Jane Austen Goes to Hollywood(17)
Author: Abby McDonald

It didn’t have to be either/or, Hallie would argue right back. They could pick and.

That was when she finally saw the light and realized that Hollywood wasn’t the end of all her dreams: it could be the beginning of them. There were plenty of respected teachers in town, and what better way to learn her craft than to actually get out there and act! Theater groups, indie movies . . . Hallie could get more experience on stages and sets than she ever would cooped up in a classroom in college. She even felt sorry for her friends: they would be trapped by the chains of textbooks and term papers, while she would roam free to be her true creative self —

A car horn blasted, and Hallie leaped back just in time to avoid the low bronze sports car cruising past. “Hey!” she called after it. “That was my light!”

A slim arm slipped out of the tinted window, and the driver flipped Hallie off with a perfectly manicured hand. Charming.

Hallie looked around. She was out of the neighborhood now, onto Rodeo Drive with its spotless sidewalks and gleaming storefronts; the sheen of light reflecting off polished windows seemed to make everything look brighter, sharper. Sports cars rolled slowly down the street, and inside every boutique, a silent doorman waited so that customers wouldn’t even have to demean themselves by pushing inside. Hallie had seen wealth, of course — San Francisco was hardly some truck-stop backwater — but under the blazing bright sun, this still seemed like another world, of glamour, and success, and infinite sunshine.

A world where she belonged. Yes, this was exactly where Hallie was supposed to be, and she was going to prove it. Starting today.

Hallie checked the address on her printed map, then gazed up at the towering office building. As well as having designer stores and cute cafés, the neighborhood had five major talent agencies, home to the very best actors in town — and Hallie’s future. She took a deep breath and strode inside, across the plush lobby.

“Hi.” Hallie beamed at the receptionist. He was in his twenties, sharp-suited and marooned behind the desk in the middle of a vast marble lobby. “I have a delivery for Marshall Gates.”

The man barely looked at her. “No, he said the car would be here at noon.” He had a headset on, stabbing at buttons on the console in front of him with dizzying speed. “Please hold. No, you need the fifth floor. This is Dynamic, how can I direct your call?”

“Hello?” Hallie tried again. “If I can just leave this . . .”

The man held up one finger. “Noon. I don’t care, just get it here!” Finally, the receptionist flickered a gaze at Hallie. “Yes?”

“I have a package, for Marshall Gates.” She slid a manila envelope across the desk, neatly addressed and containing her headshot, résumé, and a DVD of her assorted acting highlights. Hallie had stayed up all night editing the best clips together. Her Desdemona — performed by her flash theater troupe in the parking lot during an Oakland Raiders game — was a personal best, she felt, with a death scene so convincing three passersby had called an ambulance.

The receptionist slid the envelope back. “We don’t accept unsolicited materials.” He tapped his headset again. “Dynamic, please hold.”

“You don’t understand,” Hallie tried again, making her smile even brighter. “I just want him to take a look. When he sees my test reel, he’ll thank you!”

“You and five thousand other girls.” He gave her a withering stare.

Hallie’s smile faded. “Can’t you make an exception, just this once? Just slip it in with his other mail.”

The man smirked. “Mail comes from the mail room. Does this look like the mail room?”

“No.” Hallie swallowed. “Can’t you say it’s a delivery? Or even let me take it up myself? I won’t say anything, I promise!”

“Let you in here?” he snorted. “It’s company policy, there’s nothing I can do. No. Unsolicited. Materials.” The man used his index finger to push the envelope back, a few inches with every word.

Hallie decided it was time to change tactics. “If those are the rules, then how do I get solicited?”

He smirked.

“I didn’t mean . . .” Hallie blushed, realizing her double entendre. Her confidence was crumbling in the face of such disdain. “Just, tell me, please. What does it take for them to take a look?”

“Have your manager submit it.” He looked bored, already stabbing at the console again. “Get scouted by a casting agent. Perform in a showcase. Jesus, did you just step off the bus today?”

“A few weeks ago.” Hallie’s voice was small.

“Welcome to Hollywood, sweetie.” His voice was scathing. “Now, are you going to leave me alone, or do I need to call security?”

It was the same at all the other agencies. Hallie tried her best smiles, her most charming tone — even buying a bouquet of balloons and trying to masquerade as a PR girl with a special gift delivery — but it made no difference. The receptionists barely looked up long enough to sneer at her with polished condescension, before pushing her portfolio back across the desk, or — worse even — sliding it straight into the trash.

She stood in line at the Coffee Bean, seething with frustration. It wasn’t as if she’d expected Hollywood to welcome her with open arms, but this was impossible! To have an agent even take a look at her photo, Hallie would have to have a manager submit it, but to get a manager, she had to have interest from an agent. What was she supposed to do?

“Can I help you?”

“I’ll have a large vanilla ice-blended with extra espresso.” Hallie eyed the blond barista’s perfectly toned arms. Maybe she should take Amber up on that gym recommendation. “Can I get that light?” she added.

“Sure. That’ll be five twelve.”

Hallie opened her wallet. Two lone dollar bills stared back. Her heart sank. Her bank account was empty, and her credit card was maxed out from that spree last week to buy all her “moving to L.A.” essentials. (New wardrobe, audition monologue books, a fabulous new bathing suit with a genuine 1950s vintage cover-up . . . )

“It’s OK. I can, uh, get that.”

A guy in line behind her moved to the register, his wallet already out. He was in his early twenties, maybe, with a burnished-copper tan and stubble. His clothes were scruffy — a rumpled navy shirt, jeans that were clearly not designer — and when he turned back from the cashier toward her, Hallie saw an ugly scar snaking up from the neckline of his shirt, the red puckered skin cutting up the side of his neck.