Cora
For the next few weeks, Dylan and I plant ourselves in front of the faces of several social media mavens and put on a show for them. We amp up the PDA. Nothing tacky. Nothing overkill. Not so much that we look like we’re overcompensating for the speculation that our love is on the rocks.
A picture of us sipping champagne at a club after a show surfaced in a tabloid and another shot of us holding hands and trying to ignore the cameraman appeared in a teen magazine. Both images have captions commenting on how hot we are together or how cozy we look and basically imply that we’re always looking for the nearest place to sneak off to and fuck.
Dylan and I had staged an “intimate” breakfast at the hotel earlier, him, disheveled, with his sunglasses indoors on and me with pretty messy hair, trying to play like this is the morning after.
And, since I’m not allowed to creep out of Dylan’s room and tiptoe into bed with Ian, the messy hair was unfortunately not sex hair. It’s been three very long days since Ian and I could spend the night together and I’m going a little bit crazy. I think I might be a sex addict. Dylan and I stayed in separate queen beds and I had a fitful night sleep.
It’s all phony and ridiculous, but it’s our job. Provide bait for the paparazzi.
But they take it.
And so do the fans. Dylan is bombarded with fans, mostly young women, who want his autograph, or a picture, or a kiss.
Or his love child.
He’s gracious with them. He really was made for this kind of life.
A few even want my autograph. I’m flattered, but it’s awkward. I don’t know how many pictures were taken of us eating breakfast this morning.
But it’s doing the trick. No one remembers the bathroom incident. Christian is happy. Nikki isn’t freaking out.
According to our insta-life, everything’s fine.
Better than fine. Perfect.
My actual life, however, is a mixed bag.
I was able to do a few auditions via Skype, but didn't hear back from any of the casting agents. I went out for a small role in a feature film that my agent was able to arrange for me during our stay in Chicago, but they wanted someone with a different look and more experience. Obviously, I can’t audition for any theater work as we aren’t spending more than a few days in any one city.
I had one audition back in Los Angeles for a role in a television crime drama that would have been great for me. I considered asking Ian to fly me back for a few days to take it, but, honestly, touring is getting so exhausting that I didn’t think I’d have the energy to deliver a quality performance in front of the casting director, so I just cancelled.
I’m getting a little disappointed in myself.
* * *
We have several long days on the bus between shows, which is great because with no cameras around, I can actually be with Ian. Like, he can actually put his arm around me when we’re hanging out with the band. We can pull the curtains closed and tuck ourselves away in a bunk. Or lock ourselves in the private room. We don’t have to pretend for anybody.
But, at the same time, days on the road also get a little trying. I hear the same jokes. Play the same video games. Have the same conversations. I’m going a little stir-crazy.
I’m relieved to get to New York City.
Say Yes has a show later and the guys are taken to soundcheck and a couple of meetings, so I have the afternoon off from fake-girlfriend-land. I get to spend a couple hours alone in the hotel room, watch television and order room service. Sounds like a dream come true right now.
My phone goes off with a text alert.
Aya: How’s life on the road? Looks like you’re living it up. What are you doing right now?
Cora: I’m in a hotel room watching reruns of Frasier. Very rock and roll.
Aya: You were on TMZ last night.
Cora: Great. What are they saying about me this time?
Aya: I wouldn’t worry about it. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.
Cora: Right.
Aya: And I’m not watching for you.
Cora: Hmmm?
Aya: Shawn.
Cora: I knew it! You hooked up at the after party!
Aya: No, we didn’t.
I’m shocked.
Cora: But you like him though.
Aya: I do. But… ugh! I was nervous, so I drank a couple shots and got drunk and I was such a fucking dork in front of him. He was so nice and crazy hot and I wrecked everything.
Cora: You probably didn’t.
Aya: Trust me. I really fucked up.
Cora: Shawn’s the most chill person I know. I’m sure he wouldn’t hold it against you.
Aya: It’s too late for a re-do now. He hasn’t mentioned it, has he?
Cora: Honestly, we don’t get much time alone with him.
Aya: Spending all your time in bed with Ian? Nice.
Cora: I’m mostly being led around and “being seen” with Dylan. But I’ve been spending time with Ian too, so I can’t complain.
Aya: I’ll bet. Tell me that sex with him is as good as I think it is.
Cora: Better.
Aya: Ugh. I’m so fucking jealous. So are you guys together or what?
Cora: It’s complicated. We’re exclusive, but I made it clear that I wanted to keep it casual. I mean, we’re great when we’re alone, but there’s so much hiding and jealousy. And I have no idea what’s going to happen when the tour ends.
Aya: You think Ian’ll end things?
Cora: I hope not. But if we ever do become an item, I’m going to have to deal with a public breakup with Dylan. Plus the comments about my hopping from one bandmate to another. The tabloids with have a fucking field day with that.
Aya: You’ll figure something out.
Cora: And my acting life is suffering. I’m missing out on a lot of auditions back home.
Aya: I’m sure. That video is everywhere. You look hot in it by the way.
Cora: Thanks.
Aya: And I mean it. You’ll figure it out with Ian. You’ll figure it out with acting. You’re a smart girl.
Cora: Maybe usually, but I was really thinking with my vagina when I decided to follow this boy and his rock band around the country.
Aya: Is he worth it?
I sigh out loudly.
Cora: Yeah.
Aya and I say goodbye and I watch as Frasier and Niles compete to be cork master of their wine club. I’ve ordered a burger and fries and a bottle of wine from room service and all feels right with the world for a couple of minutes.
My phone rings and it’s my agent.
“Hello Mr. Hoffman,” I say.
“Hello Cora,” he says, “Please call me Paul.”
“My apologies, Paul.”
“No need to be so formal. Not that I don’t appreciate politeness. It’s a rarity in this business,” he chuckles, “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Nothing.”
“There’s an audition,” he starts.
I cut him off, “I’m not in L.A. at the moment…”
He cuts me off right back, “I know. While I don’t agree with your decision to follow a band around the country at this point in your career, I’ve been following the tour.”
“Oh no.”
“I know you’ve received a lot of negative attention, but you’ve received a lot of positive attention too. This is an audition for an indie film. It’s the lead and it’s meaty,” he says. “It’ll show you in a different light.”
“Sounds perfect.”
Paul gives me the basic information. The director’s last project was a critical darling in some independent film festivals and this script was written by his wife/production partner. He lets me know when and where to show up and emails me the sides for auditions.
He’s right. It’ll show me in a different light. But, I’m hesitant about the script. It’s a feature and I’m not sure if it’s supposed to be a horror film or a slapstick comedy. It has kind of a so-bad-it’s-good quality.
I decide to go for it.
Actually, I decide I need this part.
If I get this part, I feel like my decision to tour with Say Yes will have been justified. The nagging guilty feeling that I have about choosing Ian over my career will dissipate.
Yes, I decide, it’s that big a deal.
I clear it with the band that I’ll be taking the afternoon off for the audition.
They wish me luck.
* * *
I arrive at the production office and meet the director, Rodney Peterman and his wife Karen, the writer. I also meet the lead actor, Tyson Greer, who definitely has leading-man good looks.
He was the star of his graduate acting program at UCLA.
“It was an amazing experience,” he tells me, as Rodney and Karen finish up with the actress auditioning before me. “I know the academic route isn’t for everyone, but it was right for me. I got to take two years of my life and focus exclusively on acting.”
“Haven’t you been acting your whole life?” I ask. “I thought everybody had. Or at least it seems that way.”
“In high school, yeah,” he replies, “But I gave it up for something practical to make my parents happy. I had a whole career in advertising before this.”
“And you just gave it up? Just like that?”
He laughs. “Wasn’t easy. I disappointed a lot of people. But, I found myself hating my job and making myself miserable. If I had a wife or kids or anyone dependent on me, it’d be different. But the timing was right and I had the money. So I decided to go for it.”
I think about it. I definitely like the sound of taking the next couple years of my life and studying acting seriously.
“You could check out NYU while you’re here,” he suggests, “One of the top programs in the country.”
Hmm…
I hear my name called. I take a deep breath.
Tyson wishes me luck before I head into the small audition room.
I’m auditioning for the role of Bee (not Bea, like short for Beatrice and she doesn’t have a last name because this is an artsy film) in the noir style horror-drama-slash-maybe-comedy. Bee is a serial murderer with multiple personality disorder who has several deep conversations at different points in the film with her pet kitten, which I’m not sure how seriously to take.
It’s definitely darker and more complicated than any role I’ve played before, but it’s challenging and I need to be able to show range.
I get through my scene with Tyson, which culminates in a lengthy monologue for me and I think I do rather well.
Rodney and Karen, however, seem unimpressed.
“Thank you,” Karen says, “We’ll call you.”
Knowing that this is basically industry speak for no, I feel defeated.
“May I ask what I might improve on for next time?” I ask.
Rodney sighs. He must deliver speeches like this a lot. I brace myself for either horrible criticism or a canned, rehearsed apology for rejection. A we’ve decided to go in another direction type of thing.
“Your acting isn’t bad, necessarily,” he says, “It’s unrefined and it lacks nuance, sure, but you have a real presence. And you don’t hold back, which is good.”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“And you’re beautiful,” Karen adds, “That’s always I plus.”
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for the compliment, but it frustrates me. Being pretty is a privilege, but it doesn’t make me any better an actress.
“We just don’t look at someone like you and think you could pull off a role this… deep,” she tells me.
Really?
I must look insulted. I mean, I am, but I’m trying to keep my facial expression neutral.
“You’re too pretty,” she says quickly, with a little laugh that I’m sure she thinks will lessen the sting. “Trust me, there are worse problems to have.”
She’s right. I’m grateful for my features. But I never imagined they’d hold me back.
“We have another role you can test for,” Rodney chimes in.
“What is it?” I ask.
“In the opening scene of the film, right before Tyson’s character meets Bee, he’s in bed with a prostitute. We still haven’t cast her yet” he explains.
“What would I have to do?” I ask, fearing where this will go.
“Well, the role doesn’t have any lines,” he says.
“And it requires a nude scene,” Karen adds.
Now I’m insulted. I’m not necessarily opposed to a nude scene, but this is clearly a gratuitous one.
“So you want me to just be the pretty naked girl. No thank you,” I manage to spit out.
I get my bag and I’m ready to leave.
“Please don’t take this poorly,” Rodney says, “But, come on, your only credit thus far in your career is a music video for a B-list band. Be realistic. This role is actually a step up.”
“And it could kind of work to cultivate a brand for you, Cora,” Karen adds, “There’s nothing wrong with making a career out of being the sexy girl.”
Okay, I know that this is the kind of problem that other people will hate me for, but, still, I’ve had enough. I’m thoroughly repulsed and these two can’t even fathom why. And to make matters worse, they’re staring at me like I owe them a thank you.
I can’t even come up with the words to tell these people off.
I just leave.
* * *
I’m hardly in the mood for the concert tonight. I mostly just want to take my too-pretty tongue and lick my too-pretty wounds. But I’m not being paid to mope around a hotel room depressed.
I’m being paid to be pretty. I’m being paid to lavish my attention on a man.
I’m being paid to put my dreams on hold.
I may not be sleeping with someone for money, but I certainly feel like I’ve sold myself.
Well, fuck me.
I put on a dress I’d bought earlier with Dylan. Black, super clingy, with an asymmetrical top. It leaves little to the imagination. I complete the look with dark smokey eyes and ankle boots with high, high heels.
I look hot.
I look the way I’m supposed to look for this job.
I look like… a fucking groupie.