“How about yourself?”
“Also not an actor.”
“That part I got,” he said. He smiled at me. He had some serious dimples. “Seeing as how you seem to have disdain for the profession.”
“I never said that.”
His eyes flitted briefly from the ground and back up to me. “You didn’t have to. I’m Hugo, by the way.” He stuck out his hand.
“Daphne.”
His fingers were long and cool. He had a silver ring around his pointer.
Then all at once the doors burst open and out walked the class.
My actor, Dionte, led the pack. A twenty-two-year-old kid with a smile that made me feel vaguely Mrs. Robinson–esque. “We’re late, I know. He wouldn’t let us leave before scene study.”
Dionte pivoted my elbow and started leading me back to the car. But not before I saw a slender brunette slip herself into Hugo’s arms.
Obviously, I thought.
I ran into him again five weeks later. By that point I hadbecome somewhat of a fixture on the Speiser/Sturges circuit. Dionte didn’t drive—his father had died in a motorcycle accident when he was just twelve years old, and it put him off being behind the wheel. So every Tuesday and Thursday I’d pick him up after class and bring him back to set.
It was now early June, and the weather in LA was turning from jeans and a T-shirt to tank top, shorts, and a water bottle.
When I arrived in the parking lot, Hugo was already there. This time he was wearing a white-and-blue button-down and a pair of loafers. He looked like Clooney.
I wasn’t sure he’d recognize me, but as soon as I stepped out of my car, he waved.
“Daphne, hi.”
“Hugo, right?”
He smiled wide. “Still not an actor. Although I did take up talk to text, briefly, if that counts.” He held up his hand. “Carpal tunnel.”
“The modern injury.” I hooked my bag over my shoulder and took some steps toward the door.
“Who are you here for?”
“An actor.”
He looked amused.
“I have to pick him up for work. I’m an assistant at CBS. He’s on a new one-hour drama.”
Hugo nodded. I didn’t ask his motivations; they seemed obvious.
“Do you like it?”
“Picking him up?”
Hugo coughed out a laugh. “No, the show.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
Once again the doors opened. Dionte walked out, similarly concerned about the time. I let him get into the car and made my way back slowly. I was just opening the door when I saw a girl fling her arms around Hugo’s neck. She was not the same girl from five weeks ago. This girl had blond hair. And a belly ring.
“Are we late?” Dionte asked from the passenger seat.
