Prologue

A day in the life of a somewhat desperate actress…

Three months earlier.

Eighth callback.

For a soap.

I checked for lipstick on my teeth for the umpteenth time. The amount of gloss I’d slapped on made me feel slimy. My lips felt like they weighed ten pounds. But when in Rome…

The waiting room was filled with gals half my age. At forty, I was considered over-the-hill, but I’d somehow made it this far in the search for the newest character on the hit soap opera, The Ocean is Deeply Moving. “What am I doing here?” I muttered to myself. I didn’t like soaps. I didn’t watch soaps. I also didn’t have a job at the moment.

“Hi! I’m Rhoda Spark!” a prepubescent, large bosomed, bright eyed and bushy tailed youngster to my left said.

“I’m Cecily Bloom,” I said, wishing I was invisible. Making small talk while I was internally debating why I was here was distracting.

“I know!” she gushed. “Loved you in Camp Bite!”

Rhoda was wearing a mini-skirt that revealed her barely-there pink panties. Her crop-top was obscene. Making eye contact was difficult due to the fact I was pretty sure one of her nips had popped out. Again, I wanted to slap my own face for being here. However, I was a very polite former child star. Ending up in the rags for being mean to fans wasn’t my thing.

“Thank you,” I replied, doing my best not to reach over and pull her shirt up. The nip slip was most likely on purpose. Who was I to fix her game? Maybe it worked for her.

“Watched it religiously when I was in the first grade!”

My smile felt brittle on my lips. I’d just been bitch-slapped by a teenager named Rhoda with an exposed boob. Awesome.

I’d told my agent numerous times that I didn’t want to do daytime TV. However, here I was. I had no one to blame but myself. I’d accepted the audition. And with each callback I started to want the job. It didn’t even matter that the character was named Bambi “Boo” Blakely—a neurosurgeon who wore six-inch heels and baked pies for the poor in her off time. Not to mention, the ghost of her ex-husband still lived with her.

Nope. My need to win outweighed my good judgement and taste by a long shot.

One by one the gals went into the room to read the stomach-churning scene about how difficult it was to be taken seriously as a sexy neurosurgeon who had metaphorical and aerobic sex with a ghost. The dialogue was absurd. I’d rewritten it so I didn’t erupt into hysterical laughter when I read it aloud. That might have been why I’d been called back. I was the only actress that didn’t sound like a freaking idiot.

One by one each of them was dismissed. Some left pissed. Some exited in tears. Rhoda, the Nip Slip gal, was devastated. I’d almost told her she might not want to expose herself at her next audition, but she was gone so fast I missed the opportunity. The only actress left was the one currently in the room and me.

The fact that I could book the job was horrifying. The fact that I might not was terrifying. My warring instincts told me to run while there was still time. My need to win insisted I stay. The reality that there were multiple conversations going on in my head was an indicator that I’d lost my mind. I wasn’t sure which voice to listen to. They were all loud.

Maybe I’d missed my calling in show business. I was one hell of a script doctor. However, the magic for me was in front of the camera. Hence, I was at the eighth callback for a piece of crap.

“They’re ready to see you, Cecily,” the five-foot-nothing casting director said, examining me with obvious dismay.

“What?” I asked, alarmed. Had I spilled something? Shit. That would suck. I’d dressed with care. My skirt was so tight, one could probably see my religion and the blouse was low cut… perfect for a surgeon who wore Jimmy Choo’s to operate. I knew from the last callback that there would be at least forty people in the room listening to me wax poetic about brain tumors and pecan pie. “Is there something wrong with my shirt?”

“It’s not the shirt, it’s what’s in it… or rather, what’s not in it,” she muttered as she opened the door and ushered me in.

What in the ever-loving hell did she mean by that? I was wearing damned silicone chicken cutlets in my bra for the ridiculous audition. I hated the rubbery boob enhancers. While my rack was nice, it was necessarily soap opera nice. I was suffering massive under-boob sweat to make my girls look bigger.

“And lastly we have, Cecily Bloom,” the miniature bitchy woman announced.

The smiles from the group were polite but unenthused. I didn’t know why until I did…

“Thank you!” a blonde bombshell squealed as she blew kisses to the network suits. “I just loved reading for you today. I really feel Bambi “Boo” Blakely deep in my size D bosom!”

The smiles perked up… especially the male ones. Why was I here if she was still auditioning?

The busty actress couldn’t have been more than twenty. How she could have gotten through medical school and become a world renown neurosurgeon who baked was beyond me, but looking for sound reasoning in the world of smoke and mirrors was counterproductive. The show was called The Ocean is Deeply Moving. What did I expect?

“I can wait in the lobby if you’re not ready for me,” I said with a smile that I prayed didn’t look seriously constipated.

“No,” a stern looking woman in a purple power suit said. “We want to do a side by side with you and Ophelia.”

“Awesome!” Ophelia screamed, bouncing up and down like she’d just won the big showcase on The Price is Right.

She probably wasn’t old enough to know remember The Price is Right.

“Run,” my inner voice bellowed.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment then plastered a wide smile on my face. “Sounds great.”

My inner voice spilt right in half like Rumplestiltskin. She was pissed at me. I didn’t blame her, but it would be mortifying to walk out now. I was a pro. I’d been a pro since I was a kid. Walking to the center of the room, I took my place next to Ophelia. It was wrong of me to judge her on the size of her knockers. She could be a lovely person.

“Get ready to go down, bitch,” she muttered under her breath. Her bright white toothy smile was still enormous. Her lips didn’t move. “I’m Bambi “Boo” Blakely. No one is going to get in my way—especially not some washed-up, freak of nature, ancient child star. I’m done with you messing with my life.”

Harsh.

She was not a lovely person. However, Ophelia did have some talent. She was an incredible ventriloquist and a colossal bitch. I might be a washed-up child star, but I was not ancient or a freak of nature. And as for messing with her life, I’d never laid eyes on her until today. Ophelia needed some therapy and possibly a straightjacket.

“Please stand back-to-back,” the casting director said.

This was not happening. “Do you need me to read the sides?” I asked politely.

“No,” the purple suited exec chimed in. “We already know what an incredible actress you are, Cecily. We just need to decide if you’re attractive enough.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, feeling like I might puke. The giggle from the tits on my right didn’t help.

“Ohhh, don’t get me wrong,” Purple Lady said. “You are a beautiful woman. We’re just not sure if you’re soap opera beautiful. The conundrum for us is that your reading was brilliant.”

“Yes,” an exec with what I could only describe as a porn-stache added. “It’s a real quandary if we’re going to err on the side of talent or tits.”

Why hadn’t I listened to my inner voice? She was smarter than me. Way smarter.

“Let me help you out with that,” I said, finding my lady balls. My inner voice quit having a meltdown. I took that as a good sign. I didn’t need the money. I had plenty of that. It was about the work. This was not the work I wanted to do. “I think tits will sell better than talent. I can’t really see myself humping a ghost in the breakroom at the hospital. Whereas, I could easily picture Ophelia humping practically anything anywhere.”

“She has a point,” Porn-stache said as the rest of the dumbasses in the room nodded their agreement.

“Yes!” Ophelia announced triumphantly. “I can hump like a pro.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure you’ve had lots of practice,” I told her sweetly. She looked wildly confused. It was a nice moment. “So, on that unappetizing note, I’d like to say thank you for considering me, but I will have to pass. I firmly believe that Ophelia is the humper you’re searching for—not me. She will elevate the show to dizzying heights.”

“What she said,” Ophelia squealed.

“I have an idea,” Porn-stache bellowed, jumping to his feet and pumping his fists over his head. “Cecily, would you be willing to play Ophelia’s mother? It would be a slam dunk—tits and talent.”

The room full of execs broke out into applause. Ophelia bowed. This was like an episode of Punk’d on crack… except it was real—very sadly and unfortunately real.

“Umm… no,” I said. “But again, thank you. Have a great life, everyone! Good luck, Ophelia. I have a feeling you might need it.”

Porn-stache looked crestfallen. I wanted to kick him in the junk. That would be a bad move. Might feel great in the moment, but would be unwise in the long game. Unsure how much more humiliation I could handle, I made a quick exit.

I snot cried for an hour when I got home. The magic was almost gone. If there were any more days like today, I was done with the business of show.