A tote bag hangs on my other arm, large enough to hold the bulky pages. By now, the paper is worn from being handled, a coffee stain blemishes the title page, and a yellow tab marks a particular scene.
All signs of deep-reading and preparation, so I know the story as if I wrote it myself. The screenplay is good. Really good. And as usual, Lin is on point.
Typical for most horror movies, the fear and tension are there. But it also has heart. An undercurrent of emotion threading through the drama. I find myself attached to my character. I root for her. I worry for her. One moment my heart is hammering in my chest, the next it’s pinching with empathy.
A film like this is a rare find, and I want the part more than ever. I don’t simply want it, Ineedit. The desire to play Claudia lights a fire in my veins, sparking a fast and furious whirl of ideas.
I’ve chosen a scene, so the next task is to make notes on the scene’s rhythm, paying attention to where I need extra emphasis. How does the dialogue affect my breathing? What are the dominant sounds? Where are the words that relay emotion and nouns that paint a picture?
This is where I’ll focus, the most compelling section. The lines that will show casting directors what I want them to see. My skill as an actor.
Not the nasty scandal nipping at my heels.
Coming to a stop at the corner, I check my phone to verify my location. The café I want to try sits on the next block. The perfect place for a working breakfast, with round wooden tables and minty-green walls.
Quintessential Parisian charm. Bright and cheery.
Unlike the apartment.
Picturing dark paneling and hidden stairs has me lifting my face to the brisk, clean wind. And that’s when I spot a familiar form.
My feet stutter to a halt.Why is she here?
Slipping behind a rack of postcards, I hunker down and peek out to the street.
It’s the woman who was watching Maison Marteau. I’m sure of it. She’s wearing her blonde hair down and without the ball cap, but the patch on her jacket gives her away.
She stands on the sidewalk, her head swinging back and forth, like she’s searching for something.
Did she follow me? Maybe lost me when I popped into the market?
She bounds into the street, crossing to this side, scanning the sidewalk as she walks. Then her eyes lock with mine. Recognition tightens her face, and she makes a beeline in my direction.
Dammit, dammit. Paparazzo. She has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Did she get a good look at me? Or worse…did she get a picture?
The story in Hollywood is blowing up, and the press is hunting cast and crew who worked onThe Last Wave. Gaffer, key grip, makeup artist. Even non-principal actors like me. Overnight, we all became tickets to fast cash.
But if my name is linked to a salacious scandal, my odds of landing the new role will plummet.
A tall man passes by, so I slide in front of him, rushing back the way I came and cutting down an alley.
The woman is nowhere in sight, but she’ll be rounding the corner any second. I need to get off the street.
A restaurant comes up on my left, so I slip inside. The door closes behind me, shutting out the din of the city.
The storefront is nothing but glass, so I move close to a partition and try to blend with shadows.
I don’t see the woman. Did I lose her?
“Voudriez-vous une table?” A mustached man is beside me. He holds a menu, brows raised in question.
“Sorry?”
He clears his throat and nods. “Would you like a table?”
“Uh…” Another glance out the window and I make up my mind. “Yes, please.”
