Page 2 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
But a gig is a gig is a gig.
I put on my best smile as I give the casting director my name. “Jude Graham with Premier Talent. Harry Atkinson reps me, and it’s a pleasure to be here.”
The casting director looks up from her tablet, question marks in her eyes. “Harry? I thought he was—” She makes a slashing gesture against her throat.
“I hope not. I saw him a week ago. Very much alive. And also, not headless.”
“Ah, must have been someone else,” she says.
Yes, I’ve noticed the epidemic of talent-agent beheadings in London lately.
“Sorry for whoever that might be,” I add.
She smiles faintly, the thick coat of plum lipstick cracking. “All right, show us you’re in the market for a Cleaneroo.”
Somehow, she manages to keep a straight face when she says the brand name—something I’ll be required to do inthree, two, one...
I become a cheerful, British businessman returning home to his flat after a hard day at the office. “Sweetheart, I swear the floors have never been prettier. Did you get that new Cleaneroo?”
Could this script be any more 1950s?
“Thank you,” the casting director says, revealing zilch about how I did.
“Thank you for having me,” I say with a gentlemanly nod as old-fashioned as this script.
Shit.
That was more of a bow. I meant to be jaunty, not obsequious. No matter. She didn’t even notice. She’s dragging her chipped red fingernail on the tablet screen, already done with me.
I grab my messenger bag and make my way down the rickety stairs in the back of the building, heading out through the strip club. A brunette dancer weaves past me, pink thigh-high boots jacking her up several inches, white seashells covering maybe half her breasts. An unlit cigarette dangles from her lips as she gives me a once-over. “Fancy a lap dance? Half off for you... I like blonds,” she says.
“Thanks, but I’m on a lap-dance fast,” I say, making my way to the exit.
Once I hit the street, I call my agent. “Why do these Cleaneroo people think you’re dead, Harry?”
He chortles. “Ah, that’s so typical of Vicki. When I don’t send her anyone for a while, she assumes I’ve kicked the bucket.”
That’s not the most reassuring answer. But last year, Harry did book me a sweet spot that’s still paying the bills, so I let rumors of his demise slide. “Maybe let her know you’re still alive?”
“Oh, I already told her, Jude. She just called.”
I perk up. That has to be good. “Did I get a callback already? I can turn around right now. Or is it even better? Did I get the job?” Antiquated gender stereotypes aside, I wouldn’t mind the money.
“She said you look too much like Apollo. The Greek god.”
What the hell does that mean? “Is that a good thing?”
“Of course it is,” he says, too chipper to trust. “But they think you’re too good-looking to peddle a vacuum. Like, no one believes you’d think about anything besides abs or kale smoothies, let alone cleaning. So it’s a compliment, in a way...”
I sigh. “And, also, kind of not.”
“It’s a double-edged sword—your godly good looks.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. “Should I forgo showers for a few days ahead of time for the next audition?”
He laughs. “Chin up. We’ll find some more commercials for you soon. But in the meantime, the body spray people just sent a residual.”
“Well, there’s that double-edged sword too.” I played a complete douche in that advert, spraying Hammer Body Spray on my armpits before I sauntered into a nightclub. “Thanks, Harry.”