Because it’s hard to look away. It’s hard not to stare at his face with those eyes that seem to know you, and that hair that seems to beg for hands to be run through it. I click on a picture of him at last year’s Tony Awards with his arm draped around a stunning redhead. I zero in on the caption. Award-winning director Davis Milo and publicist Amber Surratt. Then, one from the year before, where his hand is clasped protectively around the waist of a black-haired beauty in a slinky gold dress. She’s a talent agent and she represents many of Broadway’s top stars. At a Broadway Cares event last year he’s seen with a well-known choreographer, who’s no doubt as flexible as she is gorgeous. His hand looks to be on her back. I touch my lower back briefly, as if I can recall the sensations I’d felt when he laid his hand there as he caught up with me in Sardi’s.
I lean into my couch pillow and arrive at two conclusions: one, besides the lone photo of him and Madeline Blaine, he seems to prefer the company of the women who work behind the scenes in the business. And two, he’s tailor-made for tuxes. The man just looks at home in a suit. He’s effortless, every bit of him completely effortless in black and white, with an easy and understated elegance. He wears the tux, rather than the tux wearing him. I run my index finger across a photo of him, tracing his outline absently, arriving at a third conclusion: I bet he looks best in a tux if you’re the one next to him when he’s wearing it.
I close my laptop and head to my bedroom, opening my tiny closet. I pick out something classy for my meeting, a pencil skirt and my favorite emerald green sweater.
Then I knock on Kat’s door.
“Come in,” she says, sleepily.
“Rise and shine.”
“Some of us don’t wake up at the crack of dawn, you know,” she says, and rolls onto her side, bringing her purple comforter snug around her neck.
“Hate to break it to you, but it’s almost ten. Well past the crack of dawn. Anyway, can I borrow your black pumps for a meeting later this week?”
“You know I have huge feet.”
I laugh. “You’re an eight. I’m a seven and a half. I’d hardly call that huge.”
“Bottom shelf in my shoe rack. But be careful. They’re true to size and I don’t want you to stumble.”
“Ha. I’m like a cat. I always land on my feet.”
“Then my Louboutins are your Louboutins.”
“One of the many reasons why I love you so much.”
I find the black beauties and return to my room, placing them next to the skirt and sweater. There. It’s the perfect ensemble.
Then I find myself wishing it were Friday.
Which makes no sense to me whatsoever. Except on a professional level. Because I want to impress him as an actress. That’s all.
Chapter 5
Jill
The office building is red brick with a gleaming glass door and huge potted plants inside the lobby, an eclectic mix of materials in the middle of the Tribeca neighborhood that’s teeming with industrial buildings, lofts and famous faces.
Surprising, because I somehow pictured Davis in a sleek, black office building in the middle of Times Square. But then, Tribeca is the epicenter of New York cool and claims Beyonce, Justin Timberlake and Leonardo DiCaprio among its star-studded residents, so I suppose it’s fitting that Davis keeps an office among the glitterati.
I adjust my purse strap, walk a few feet away from the building in case anyone’s looking in the lobby, and check my makeup in the side mirror of a car parked outside. Good. I still look freshly made-up, and there are no lipstick marks on my teeth. I press a hand against my belly because anxiety is flooding my veins. I don’t know what to expect from my first official meeting with a Broadway director. What sort of expectations does he want to set with me? The initial excitement is behind me, so I’m glad my agent will be here. I scan the block for her, hoping to catch a sight of her marching purposefully towards me, looking all tough and agent-y with her shoulder length brown bob and kickass attitude.
I check the time on my phone, when I see a text message from her marked as urgent. I click it open. Jill darling!! I’m so sorry. I’m stuck on the Metro North, and my train is delayed a whole frigging hour. But you’ll be fine!! You’re there, right?
I write back with a Yes, don’t worry about me, then I turn the phone off and head inside, talking myself down from these nerves. There’s no reason for me to be nervous. I’ve been cast, and I’ve already had a drink with him, and we chatted and got along swimmingly. Everything will be fine, and these are first job jitters that I’m going to ignore.
There. Done. Ignored.
I am confident. I am bold.
I push open the glass door, and enter the lobby, which has a warehouse-y, unfinished feel to it with exposed pipes and concrete walls painted a bright white.
I stride purposefully to the security guard behind a counter, and inform him where I’m going. Davis Milo. Second Floor. He tells me I’m on the list so I sign in, and take the stairs up one flight.
I find his office at the end of a long, quiet hallway. The door is slightly ajar, so I knock.
“Come in.”
His voice is strong and deep, and something about it calms my nerves. This is the man I teased about casting me as Tevye. I’ll be fine.
I open the door and he’s seated behind a large oak desk that’s spilling over with scripts and sheet music. I would have pegged him as a neat freak, but his desk has a slightly unkempt look to it, which is all the more surprising given how impeccably he’s dressed. He’s wearing a navy blue shirt that looks crisp and freshly laundered, and pressed charcoal slacks. His dark brown hair is slightly mussed up, as if he were running a hand through it right before I walked in. What’s most out of tune with my expectations, though, is the music playing from his computer. It’s not Rodgers and Hammerstein, nor is it Sondheim. He’s listening to Muse, and I almost want to hum along to the lyrics I know so well from “Madness.”
He looks up from his screen, meets my eyes, and almost seems like he’s about to smile. Then he makes his face impassive, and simply nods in greeting.
Neither one of us says anything for a beat, and the only sound is the music.
“I love this song,” I say to break the silence between us.
He starts to speak, but instead he leans over, hits a button on his keyboard and turns the music down.
My nerves return. Did I do something wrong?
Then he rises and walks over to me, offering a hand.