly as mad as a hatter at a tea party.
“Sorry, but in this scene she attacks her husband with a frying pan and in the one before she called her son’s school to tell them that if he ever receives a C again, she’ll tear the school down and poison them all with rat poison.”
“Yes, yes,” the casting director was waving her hands irritably. “She’s having a meltdown. She’s not mad, just sad. Try it again and act sad.”
There was one rule in Hollywood as an actress: do as the director, or in this case — casting director — says.
I nodded. Then I begun my monologue once more.
“You bitch, you let my son eat candy at your place. Don’t you understand his teeth will rot. He can get sick because of you. And just think of the bills from the dentist…”
“Stop. This isn’t working. Thanks for coming and have a good day.”
The casting director waved me off. It was time for her to watch actress no. 102 if I were to believe my ticket — I was 101. And this was a no-budget student film. To translate that: you don’t get pay and there’s little chance the film will ever be seen by anyone but a select few friends of the crew and actors.
So why, dear readers, was I here? I, a woman approaching 40, who normally got at least $75 an hour ($150 for private classes) teaching kids how to act in a small town in California? I who had trained three child stars, which had given me such a great reputation people flew in with their kids to see me.
It was simple: I was tired of fame obsessed mothers (and fathers — though they were less frequent) and my soon to be ex husband. OK, so divorce would take another two years as the state of California doesn’t grant one until you’ve been separated for two years. But I was through with him and with playing small. So, four weeks ago I packed everything I could fit into my Beetle (the one thing I’d kept during all my years of marriage) and drove to L.A. To the one city I used to love and call home. However, in my hippie twenties when I, believe it or not, had been a model and actress, I’d had the fabulous idea that it was time to settle down and leave Hollywood. Models don’t last long and my acting career had consisted of small parts in TV shows and films. Nothing secure, nothing safe, nothing settled.
Truth be told, I’d been scared. I was in a dream position back then — a bit more hard work and I could have made it. But I’d been petrified that I never would make it. That I was getting too old to become a star. And I’d seen what desperate thirty-somethings did in Hollywood.
The thing with Hollywood is that there are two sides to it. One is the side where happy filmmakers and actors do what they love: make movies. The other consists of desperation; desperation to get a job so you no longer have to wipe tables in bars, desperation to become famous, desperation to become rich, desperation to get seen by the right people in the right places, desperation for another line of coke… Hollywood is brutal if you’re there for the wrong reasons.
So why had I returned, aged 45, to pursue a career in acting? Because I love movies. I love acting. And if there is one place in the world where you find more acting jobs than anywhere else it’s L.A. I’d never been part of the desperate side of L.A., I’d only ever been there to act. And I was never again to let my fear of failure stop me from doing what I wanted. Also, I had something to prove…
Four weeks earlier I’d caught my husband between the legs of a prostitute. Yeah, that’s about as graphic as it gets. I’d known for years he was cheating. I’d put up with it. The good wife. The one that loved having a home. Loved taking care of her husband. The understanding wife. The one that knew that almost all couples cheat at some point (read the statistics). The one that thought that the marriage itself was more important than the odd sexual encounter when away on business. And in open relationships, that’s probably true, but we’d never had an open relationship. And when you see your husband with a prostitute in your own bedroom…where does that put your marriage? He can’t even resist buying sex? Like your marriage is worth so little to him he actually gives in tobuyingsex?
As I walked out from the casting I shivered in the cold January air. L.A. doesn’t get cold the way it gets cold in most places, but wearing only a t-shirt, the winter air felt cool against my skin. It was below 50 degrees.
I also shivered as the memory of that horrible day came back to me.
It was the day after New Year’s and most people were taking the day off. I, on the other hand, had a private class with an eager client who had come up from L.A. with her child. I left my husband at home and headed to my studio, only to receive a message on my phone saying the client had to cancel as her child had come down with the flu.
So instead I turned my little Beetle around and drove to a local delicatessen to pick up some treats and wine for the evening. I envisioned a cozy night by the fireplace.
As I came home I walked straight through our house (a beautiful stone and wooden house with the perfect country feel) to our living room, where I’d left my husband. He was still there. On his knees in front of another woman, his head between her legs.
“Bill!” I shouted, in shock.
He didn’t even reply. He just looked at me; shock registering on his face too.
I walked straight out of there and drove to my friend, Jane. That I made it there in one piece is a miracle as tears were streaming down my cheeks; turning my vision blurry.
Jane opened the door as soon as I knocked, but her smile soon turned into a worried expression as she took me in.
“Pat, my God, what’s happened? Is it your parents? Did your mom get sick again?” Jane was the kind of wonderful, loving, woman everyone should know and she’d been my rock when my mom had faced illness two years prior.
“No, it’s Bill,” I managed to squeak out between sobs.
“Was there an accident? Pat, please, try to breathe. Come sit down. I’ll make you tea. You look like you’ve had a shock. Come here honey.” She led me to her couch where I finally told her what happened, sobbing as I went along. She didn’t say much, just held me as I let my tears out. Eventually she got up to make a cup of tea. Jane had always believed that a cup of tea was at the very least half the answer to any problem and normally I’d agree, but that morning I felt beyond consolation.
“It will be alright, pumpkin,” she comforted me as she handed me a cup of steaming tea; a spicy blend to give me strength, no doubt.
“How, can it be alright? I’m forty-five years old, childless and with a husband who has no respect for me. Maybe he loves me for what I give him, but he doesn’t respect me. Which means I must have no respect for myself, because I’ve stayed with him. And I’ve waited with kids. And waited. And waited. I’m not even happy with my work anymore. I want to act, not just teach others to act.”
