Page 7 of Wish Upon A Star
“What romance? I’ve worked for you for two and a half years, and that one date with Alessa is the closest I’ve seen you come to anything like romance.”
I shrug. “I’ve been busy. You know my schedule better than I do—I really would have to schedule dates. And so far, I’ve just not met anyone worth dating. Alessa is beautiful and talented, and part of me wishes itwaslike that, but the spark just wasn’t there. Alessa and I talked about it.”
“So you’renota monk?”
“Not hardly.”
“What with you never going on dates and rarely even going out drinking with your co-stars, I was kind of starting to wonder.”
This irritates me. “Jen…” I suppress it, though; it’s understandable. “I’m just focused on my career.”
“Understood.” She shoos me. “You better go. I’ve heard the director doesn’t appreciate tardiness.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
As I head into the studio for the table read, though, I wonder if my pursuit of career was getting in the way of having a life. Finding someone.
How am I supposed to find someone to share life with if my time is scheduled off and blocked out every minute of every day from six in the morning till midnight?
* * *
The table read is…fine.It’s a table read. I’ve watched the original a hundred times until I know the dialogue by heart. I can do the original classic footwork blindfolded. I know my character—I know his secrets, the things you’ll never see on the screen but which make him a real character. I know most of my lines; the script itself is still a work in progress, getting tweaked here and there at every table read, and I anticipate it being massaged further when we get to actual rehearsals and filming.
After that, Jen whisks me off yet again for my dinner with Marty Conlan, my agent.
Our table is in a back corner of a dimly lit LA industry-popular spot, where actors, directors, agents, and producers and such can meet with a minimum of cameras and staring. Marty stands when I arrive, greets me with a handshake that turns into a hug. Marty is the archetype of the garrulous, overly friendly, overly chipper sort who invariably says “I’m a hugger” when he meets you for the first time. He’s medium height, portly, always a little red in the face with a bead of sweat on his upper lip and a tendency to keep his arms down to hide pit stains. Blond-brown hair, receding, and a goatee that does his round face no favors. But Marty istheagent. He knows everyone. He’s been an industry insider since forever, and has a large percentage of the industry on speed dial, and is on a first-name basis with anyone who’s anyone. He’s freakishly easy to talk to, and can wax endlessly and knowledgeably on topics ranging from politics to sports, ancient history to the development of modern music from classical through pop-rock.
He also can sell water to a fish. Which means, when he thinks a role is perfect for me, it’s hard to say no. Also complicating things is that he’s rarely wrong.
As I sit down across from him and let him order drinks for us, I can tell he has ideas that he’s going to sell me on, roles I’m going to resist and will inevitably end up saying yes to. I’m already contracted for three films over the next eighteen months, which means either he’s looking into the next two to four years, or he’s intentionally overbooking me to create demand.
He’s sneaky like that.
When we have whiskey sours and house salads, he finally dives into his spiel. “So, Wes.Singin’ in the Rain. Table reads. How goes it?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Dance lessons?”
“Cranking it up to six hours a day starting next week. Choreographing my own number.”
He nods thoughtfully, points at me with his fork, on which is speared a piece of arugula and red onion. “Have someone record it as if it’s stolen footage, and I’ll have it leaked. It’ll be great.”
I give him a confused frown. “Why don’t I just, you know, record on purpose and post it on purpose?”
He waves with his fork, then chomps down, speaks while chewing. “Making like it’s illicit makes it more fun for the people. Like they’re getting a peak at you that they’re not supposed to. It puts you on a pedestal while humanizing you at the same time. Especially if you’re sweaty and tired and look like a billion bucks.”
“I don’t like gimmicks, Marty.”
“It’s not a gimmick. It’s a strategy. Trust me. Then we’ll do an interview about the footage, and by the time the movie premiers, people will be nuts to see you dance.” He stabs the air with his fork in time with his next words, creating a headline. “‘Westley Britton—singer, songwriter, actor, and now dancer. What can’t he do?’”
“Get a solo recording contract?” I suggest.
“Nah, you’re past that, Wes. Trust me on this.”
“Past that? That’s my dream, Marty. My music, my way.” I pause as the server comes by with our main courses, and then resume haranguing my agent. “I love acting. I really do. I want to continue taking roles, and the more musicals that come by the better, but dramatic roles, comedy, action, I want to do it all. But Marty, even if it’s a one-off thing, just one album, one tour—I want it to be me, on a stage, playing the songs I write.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, as we dig into our meals. After a few bites, he slows down and addresses my point. “Wes, you gotta trust me. I have a plan.”