Alice Clayton - The Redhead Plays Her Hand

I kept this in mind as I opted to keep the convertible top up. I cinched the ball cap down tighter on my head and turned out onto the canyon to make my way to Holly’s office. With my eyes peeled, I looked for those seemingly random tan sedans. That’s where the flashbulbs tended to come from. It was amazing how quickly you could get used to looking behind you when you were moving forward.

O kay, so we have the first three scripts done, shooting schedule in place, read-through next week. What else do we need to talk about? You know us TV stars, we have places to go, people to see.” I winked, stretching from my chair in front of Holly’s desk. The two of us, along with Michael, had been hashing over details for the better part of an hour.

Michael had fought for and managed to retain creative control from the network. This was his show, his creation, and while being funded solely by the network, he was still steering the ship. He was working closely with the director, making sure that as his show twisted and turned naturally from stage production to the small screen it retained its initial soul. David Lancaster was a well-known and well-respected director, who had worked on some of the best and most commercially successful series in the last ten years. He was also known for being a bit hardheaded, tough, and unyielding. He’d already shared some specific notes with Michael, and they were in agreement about the overall tone and content of the show. While Michael had experience in writing and directing, he’d never done it at this level, and he was understandably a bit nervous.

“Almost done. Just a few more things to talk about, and then we can call it a day.” Holly shuffled some notes on her desk.

“Thank God. I’m starving,” I moaned, standing and grabbing at some candy she had stashed on a shelf underneath her award for Manager of the Year. Which she had awarded herself.

I sat back down, offering a handful of jelly beans to Holly, which she shook her head at. She and Michael exchanged a glance, and Michael nodded at her slightly. She took a deep breath and then sighed. Then she brightened into her All-Business Face. All of this happened in about 2.7 seconds, none of which was lost on me. I gulped. Holly turned to face me now, and I heard the voice I had heard often but rarely directed toward me.

“So we got some notes from the producers after they watched the pilot. All good things, but I do have some feedback for you that they were pretty specific on, before we start shooting,” she said—Holly Newman the agent now speaking, not Holly Dillweed, best friend and gal about town.

I swallowed my jelly beans. “Okay, what’s up?” I asked, wondering what was about to go down.

Michael fidgeted.

“So you know you’re fabulous; we all do. I think you’re amazing. I mean it, really,” she said, not totally meeting my eyes.

“Okay, you’re amazing too?” I volleyed back, looking at Michael, who had stopped fidgeting and was now not moving at all. He was frozen, in fact.

Holly smiled a bit, then continued. “This show has a very specific look, very stylized, very Hollywood. Everything about this show will be over the top. You know this.”

“I do know this. Jeez, spit it out, Holly.” I popped another handful of jelly beans into my mouth.

“We need you to drop about fifteen pounds, Grace.”

The jelly beans congealed in my throat and lodged there.

“Or I should spit it out,” I joked, swallowing hard.

“Here’s the thing. This is very common. Producers are looking at the overall package—everything, right? They have tons of notes, from what kind of car you should be driving to whether the hardwood floors in your on-set home should be lighter or darker. Perhaps your hair should be a little more red. And, well . . .”

“My ass should be a little smaller,” I completed for her, placing the jelly beans back on the shelf and straightening up, lengthening my frame and pulling in my tummy.

“No, we actually got great notes on your ass,” she replied, shuffling through papers on her desk. I looked in horror at Michael.

“I was kidding!” I laughed, forcing my hands to unclench from the fists that had formed.

“Grace, come on, you’re beautiful, I—” Michael started, and Holly interrupted him.

“Here it is. The exact note is: ‘We need her to have a little more cheekbone, a little more jawline,’” she read, looking over her glasses at me as she finished.

“A little more cheekbone,” I repeated, mentally tallying how many miles I was already running in a week and wondering how many more I could squeeze in.

“Grace, look. Do you know how many times I’ve had this conversation with someone I represent? I honestly can’t count at this point,” she began tiredly.

“This sucks,” I succinctly pointed out.

“It does suck, but that’s the industry you’ve chosen. The good and bad, you get it all. You want less cheekbone, you move into the best friend category, okay?” she said, eyes blazing.

“Let’s look at this a different way, maybe—” Michael started, and I held up my hand.

“I’m a big girl—literally, apparently. I can handle this,” I said, and Holly sighed.

“I love you, ya little fruitcake, but this is the way it is. You’ve been given an amazing opportunity, one that other actors in this industry have been working toward for years and would live on lettuce and Diet Coke for months to get. You’ve got it. This is just part of the gig.” Her eyes softened a bit. “This is totally something you can do. I know you can.” She smiled.

“Hey, if that’s what I need to do, that’s what I need to do, right? Not a problem,” I assured her, smiling through my teeth.

“You sure?” Michael asked, clearly uncomfortable with this entire conversation.

“I got this.” I nodded.

“We good?” Holly asked.

“We’re good.” I nodded again.

We all sat together, quiet. Three friends who had found one another in a college theater class and were now working in their chosen industry, in positions most could only dream about. What a strange world this was.

“So, I hear we’re going dancing tonight? Tell me more,” Holly said, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up on the desk, indicating that the business portion of our meeting was over.

I started to tell her all about the plans for the evening, but all I could think about were those damn jelly beans.

Driving home I put the top down, no matter who could see. My mind was whirling. I needed some air. With the stereo cranked up, I navigated the streets of the city I loved, the city I worked so hard to get back to.

After leaving Los Angeles the first time, I spent several years—the better part of a decade really—smothering my feelings in smothered chicken. And burgers. And lots and lots of Doritos. I felt such shame that I hadn’t managed to even last a year in L.A. that when I came home I licked my wounds, and the inside of more than one Klondike bar wrapper. Then I cocooned. Years went by, and I found a great job that allowed me some creativity but all behind a computer. I didn’t go out much, didn’t date at all, and as the pounds packed on and my sadness grew, I lost so much of what was me, what Jack had so quickly identified as his Nuts Girl. I eventually pulled myself out of it, rallying big-time to come back to L.A. and try again. And within the span of a year, I was about to live out every dream I’d ever had, and the dream of actors everywhere. This would be my breakout role, one way or another.

So what’s fifteen pounds, really?

Nothing, except I already managed what I ate so carefully. And exercised religiously. Dating a younger man initially brought back so many of my fears—not good enough, not young enough, not thin enough—but it was finally good. It was really good with Jack, and I was content with how I looked. For the first time in a long time, I felt good when I looked in the mirror.