Power Play (13 page)

“He thinks he's doing King fuckin' Lear,” said Michael.

“He's a classically trained actor.”

“I don't give a rat's ass if he's a trained gymnast,” said Jimmy. “I need him to stop pretending he's Peter O'Toole and just looked terrified and die. Do you think you can get him to do that? Because he sure as hell isn't listening to me.”

“I think so,” Monica said nervously.

“Go do it, then,” said Michael.

“Now,” Jimmy added. Monica turned to go.

“You owe us big-time for this,” Jimmy called after her as she was leaving.

“I was just trying to help,” Monica replied tearfully.
Help you, help my friend, and maybe even help myself.
Their criticism of Monty shook her. Yes, he was a little over the top, but he wasn't
that
bad. The embarrassing part, for her, was his unwillingness to take direction. As if he knew better, even though he'd never worked in daytime before. What had she been
thinking
? This was one of the stupidest ideas she'd ever had. As it was, everyone was still upset and stressed over Wallace's death, and now she'd made things worse by bringing Monty in, even if it was just for the day. She intended to apologize profusely to Jimmy and Michael at the end of the day. For now, she had to deal with Monty.

 

“They must be
insane
,” was Monty's melodramatic response when Monica told him he need not project quite so much.

“TV is different than the stage, Monty,” Monica explained as nicely as she could. “Your voice and your gestures don't have to be quite as big.”

“That's rubbish.”

“Just do what the director asks, okay?” Monica pleaded.

Monty leveled her with a frosty look. “They've brain-washed you. I taught you to question. To explore. The text beneath the text, remember, Monica?”

“There is no text beneath the text in this scene. You just need to die.”

“But what's my motivation?”

“Oh, God.” Monica could not believe she was having this conversation. “Your motivation is to advance the plot, okay?”

Monty looked disgusted. “Cheap melodrama. I cannot believe I agreed to this.”

“It's work, Monty,” Monica shot back angrily. She found herself trembling. Rarely did she challenge her old teacher this way. It felt scary. “Do you know how many unemployed actors would kill to lie in this bed and die? You should be grateful.”

Monty got back under the covers with a sneer. “For debasing myself? Never. I'd rather starve than compromise my integrity as an artist.”

Like me?
Monica wondered. Was that what he was leaving unspoken? A lump formed in her throat. Monty's words sent her into a tailspin. She wasn't an artist. She was a hack. She had no integrity. If she did, she would have held out for meaningful roles, no matter how scarce. She would not have taken this job ten years ago.

Get out of your own head,
she told herself.
Focus on the task at hand.

“Just do the scene,” Monica coaxed. “As a favor to me. Die quietly, and I'll never ask you to do anything again, all right?”

“As you wish.”

Monica looked up at the booth. “He's ready to go.”

 

“You and Eric are getting great ink.”

Monica was reassured by Theresa's smile as she pushed a copy of that week's
Celebrity
magazine across the desk, pointing out the “New Romance” pages. There were two pictures of Monica and Eric: one of them on the steps of the museum, the other of them outside of Dijon. The caption read, “Considered one of Manhattan's hottest bachelors, NHL star Eric Mitchell has been seen out and about in New York with
W and F
's favorite leading lady, Monica Geary. Will he be a bachelor for long?”

Monica smiled, pleased, pushing the magazine back. “That's great.” She had to admit, she and Eric looked so good together it was scary. She was pretty sure she'd never “gone out” with anyone so attractive.

“Lou Capesi called me,” Theresa continued. “He's going to be able to get the picture of you with the Blades into the Blades program for home games for the rest of the season. It would be wonderful if you could go with Eric to some charity functions.”

“That seems doable,” Monica said unenthusiastically.

Theresa raised a quizzical eyebrow but continued, “I love that you and Eric are generating copy. But I'm not sure how much of an impact that's going to have on your standing on the show. We need to do some things that reach your fans specifically. I hate to ride you on this, but when was the last time you met with the New York chapter of your fan club?”

Monica looked down at her hands. “Last year,” she admitted.

“Not good.”

“I know.”

“You need to get in touch with the fan club president and arrange to do a lunch with them. You need to do some signings with your costars. You haven't done any of those in a while, either. I checked.”

Monica turned pink. “I don't know why I let it slide.”

“Content to rest on your laurels, maybe?” Theresa suggested.

Monica fought the urge to slink out of the office in shame. She'd been leading lady on
W and F
for close to a decade now. She'd paid her dues and had gotten to the point where she assumed things would keep rolling along. But now, sitting here today, hearing Theresa bluntly call her out, her presumption embarrassed her. It was the fans who had helped make her the star she was today, and she'd taken them for granted.

“I hate admitting it, but you're right,” said Monica. “I
have
been coasting.”

“Easily remedied,” Theresa assured her. “Do the fan club thing, do more signings, and let the soap press know you're available to talk about anything and everything. I'll also call in-house PR at the show and speak with them.” Theresa hesitated. “I have noticed that new actress is getting a lot of coverage in the daytime press.”

“I've been trying not to think about it.”

“Wrong move. Read every word that's written about her. Then we can strategize about how to position you in comparison.”

Monica bit at the tip of her thumb. “Is it wrong for me to want to make sure she doesn't eclipse me?”

Theresa looked at her as though she were crazy. “This is your livelihood we're talking about here, Monica. Being the hot new thing sometimes trumps talent. You have to start working it, girl.”

Monica wondered what Monty would say about all this. They hadn't spoken since he finished his deathbed scene. Monica was still too upset to call or check in on him. One minute she'd think,
You ungrateful old bastard.
The next, her insecurity would creep to the fore. What if he was right? What if she was completely without integrity? Especially now, when it felt like her primary concern in life was making sure Chesty didn't become more of a fan favorite than she was. At least she had the comfort of knowing that deep down, lots of actors were insecure.

“I'll begin working it,” Monica promised Theresa.

Theresa looked pleased. “Good. One more thing: You should probably go to a hockey game. Be supportive of your man.”

Monica frowned. “Right. Eric mentioned that, actually.”

“How's it going with Eric?” Theresa murmured, ignoring her ringing phone.

Monica sounded noncommittal. “All right.”

“Is he as horrible as you thought he'd be?”

“No,” Monica muttered reluctantly.

Theresa looked at her with interest. “You holding out on me?”

“What?” Monica felt confused. “What would I be holding out on?”

“That maybe the you two are enjoying each other's company for real?”

“He's as good an actor as I am, Theresa. Period. The fact that I can tolerate him—in short bursts—doesn't mean we're on the road to real romance.”

Theresa shrugged her shoulders. “You're seeing him this weekend, I hope? Out and about in public?”

“Of course.”

“Any place where I should steer the press?”

“I'll let you know.”

Eric had invited her to his place to talk after she was done with Theresa. She had been racking her brain, trying to think of things they could do this weekend. She didn't want to go to dinner again. Maybe a play? A trip to a museum? She nixed that idea fast; paparazzi wouldn't come to a museum. Maybe they'd just take a walk in Central Park. She'd talk to Eric and see what Mr. “I live for the cameras when I'm off the ice” had to say.

A thought suddenly gripped her. “How much longer do you think the paparazzi will even continue to care?” she asked Theresa.

“As long as you're out there working it,” Theresa replied. “And if Eric's getting a lot of press as a Blade, winning over the New York fans, that will help a lot, too.”

Monica rose. “Whatever you say.”

“Trust me,” said Theresa.

“I do,” Monica said simply.

She had to.

 

“So this is it,” said Eric. “Chateau Mitchell. At least one of them. My brother lives up the street. So his place is Chateau Mitchell, too.”

Eric seemed slightly nervous as he ushered Monica into his apartment. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. A pair of bronzed skates on a coffee table? Back issues of
Sports
Illustrated
stacked in a corner? Mirrored walls so Eric could adore himself ? Her assumptions made her realize what a snob she could be. Just because he was a jock didn't mean his place would be decorated badly.

In truth, his apartment had a touch of the interior designer about it. Sisal rugs, modern art on the walls, nice leather furniture. Monica turned to him. “Who was your designer?”

Eric seemed surprised by the question. “What? Me.”

“Oh, c'mon. No straight man could pull a place like this together.”

“On behalf of all straight men everywhere, I'm insulted.” He gestured toward the couch, and she sat down.

“Seriously,” Monica said, running her hand over the buttery leather arm of the couch. “Who did your place?”

Eric sighed. “Some woman named Thea McNamara. She almost bankrupted me. But I didn't have the time or inclination to do it myself.”

Monica nodded approvingly. “She did a good job.”

Eric sat down beside her. “How are you?” he asked quietly, rubbing her shoulder. “Coping okay?”

It took Monica a moment to realize he was referring to her costar's death. She was suffering brain freeze, the direct result of his hand being in contact with her body.

“I'm fine,” she said crisply, removing his hand. “There's no one here watching us,” she pointed out to him when he looked surprised. “You don't have to put on a show.”

Eric reared back in surprise. “I was just trying to be
nice
.”

“And I appreciate that,” Monica replied, maintaining her brisk tone. She'd decided it would be all acting from now on. No more being impressed by his knowing CPR and the concern he just showed for her. No more losing herself in kisses designed to deceive those around them. “Let's talk business.”

“Fine.” His voice was now as brisk as hers.

“I saw Theresa Dante before I came here.” Monica frowned. “Why
did
I come here? Why did you want to meet here?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “You sound like Roxie.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Suspicious and melodramatic.”

Ouch. Who was being slapped down now? Monica felt a sense of creeping apprehension. What if Eric was sick of their charade? If he ended it now, she'd wind up looking like one of the blonde scalps on his belt.

“I didn't mean to sound that way,” she said hastily. “It just seemed unusual.”

“We
are
supposed to be going out. What's so unusual about you coming over to my place? I've seen your place. I just thought a little reciprocation was in order. That's all. No big evil agenda.” Eric folded his arms across his chest, the classic defensive posture. “You were saying about Theresa?”

“She said we were doing well. I need to do some more soap things to keep my profile high with my fans. As for us, she suggested I go to one of your games. She said as long as you're getting a lot of press as a Blade, that'll help us, too.” Eric grimaced with pain. “What's wrong?”

“Oh, yeah, I'm getting press all right,” he muttered. “I'm sucking out on the ice. Completely sucking. I don't know what the hell is going on. I've played two games so far and have played like shit in both of them. This is not the way to kick off being the new guy in town, okay? Especially not in this town.”

Monica hesitated a moment, then put her hand on his shoulder. “It'll get better. From what I've heard and read, you're really talented.”

“Yesterday doesn't matter,” Eric countered harshly, as if her compliment didn't matter.
He's hard on himself,
Monica thought. The way she was. Monica removed her hand. “I'll come to your next game,” she suggested, hoping to cheer him up. “Maybe I'll be your good luck charm.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Eric said listlessly. “Shit, I haven't offered you anything to drink.”

“I'm fine. Really.”

Eric shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“So, this weekend,” Monica said brightly, trying to pull him out of the nosedive she could see him going into. “I was thinking we could—”

“I'm not going to be around this weekend. I'll be in North Dakota.”