Cordelia stared out of the window into the shadowy streets of LA below. Outside, rain fell in a steady drizzle, and the dark clouds that enveloped the city with a depressing grayness was offset only by the dim bulb that cast its light over her cheap apartment. The setting perfectly suited her mood.
Dark, gloomy, and offset only by a tiny flickering of hope that threatened to be extinguished. She grimaced at the cheesy metaphor but she could not deny its truth.
Things were not going well for her.
She had come out to Los Angeles, yet another starry-eyed hopeful who wanted to see her name in lights. Yet here she was, penniless, and jobless, and alone, and with no sign of things improving any time soon. Apparently there was little room in LA for an aspiring actress. Little room . . . and what room there was was highly coveted. No one wanted a newbie from God-knows-where with no previous acting experience. And she was a newbie from God-knows-where with no previous acting experience.
She had learned the art of lying very quickly. It seemed a necessary evil, and one she rarely regretted using to her advantage. They wanted experience? Fine. She had a ton of minor roles in several plays before. They wanted older? She was twenty-five. Younger? Sixteen. Blonde? Black-haired? She used wigs . . .
The agency she used seemed to think they've had enough of her. They hinted, kindly, that maybe she should ease off her dream of stardom, because . . .
She was penniless . . . jobless . . . talentless?
She urged them to keep looking for another audition, another chance. But she was aware of the fact that she was quickly becoming desperate.
There were others, anyway, who seemed to be better suited for the hypocrisies and aggressive competitiveness of Hollywood than she. Even her constant contention for a place at the top in the high school hierarchy had not prepared her for the challenges she faced daily out here . . .
Her stomach growled.
. . . one of which was an almost perpetual feeling of gnawing hunger.
She was not prone to bouts of unhappiness - not usually. Self-pity, sometimes, she did not deny she was self-involved, but very rarely true unhappiness. She had long ago adopted Scarlett O'Hara's policy of "I'll think about it tomorrow" when faced with a difficulty, and it has been in her experience that with enough foresight, the promised tomorrow could be postponed indefinitely. In a life such as the one she led right now, however, tomorrow was a reality she had to face.
She pressed her cheek against the cool glass and thought of yesterday. It was far more pleasant than thinking of today, or the dreaded tomorrow. What she would give to be back among the demon-infested populace of Sunnydale . . . if it meant she could just have something to eat!
Her stomach growled again, more insistently, and she sighed, standing up.
It was just about time to get ready for the party, anyway.
She opened her bare closet and pulled out the one good dress she had salvaged from the auditors back in Sunnydale. She pulled it on, reached for her makeup, and carefully applied it on her face using the tiny mirror in her compact. That done, she stretched her lips into a smile and summoned up what acting skills she had to make it look happy and carefree.
She would have to charm those smug bastards at the party. She heard that Oliver Simon, talent manager extraordinare, was going to be there. She'd talk to him. Maybe he'd see she had potential. Maybe he'd like her enough to give her a call, even. She glanced at the silent answering machine.
Maybe.
Yeah, and maybe a tall, dark and handsome man would come swooping into her life and save her from its dreary existence, right?
She picked up her purse and shrieked as a cockroach scuttled out from underneath it. She tried not to see where it was going.
It was off to that party. She'd keep her fingers crossed for that Oliver Simon deal. Miracles have been known to happen. At the very least she'd get something to eat.
She exited the apartment, the sound of her heels clattering on the hallway receding into the distance until there was nothing left but silence.
Miracles have been known to happen.
Outside, the sky began to clear.
FIN
Dark, gloomy, and offset only by a tiny flickering of hope that threatened to be extinguished. She grimaced at the cheesy metaphor but she could not deny its truth.
Things were not going well for her.
She had come out to Los Angeles, yet another starry-eyed hopeful who wanted to see her name in lights. Yet here she was, penniless, and jobless, and alone, and with no sign of things improving any time soon. Apparently there was little room in LA for an aspiring actress. Little room . . . and what room there was was highly coveted. No one wanted a newbie from God-knows-where with no previous acting experience. And she was a newbie from God-knows-where with no previous acting experience.
She had learned the art of lying very quickly. It seemed a necessary evil, and one she rarely regretted using to her advantage. They wanted experience? Fine. She had a ton of minor roles in several plays before. They wanted older? She was twenty-five. Younger? Sixteen. Blonde? Black-haired? She used wigs . . .
The agency she used seemed to think they've had enough of her. They hinted, kindly, that maybe she should ease off her dream of stardom, because . . .
She was penniless . . . jobless . . . talentless?
She urged them to keep looking for another audition, another chance. But she was aware of the fact that she was quickly becoming desperate.
There were others, anyway, who seemed to be better suited for the hypocrisies and aggressive competitiveness of Hollywood than she. Even her constant contention for a place at the top in the high school hierarchy had not prepared her for the challenges she faced daily out here . . .
Her stomach growled.
. . . one of which was an almost perpetual feeling of gnawing hunger.
She was not prone to bouts of unhappiness - not usually. Self-pity, sometimes, she did not deny she was self-involved, but very rarely true unhappiness. She had long ago adopted Scarlett O'Hara's policy of "I'll think about it tomorrow" when faced with a difficulty, and it has been in her experience that with enough foresight, the promised tomorrow could be postponed indefinitely. In a life such as the one she led right now, however, tomorrow was a reality she had to face.
She pressed her cheek against the cool glass and thought of yesterday. It was far more pleasant than thinking of today, or the dreaded tomorrow. What she would give to be back among the demon-infested populace of Sunnydale . . . if it meant she could just have something to eat!
Her stomach growled again, more insistently, and she sighed, standing up.
It was just about time to get ready for the party, anyway.
She opened her bare closet and pulled out the one good dress she had salvaged from the auditors back in Sunnydale. She pulled it on, reached for her makeup, and carefully applied it on her face using the tiny mirror in her compact. That done, she stretched her lips into a smile and summoned up what acting skills she had to make it look happy and carefree.
She would have to charm those smug bastards at the party. She heard that Oliver Simon, talent manager extraordinare, was going to be there. She'd talk to him. Maybe he'd see she had potential. Maybe he'd like her enough to give her a call, even. She glanced at the silent answering machine.
Maybe.
Yeah, and maybe a tall, dark and handsome man would come swooping into her life and save her from its dreary existence, right?
She picked up her purse and shrieked as a cockroach scuttled out from underneath it. She tried not to see where it was going.
It was off to that party. She'd keep her fingers crossed for that Oliver Simon deal. Miracles have been known to happen. At the very least she'd get something to eat.
She exited the apartment, the sound of her heels clattering on the hallway receding into the distance until there was nothing left but silence.
Miracles have been known to happen.
Outside, the sky began to clear.
FIN