Chapter 1: Not exactly love at first sight…
Derek POV: Star quality. Every would-be actress thinks they have it. They are almost always wrong. An actress can have looks, and a voice. They might also be able to act and dance, but without star quality, it means nothing. What is star quality? Well, as one of the world's leading authorities on the subject, I can tell you, it's almost impossible to describe. Some people call it a glow. I personally think it's a ridiculous metaphor, makes the actress sound like a bloody light bulb. Star quality is not a light bulb. Star quality is a sun. It's hot, you feel it radiating out of this person, this person whom you would think perfectly ordinary, if not for this thing, this almost mystical thing that draws you to them. It's what fills the theatre, makes hundreds of hearts beat in unison as they bask in the essence of this one being that just for a moment one might mistake for a demi-god.
Karen Cartwright has star quality. Without question. Her audition piece "Beautiful" was just that: beautiful. Innocent, vulnerable, and full of love. For a singer to make a cynic like myself feel these things, well it's quite an achievement. She's everything I wanted for Norma Jean. But Marilyn Monroe? Marilyn was someone know men, knew how handle men. How to use sex, yet stay in control. There in lay my doubts about Karen. So came my brilliant idea to call my would-be star over to my apartment at ten o'clock at night for a private coaching session.
Unethical of me? Perhaps. If Tom heard about it he'd have screeched his head off. Eileen probably wouldn't be too pleased either. However I maintain there simply was no other way to get the information I needed to make an informed decision. A decision that millions of dollars and years of my life would be invested in. What better to determine if the girl had what it takes to be Marilyn than to put in a situation that Marilyn herself faced many times?
And yes, if the opportunity had presented itself, I would have most happily slept with Karen. She's gorgeous, I'm a man, what can I say? But I certainly wouldn't hold Karen's response against her. Far from it. I found her teasing "Happy Birthday" number quite well played. Far more impressive than any sexual acrobatics she could have shown me. Granted it took me a few cold showers to come to this realization. Let it not be said I don't suffer for my art.
Karen POV: Star quality. Is that what I have? Or is it all just rubbish? Just something you friends and family say to you have because they love you and they want to make you feel special?
In Dev's eyes I'm a star. He says it and I believe him because he'd never lie to me. He adores me and I adore his admiration. And him too of course. He's kind, supportive, handsome, funny, perfect really. I'm ashamed that his love alone isn't enough for me. But it's not.
There's a void inside me, an emptiness that can only be filled by an audience. I don't know where it came from. I had a happy childhood; friends, boyfriends, parents who adored me. Yet the void still grew, hungry to be filled, so hungry that I flew halfway across to country to wait. Wait on tables, wait in audition hallways, waiting and waiting for that one person to recognize that I have talent, that I have "star quality". Waiting for someone like Derek Wells.
Derek Wells, the great and powerful director. The man who called me up to his apartment for "private coaching" at ten o'clock at night. The man who forced me to question just how far I was willing to go to be a star. I did consider it. For a minute there, I considered sleeping with this man, just for the chance it would get me the part. That's why I think I'll always hate Derek Wells. Not because he came on to me, but because I almost gave in.
Unfortunately hating the man didn't change the fact I still needed to work with him, still needed to impress him. Never knowing if my canceled "private performance" had already lost me the part, never knowing if each time he touches me, he's sincerely directing, or just playing grab hands with the hick from Iowa. Let it not be said I don't suffer for my art.