style="font-size:15px;"> “I’m Rachel Tagliateri,” she said.
“Nice to meet you,” Bobby said, although he didn’t sound as if it was all that nice.
I started to hold out my hand, but the woman barely looked at me and charged on. “Look,” she said, “I hate to interrupt you, but I was just wondering if I could send you my head shots and some tapes. I’m on a reality show, you know The Rat Race? I’m one of the few people left, right? But I want to bridge from this into acting. That’s where my true passion lies…”
She went on and on until Bobby sat up a little and raised his hand. “Rachel, was it?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not accepting new clients right now.”
Her smile dimmed. “Okay, well, I’ll just send you the head shots anyway, just in case—”
“Rachel, I’m sorry,” Bobby said. “They’ll just get thrown away. Best of luck.”
Rachel Tagliateri ran her hands through her cherry-cola hair and said, “Right. Great, thanks!” as if Bobby had just offered to take her to dinner.
“That was rude,” I said when she was gone. I watched her walk to a group of women and point to Bobby and me.
Bobby sighed. “Are you kidding? That was nice. I let her go on about that ridiculous reality show, as if she’s ever going to get an acting job after that. She’ll work for scale for the rest of her life.”
“Why couldn’t you at least talk to her, maybe give her some advice?”
“Because if I did that, I would have to do it twenty-four hours a day. Everyone is looking to get connected, Kyr. You have to know when to put your foot down.”
I made a face to show I didn’t agree and sipped my martini. I felt some kind of kinship with the cherry-cola Rachel, because although I wasn’t trying to be “in the business,” I was new in this town, and I already sensed how hard it was to break in, in any capacity.
But I soon saw what Bobby meant. Within fifteen minutes, one of Cherry-Cola’s gang came to our table and introduced herself.
“Olivia Tenson,” she said. “I’m on The Bold and the Beautiful. I’m looking for new representation.” She got a little more of Bobby’s attention, but he soon sent her packing. Same with the stunningly beautiful boy with the jet-black hair and the dimples as deep as craters. Same with the comedian who sidled up to us and launched into his stand-up act.
“You see why I’m so glad you’re here?” Bobby said. “You’re my one true friend in town.”
So I figured when I phoned Bobby that day from Fred Segal that he would call me back, maybe come meet me, but his assistant, Sean, said he was in a meeting that would last a few hours. I finished my wine and watched the rest of the patrons gossip with their friends or yammer into their phones. I made my daily phone call back to New York, but couldn’t get Emmie, Margaux or Darcy.
Finally, I left, strolling aimlessly, nothing planned for the rest of the day. I walked through Third Street Promenade and then down the Santa Monica pier. I waited for L.A. to seep into my bones.
When Declan got home that afternoon, we took a walk on the beach, making our way to the pier for sunset.
“What did you do today?” he said. He was always concerned about whether I was “fitting in,” whether I’d had enough activity. Every evening, he peppered me with questions and made suggestions about what I could do that week.
I told him about my day.
“Are you having me on?” he said. “You walked to Fred Segal?”
“It’s only a mile or two.”
“Bloody right. I can’t believe you walked.”
“You know how I feel about all the driving out here.”
In short, I wasn’t a big fan. Constant driving was required, since L.A. is really just a string of suburbs, not a city at all, and yet the need to drive everywhere killed any chance of spontaneity. Even if you were lucky to be with friends, and have someone suggest dropping by a party or a bar, there was the inevitable meeting in the parking lot where many important topics would be debated: Should we all drive? Can we take the 10 or will surface streets be better? How long will it take at this time of day? Does anyone have exact directions? Who’s going to be there anyway? Is the casting director from the WB really supposed to stop by?
“Love,” Declan said, “you’ve got to learn how to drive.”
“I will…someday.”
We walked for a few minutes in silence, the pier a short distance ahead of us, the sand cool under our feet.
Declan suddenly stopped and turned to me. He took both my hands in his; he looked very serious, which freaked me out.
“What?” I said.
“Kyra Felis,” he said somberly. “I have a question for you.”
My heart began to pound. “What?” I repeated.
He dropped on one knee. He kissed my hand.
“Kyra,” he said. He took a deep breath. “Will you have me as your driving teacher? Will you trust me enough to put your adorable bum on the driver’s seat of my car?”
I burst into laughter. “I don’t know. I haven’t known you all that long, and I don’t know if I’m ready. It’s a big decision and—”
He stood and interrupted me with a big, Fred Astaire–like dip. “We can do it. We can make this work.”
“The gas is on the right, Kyra! You have to keep your foot on it to make the car move!”
I shot him a murderous look, although I couldn’t blame him for yelling. I tried again. I stepped tentatively on the gas, but when the car shot forward, it scared the hell out of me, and I hit the brakes. Once more, gas…whoo, that weird power of the car lurching, tying my stomach in knots…and I pounced on the brakes.
I put the car in park, peeled away my death grip on the steering wheel and dropped my head. We were in a parking lot of a vacant strip mall, the only place Declan could find where I might attempt to drive and not maim the few pedestrians. I snuck a look at Dec. His face was flushed, his hair a little sweaty and pushed up in spikes. He looked, as he would put it, “shaggered.”
“I don’t think I can do this,” I said.
Dec didn’t look as if he thought I could do it, either, but he said, “Of course you can, love. If I can learn to drive on the right side of the road, you can learn to simply drive. Now let’s just sit here a bit and review the controls.” By that time, we’d “reviewed the controls” at least thirty times, but I was grateful for a task I could handle.
“What’s this?” He pointed to the dash.
“The gas gauge. It’s half-full.”
“Good,
