Power Play (8 page)

As always, the first thing she thought when she entered Monty's apartment was,
What a firetrap.
Piles of old newspapers and magazines that he refused to part with covered every surface. In addition, the place smelled musty, despite Rosa's best efforts to clean. The carpet had been shampooed numerous times, the curtains laundered. Monica suspected the stale smell had a lot to do with the fact that Monty had some innate aversion to opening the windows. Rosa would open them, and Monty would close them—their own little cold war.

“I'll be there in a minute,” she called to him, heading into the kitchen to put away some groceries she'd bought. Despite being one of the most well-respected acting teachers in the business, he had no savings, and his pension from Actors' Equity was so small it was laughable. It was this situation that had driven him into teaching on his own so many years back, a situation Monica knew he resented but one that had benefited her greatly in terms of her training.

Making her way to his bedroom, she gazed at his walls, taking in all the framed photographs of Monty from when he was younger, acting on the stage. He'd acted opposite some of the greats: Brando, Newman, Robards . . . it was unbelievable.

She found him sitting in his orange plaid Barcalounger circa 1970, watching TV. The bed was unmade, and the air in the room was stagnant, tinged with the sourness of old age. Monica marched to the window and opened it. Monty's arm jerked up, and he shielded his eyes, recoiling like a vampire who hadn't made it back to his crypt in time.

“What on earth are you
doing
?”

“Getting some air in here.”

He harrumphed at her, turning back to the TV to watch two red-faced talking heads yell at each other about gun control. Despite his disheveled nature, he could still cut a dashing figure, Monica thought, with his maroon smoking jacket tied tight around his stick-thin waist, and his long, bony feet shod in monogrammed black velvet slippers.

“What are you watching?” Monica asked.

“Some
crap
,” Monty replied vehemently. “TV is nothing but crap. Have you noticed?”

Monica felt her cheeks flame, which always happened when he said this. She tried not to take it personally, but it was hard. She worked in TV; therefore, by extension, in her old teacher's eyes,
she
was crap.

“Why don't you watch the Shakespeare DVDs I brought you?”

His blue eyes, still the bright sapphire color of his youth, flashed. “I couldn't figure out how to work the goddamn DVD player!”

“I showed you, remember?”

“Well, I guess I'm just a fucking idiot, then,” he snapped.

“I'll show you again before I leave,” Monica said patiently. “Why don't you get dressed, and we'll take a walk?”

Monty waved a dismissive hand at her, which Monica knew meant, “Subject closed.” She wondered when the last time he'd been out was. She suspected he was becoming slightly agoraphobic in his old age, though she'd never bring it up to him for fear of incurring his wrath, which could be formidable. She'd invited him to accompany her to the theater numerous times, but he always declined, his mind already made up before even seeing the play in question that it was “tripe pandering to the idiot masses.” Maybe it was hard for him to see others treading the boards now that he couldn't.

“I watched you this week,” he murmured.

Monica smiled to cover the churning already starting in her stomach. Monty tuned in to
W and F
religiously so he could critique Monica's performance. For ten years she'd listened to his notes and observations, but it always made her tense.

“Okay.”

“First of all, you're gesticulating too much. You certainly didn't learn that in
my
class.”

“The director told me to!”

“The director is a fucking moron,” Monty declared. “If he wasn't, he wouldn't be directing in daytime.”

Monica's cheeks burned brighter.
I'm a fucking moron, too,
she thought.
That's what he thinks. That's what he's thought for a decade.
“Go on,” she urged quietly.

“I don't think you're inhabiting your character anymore. I don't think you're really trying to get at the emotion behind the text. Your performances are becoming less and less nuanced.”

Monica blinked with alarm. What if Monty was right? What if that was why the executive producer talked about Chessy helping to bring the show in a new direction? What if she
sucked
?

“You need to really dig,” Monty continued.

You try digging when you have to memorize an eighty-page script five nights a week,
Monica longed to say,
or when you have one day to shoot a show.
She did the best she could. But clearly it wasn't good enough.

Monty sighed heavily. “I hate to see you wasting yourself this way, Monica. You have incredible talent. And yet there you are on that ridiculous
soap opera
—and acting badly as well, in my opinion. You have to decide which is more important,” Monty sniffed. “Money or your art.”

Monica swallowed. Was it really that black and white? Maybe it was. She looked at Monty, the beloved teacher who had helped her excel at Julliard, the man who had told her she could make a living doing what she loved, unlike her parents, whose stance had always been, “Acting is a nice hobby, but you'll never make a living from it.” She'd proven them wrong—because of Monty and what he'd been able to pull out of her.

“When it's time to renew my contract, I'll think about it,” she promised. “In the meantime, I need to make a living, Monty, so I'm working as hard as I can to maintain what I have. You can understand that, can't you?”

“Artist or hack, Monica. You decide.”

SIX

“Stop winking. You look like you have something in your eye.”

Eric looked momentarily crestfallen as he escorted Monica to their window table at Dijon, NYC's hottest new restaurant. Theresa had worked her magic again: there were paparazzi waiting outside, snapping pictures, demanding to know if she and Eric were a bona fide item. Monica smiled coyly but said nothing. Eric winked at them while giving the thumbs-up twice: once while they were going into the restaurant, and yet again through the window once they were seated. This was going to be harder than Monica thought.

“What's wrong with winking?” Eric asked. “It tells them, ‘Yeah, something is definitely going on,' while at the same time maintaining the mystery.”

“You're a master of the media now, huh?”

Monica opened the menu, stifling an exhausted yawn. She was in the majority of scenes filmed earlier in the day, and she was incredibly weary. She'd gone above and beyond to really dig into the character of Roxie the way Monty advised. If anyone noticed, they hadn't said anything.

“How was your week?” Eric asked.

“Long. Tiring. Yours?” Christ, they sounded like some old married couple finally sitting down to dinner on a Friday night, eager to forget the nine-to-five grind.

“Great. Those pictures of us really boosted my profile with my teammates. I think our arrangement is going to work out great.”

“I think so, too.” Monica had heard through the grapevine that one of the pictures of them at the museum was going to run in tomorrow's
Soap World
. People were taking an extra interest in her again. This was a good sign.

Monica glanced sideways out the window. The paparazzi were still there. Eric noticed, too.

“We should probably hold hands across the table,” he suggested. “And you might want to look enchanted by everything I say.”

“Good thing I'm an actress,” said Monica. She stretched her hand to meet his in the middle of the table. It was large and warm, comforting somehow. They twined fingers.

“How's that?” Eric asked.

“You're cutting off my circulation.”

“If I do it too loosely, it will look fake.”

“For God's sake,” Monica replied, exasperated, “do you really think they're looking that closely?”

“You never know.”

“Fine,” she huffed. She waited for her fingertips to turn blue, but they didn't. They ordered drinks, then dinner. Monica refrained from sucking down her Bellini in one go.

“Look like you're hanging on every word I say,” said Eric.

“How about you look like you're hanging on every word
I
say?” Monica countered.

“I could do that.”

She watched Eric rearrange his facial expression so his eyes were caressing hers, his mouth parted slightly in wonderment. Jesus, this guy was good. It was almost scary.

“You missed your calling; you should have been an actor.”

“I told you: I am an actor. When I need to be. Why else do you think I'm such a babe magnet?”

“Tell me,” Monica asked sweetly. “What's it like to be a legend in your own mind?”

Eric chuckled. “I told the guys you had a great sense of humor. It's good that we're getting to know each other a little, right? Adds to the realism.”

Monica sipped her drink with her free hand. “Do you feel at all guilty about this little ruse?”

“No. Do you?”

Monica paused. “A little. At some point we'll have to figure out who breaks up with whom.”

“I think I should break up with you.”

“I disagree.”

“What if they can read our lips and know we're not having an intimate conversation?” Eric said worriedly.

“You're an idiot,” said Monica, smiling at him with false adoration. How the hell was she going to get through an entire meal alone with this man? The dinner for James Dempsey was one thing; there were lots of other people for them to talk to, and of course, Chim Chim. But this was different.

Eventually, the waiter brought their dinners. “Looks good,” said Eric. He had let Monica order for him, confessing that his knowledge of French food extended to fries and yellow mustard. She appreciated his honesty. She hated when men tried to bluff their way through sophistication.

“You'll have to let go of my hand if we want to eat,” Monica pointed out.

“Oh. Right.”

He released her hand, and for a split second, she missed the contact. When was the last time she'd held hands with a man? Helping Monty get to the bathroom didn't count.

Acutely aware of their surroundings, Monica noticed a woman and a man tucked away at a table for two in the back of the small room, trying to be discreet as they took turns glancing at Eric and Monica. Fans, Monica thought happily. When the woman stood and began walking toward the table, Monica squared her shoulders, sitting up a little straighter and smiling a friendly smile. An autograph, posing for a picture . . . this would be perfect. And the woman wasn't crawling beneath a bathroom stall. This was her type of fan.

The woman stopped at the table, twisting her hands shyly.

“Excuse me—are you Eric Mitchell?”

Eric smiled at the woman warmly. “Yeah, I am.”

“I'm a huge Blades fan, and I'm just so thrilled that you joined the team. Can you pose for a picture with me?”

“Sure.”

The woman handed her digital camera to Monica. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course not.” Monica was smiling so hard she thought her face might crack.
Eric?
The woman wanted a picture taken with Eric and not
her
?

Eric rose, putting his arm around the starstruck fan. “Whenever you're ready, honey,” he said to Monica. He was grinning at her like the cat that ate the canary. Or the jock that had outshone the actress. Monica held back a glare.

“Say cheese,” Monica instructed cheerily, snapping a bunch of pictures. She handed the camera back to the fan, who thanked Eric profusely, but not her. The fan was babbling excitedly to her companion as she returned to her own table.

“Pissed, huh?” Eric observed dryly as they sat back down.

Monica toyed casually with one of her earrings. “I beg your pardon?”

“I saw your face when that chick said she wanted to pose with me and not you. You were stunned.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“Yes, you
were
.” Eric seemed to be enjoying catching her out. “What a little egomaniac you are, Ms. Geary.”

“Look who's talking,” Monica snorted. “You practically knocked the table over trying to get out of your chair to pose.”

“I didn't want the woman's dinner to get cold.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”

“I promise that the next time that happens, I'll ask them to take your picture, too, okay?” Eric said with a mischievous look in his eye.

Monica ignored him.

Eating their dinners, they actually had a decent conversation, talking about their jobs. Monica was surprised at how easy it went, and then she remembered watching him turn on the charm at the museum bash the other night. She wondered: Was
this
the real Eric, or was jerk Eric the real Eric? Well, it didn't really matter, since they were just playacting the whole romance, anyway. Still, she couldn't resist asking a question or two.

“What kinds of women actually fall for your ‘I'm a stud' act? I'm not criticizing you for doing it. I'm just curious.”

“Women who think it's cool to be with a professional athlete. Women who want to be seen with me.”

“Like me.”

“This is a partnership,” Eric reminded her.

“So these women are just trophies, in other words. Nothing real. Nothing
substantial
.”