“Melvin—that’s the director—wants to meet today at ten, rather than tomorrow like we were supposed to. Are you okay with it?” Declan asks.
For a second, I wonder why he’s asking, since it’s him doing the audition. Then I remember I’m supposed to go with him and do the waltz because some actress’s mom is in some kind of meditation center or whatever. “Sure. I’m one hundred percent flexible.”
“Awesome. Let’s do another quick reading and practice, and then we’ll get going.”
Chapter Thirty
Declan
“Oh, thank God you’re here!” Melvin has a voice that sounds like it had eight whiskeys and stayed up too late the night before. He clasps his hands around mine the moment we walk in to see him.
The overenthusiastic welcome is a little shocking. He’s too cool and too jaded to be like this. Besides, it isn’t like I’m some superstar like Ryder Reed. On the other hand, Melvin doesn’t want Ryder Reed. He wants a fresh face—me.
“I’ve been pulling my hair out,” Melvin says. “And I don’t have much left to lose!”
“What can I do to make your life easier?” I’ll forgo commenting on his hair, or lack thereof.
He takes my elbow and leads me to a couch in the reception area. Yuna follows and sits on a stool nearby. Melvin ignores her—to somebody like him, assistants are about as s
ignificant as a pen a hotel leaves by your bed.
“I hear you collect classical music. Piano pieces,” he begins.
“Yeah, Schubert,” I say.
“Amazing. I knew you’d be perfect!”
For what? Should I point out that Schubert isn’t really known for his waltz, in case it’s about the dance I’m supposed to do? Or should I just continue to nod and smile until Melvin tells me what he wants?
“My daughter’s applying to conservatories next year, and she’s been driving me crazy, asking me to critique her audition pieces! What do I know about dead people’s music? Eh? Eh? You can’t even sing to it!”
“Uh…” Just because I collect Schubert recordings doesn’t mean I know anything about applying to conservatories. I didn’t even go to college.
I glance over at Yuna, who’s looking at Melvin like he’s a loincloth-wearing barbarian.
“Since you’re so informed about classical music, I thought you could help me,” Melvin says, putting an I’m counting on you hand on my shoulder.
“Yeah. Sure.” Anything to make you happy so I can get the role I want.
I gotta branch out from romantic comedies before I get typecast. And a spy flick would be perfect. Except I don’t understand why I have to be his daughter’s conservatory admissions consultant to get the role. Jesus. Tim should’ve warned me before I showed up. I would’ve had Yuna research it. Actually, wait… Yuna went to one. I could’ve asked her to share everything.
“Perfect. I knew you were a team player! Not like some of the snotty assholes I have to work with. Hollywood egos. I tell you. Think they’re so big and popular.” Melvin shakes his head and fumbles with his phone.
A tune comes out. I don’t know the title, but I recognize the dramatic opening theme. I’ve only heard it performed by an orchestra, but the piano version isn’t bad. Actually, it’s pretty well done. Enjoyable.
But I don’t know enough about music to critique it. But Yuna…
I steal a glance at her. She’s listening, tapping her index finger on her knee to the beat. But other than that, she isn’t showing any indication of how she feels about the piece.
Come on, Yuna. This is not the time for stoicism. I need a small hint. Just enough so I can say something intelligent.
When it ends, Melvin looks at me. “So. What do you think?”
I have no freakin’ clue, since I’m not a music critic. But he might not want to work with me if I give him the wrong answer. Like some actual criticism. Nobody likes to be told their kid isn’t a fucking genius, especially in Hollywood, where egos are the size of galaxies.
“Uh… It’s well done. I’m impressed. Your kid’s like…what? Sixteen?” The recording sounds professional enough. I don’t see why she wouldn’t get in, but then, I could be missing something.
“Turned seventeen just last week.” Melvin puffs out his chest.