Page 53 of The Score

“It’s the perfect role for you, sweetheart,” Ira raves. “You can play the cute ditzy type in your sleep.”

Yes. I can. But I’m not sure I want to. Every role I’ve ever had has been the cute ditzy type. It would be nice to broaden my horizons, stretch my acting muscles a bit.

Except…this isnetwork television, for crying out loud. I have a chance to co-star in a pilot that, going by the buzz already surrounding it, will undoubtedly be picked up for a full season.

“I’ll give it another read tonight,” I promise. Then I try to conjure up some enthusiasm about potentially playing Bonnie, but I’m not feeling even an iota ofwheeeee!

Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve read anything that’s triggered mywheeeee!meter. The last project I was excited about was the play I did for Brett Carson this summer.

“Casting starts in February,” Ira tells me.

I furrow my brow. “That’s almost three months from now. Why did they cast the part of Zoey so early?”

“They wanted to lock down Kate Ashby beforeanother network could poach her. The producers are wrapping up the final season of their other show, and then they’ll be ready to get the ball rolling on this project. They want you to fly out on February sixth.”

My stomach drops. “I can’t.Widowopens on the eighth. We have dress rehearsals that week.”

“Widow?”

“The play I’m doing at school.”

Ira sighs. “Any chance they’ll let you skip dress rehearsals?”

“Not a one.”

“Shit.”

Silence ensues. Ira does that a lot, falling deep in thought for minutes at a time. I think he forgets we’re on the phone and not in the same room.

“Ira?” I prompt.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Thinking…” After another long pause, his brisk voice returns. “All right, let me get Virgil’s assistant on the line. I’ll see what we can do.”

He disconnects the call without saying goodbye, which is another bad habit of his. He insists he doesn’t have time for “that crap.”

Ten minutes later, I walk up the path to Bristol House and swipe my ID at the entrance. I probably won’t hear back from Ira today, and a part of me hopes the producers come back and say,Tough shit. If she can’t read on the day we want her to read, we’ll give the role to someone else.

Which is a crazy thing to hope for, because, again: Network. Television.

What is wrong with me?

Many things, apparently, because not only am I considering skipping an audition that could launchmy career, I’m also planning on having sex with Dean Di Laurentis tonight.

Yep, our sex date is still on like Donkey Kong. I haven’t changed my mind. In fact, I’m…God have mercy on my soul…anticipating it. I’m even bailing on my workout today to prepare for it.

After wolfing down a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I call a cab to drive me to the salon in Hastings.

Tanya, my mani/pedi/wax guru, is ready and waiting when I stroll through the door. I decided long ago that she’s a sadist, because she’s alarmingly gung-ho about torturing my nether regions. We get the Brazilian out of the way first, because I don’t like having the idea of Hot Wax Torture hanging over my head during my manicure.

Once I’m bare as a baby’s bottom, Tanya rubs soothing oil over the sensitive area and ducks out of the room while I slip my undies and leggings back on. It usually takes a few hours before the redness down below subsides, but Dean’s not coming over until nine, so I’ll have plenty of downstairs recovery time and then I’ll be good to go.

I leave the wax room and join Tanya at her manicure station. An hour later, I waltz out of the salon rocking fire-engine-red nail and toe polish, because I think Dean will get a kick out of seeing my bright-red nails scraping his washboard abs. I’d asked Tanya to make them shorter and rounder this time, so I don’t scratch the shit out of him again.

On the cab ride back to the dorm, I try to figure out whether I’m excited or disappointed in myself. I still can’t believe I caved in to Dean’s potent masculinity, but I can’t deny I’m eager to reacquaint myself with his magical penis.

Unless…what if it’s lost its appeal? I mean, how many times can you really rub a genie’s lamp before its magical powers run out? Or does a genie’s lamp hold an infinite number of wishes?

Deep thoughts with Allison Jane Hayes, folks.

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