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  “So, Mr. Soap Star, how did it go?”

  Eric turned from his locker to see Ulf Torkelson standing behind him, arms crossed, a mocking expression on his face. Word had spread like wildfire that Eric was doing a cameo on The Wild and the Free, and just as he’d expected, some of his new teammates were regarding him with envy.

  Eric slung a towel around his sweaty neck. “It went great. I had four lines. Could have done it in my sleep.” Fearful of his scene being cut, he had aced it on the last take. Thinking a touch of humility might get Monica to reconsider her refusal of a night on the town with him, he’d turned to her the second the director yelled, “Cut!” to thank her for her patience, but she shot off the set so fast she was a blur. He took it in stride, knowing that eventually she’d regret turning him down and seek him out.

  Barry Fontaine, a teammate and a friend of his brother’s, wasn’t looking at him with any resentment at all as he asked in a worshipful voice, “Did you meet Monica Geary?”

  “Yup. That’s who my scene was with. We got along great. Truth be told, I think she was kind of into me.”

  Ulf snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously. We hit it off right away. Couldn’t stop talking between takes.”

  “She probably felt sorry for you,” Thad Meyers said with scorn.

  “Why would that be?” Eric asked, grabbing his shampoo and soap.

  “Because you’re no Guy Le Temp and never will be,” Thad replied. Scattered nods of assent filled the locker room.

  I’m better than Guy Le Temp, which is why I’m here, you asshole, thought Eric. He’d just done great at practice, and that wasn’t just his ego speaking. Tully had told him so, and so had Assistant Coach Dante, who had a tendency to be extra hard on players since he moved behind the bench. The only one silent and watchful was Ty Gallagher. Always scribbling notes on his fucking clipboard. Eric imagined him checking off some kind of score sheet as the Blades progressed from drill to drill. Ty seemed particularly fond of making them sprint up and down the ice, which Eric hated. Luckily he didn’t lag in any way, and in fact skated more quickly than his brother, which gave him pleasure. Jace might be assistant captain, but Eric was still the better player. He couldn’t wait to prove it on the ice.

  “When’s the episode airing?” David Hewson asked. Hewsie was now the team’s top goalie after the departure of Denny O’Malley, who’d retired after taking one too many pucks to his melon. Hewsie seemed not to have any issue with Eric replacing Guy, perhaps because he had only been a Blade for a year himself. Or maybe he just wasn’t a schmuck.

  “Two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?”

  Eric shrugged. “That’s the way it works. They shoot stuff two weeks in advance.”

  “Did you bring your camera and have anyone take a picture of you with her—you know, to preserve the memory?” asked Thad sarcastically.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” asked Ulf. “She refuse to pose with you?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Eric retorted.

  “That was fucking stupid,” said Ulf.

  It was. He should have listened to his brother. Gotten an autograph that said, “To the New York Blades, My Favorite Team, Love, Monica,” or one that said, “To Eric, Great Working with You, Monica,” with a bunch of Xs and Os across the bottom. He’d pop in and see Lou Capesi in Blades PR, find out if he could call the show and have them send over a few autographed pictures.

  “I vote we have a Watch Mitchell on TV party,” said Thad. “I could use a good laugh.”

  Heads nodded. Of course they’d watch it together. Eric would watch it with them. His five minutes of fame off the ice. He couldn’t wait to see it. He couldn’t wait for them to see it, either. That would shut them up.

  “Everyone, meet the latest addition to the W and F family, Chessy Matthews.”

  In seeming perfect synchronization with the rest of her cast mates, Monica smiled and said “Hello” to the petite, buxom blonde who had just been introduced to them on set by the executive producer. From the little bit of info the writers had provided, Monica knew that Chessy’s character, Paige, was Roxie’s half sister through their late father. Paige’s mother was their father’s secret plural wife, taken after his previously unknown conversion to a fundamentalist Mormon sect. Now Paige had come to Garrett City to take over Roxie’s publishing empire, claiming their father had written a subsequent will to the one that left everything to Roxie. More cat-fights and lots of bitchy lines, thought Monica. Could be fun.

  Much to her horror, she had dreamed of Eric Mitchell last night. In the dream, she had put masking tape over his mouth and told him to just “Shut up and fuck me.” Which he did—quite skillfully. She woke up moaning with pleasure, her sheets twisted around her. As consciousness dawned, sexual satisfaction turned to horror. How could she have dreamed of him, New York’s most obnoxious man? Easy: he was the finest-looking specimen she’d set eyes on in a long time. The dream haunted her all day, shameful and somewhat embarrassing. Her libido had never ambushed her with a dolt before.

  Gloria stood next to Monica, imperious as ever as she watched Chessy make her way toward them, introducing herself to the cast one by one. “Her name should be Chesty, not Chessy,” Gloria whispered out of the side of her bright red mouth. “I hope her boobs can act.”

  “Don’t be mean.” Monica believed in giving everyone new a fair chance, always remembering back to when she was the newest cast member. She could still conjure the terror of it, the fears of not fitting in and screwing up. Thank God Gloria took Monica under her wing. Maybe Monica would do the same for newbie Chessy, though her perpetual smile did grate a bit. Monica hoped she hadn’t been that—toothy—on her first day.

  Chessy finally made her way to Monica, standing breathlessly before her. “Oh my God. I have soooo wanted to meet you for soooo long. I have been, like, your biggest fan since I was a little girl! It’s been soooo great to watch Roxie mature over the years. I can’t wait for us to work together. I just know I can learn a lot from a veteran like you.”

  Monica’s mouth froze into a rictus. “Yes, I get the feeling there is a lot you need to learn.” Like how not to assault someone with backhanded compliments the first time you meet them. Chessy smiled at her again before moving on to Royce.

  “Little bitch,” Gloria hissed as soon as Chesty was out of earshot.

  “Now, now.”

  “Watch that one,” Gloria warned.

  Monica waved her hand dismissively. She’d been on the show ten years, and she’d seen a parade of ingénues come and go, many of them intent on unseating her. What they didn’t know was that if their story line tanked and the writers couldn’t come up with another, they’d be collecting unemployment faster than you could say evil twin. Monica patted Gloria’s bony shoulder before heading for her dressing room. “I’m not worried.”

  A minute later, it was painfully clear she should be. Every Friday each member of the cast had a copy of the latest issue of Soap World delivered to their dressing room. This week’s issue had a giant picture of Chessy on the cover, the headline blaring, “Is This the Next Monica Geary?”

  Monica stared at the cover a few seconds before forcing herself to sit down on the couch. She knew she was letting herself in for a world of misery, but she opened the magazine anyway and flipped right to the article. It was a two-page color spread in the center. Her guts plummeted to her feet faster than a jet losing altitude.

  Shit, the pictures. Chessy smiling, radiating girl-next-door appeal. Chessy looking sexy. Chessy pretending to pore over a script. The text was worse, the writer (whom Monica hated but was always nice to) talking about how with Chessy’s talent and remarkable looks, she could skyrocket to soap super-stardom faster than Monica did.

  What talent?! No one had seen her act apart from the casting director. Monica skimmed the article for a quote from Ricardo. “The minute Chessy read for me, I was just blown away.” Wanting to get blown was more like it. She continue
d skimming, uncovering the fact that though Chessy had never acted before, Ricardo sensed “a unique energy coming from her that couldn’t be ignored” as she took his order at La Artista, where he found this “unknown jewel.”

  A waitress. The casting director had hired a goddamn waitress who had never acted. Monica knew she should throw the magazine down right now, but it was like witnessing a car wreck: she just couldn’t stop looking. She read on, shocked at the quote from the executive producer who said he hoped Chessy’s character would help turn the show in a “new and vibrant direction.” What the hell did that mean? The article concluded with the writer speculating on how much fun it was going to be to see Chessy give Monica a run for her money—just their characters, of course, but Monica knew this writer, and she knew damn well she wasn’t just referring to rivalry between Roxie and Claire.

  Put the magazine down now, she commanded herself. But she couldn’t. Some masochistic inner demon drove her to turn to the gossip column, which she knew was penned by the same vituperative writer under the lame pseudonym of Suzy Scuttlebutt. She skimmed again, her breathing catching as she found her name in bold.

  The writer speculated that the comment W and F’s executive producer made in the Chessy article might mean he thought Monica was resting on her laurels, and that the Roxie character was becoming “predictable.” The column referred to Monica as “semireclusive” and noted that she hadn’t had a man in her life for months. “What is going on with Monica Geary?” was how the paragraph concluded.

  “Cow!” Monica spat, hurling the magazine in the trash. She was not reclusive. That was a lie. Then again, she couldn’t remember the last time she gave an interview or attended a fan function. As for not having a man, it was no one’s business! Not only that, but what the hell did it have to do with anything?

  She tore her dressing room apart, knowing that she still had a pack of cigarettes hidden somewhere. She found two behind a picture of herself with a movie star, who had once done a cameo on the show as Roxie’s former pimp. Now she just had to find a light. She contemplated going to Gloria, but she didn’t want her friend to see her so rattled. Further rooting around rewarded her with a book of matches. She lit up.

  Okay, think. She needed to up her profile beyond just acting. Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way. She’d trained at Julliard, for chrissakes. Had studied privately with Monty Kingman, considered one of the greatest acting teachers of all time.

  After Julliard she found herself waiting tables, the actor’s cliché. Crappy roach-infested apartment, meager wages, but the nighttime job freed her to audition during the day. She auditioned her ass off—she and a gazillion other good-looking, talented young women. When her agent told her about the part of Roxie on W and F, she went for it, never in a million years thinking she’d get it. But she did. Told herself it would just be temporary, until a “real” acting gig came along. After all, hadn’t Julianne Moore started on soaps? Hadn’t Meg Ryan? Starting on soaps was almost a rite of passage. It was a stepping-stone to bigger, better, more respected forms of entertainment. She was supposed to have won a Tony by now. Or an Oscar.

  But oh my, how time flies when you’re making bundles of money. Every time her contract came up for renewal, she was in agony. Should she renew, cling to the job security? Or should she venture out into the bigger world and try to get the admiration for her talent that she craved? In the end, she always signed on the dotted line. The salary was just too good to pass up. And truth be told, she liked the attention. That was one of the primary reasons people became actors. They needed the attention. They wanted to be loved.

  Monica wanted to be loved.

  She picked up her phone, dialed the number of her personal publicist, Theresa Dante, and made an appointment to come in.

  THREE

  “How the hell are you?!”

  “I’m good.” Monica melted into Theresa Dante’s hug, put at ease by her warm greeting. She knew of other personal publicists who excoriated their clients for remaining under the radar for a while, calling them endlessly to urge them to do more, more, more. Theresa wasn’t like that, perhaps because she didn’t need to be. FM PR, the firm Theresa had started with her best friend, Janna, boasted a huge client list.

  “Sit, sit,” Theresa urged. Monica settled on the large leather couch in Theresa’s cluttered office, her eyes lighting on the picture on Theresa’s desk of her husband, Michael, and their three kids. “I can’t believe how big the kids have gotten!”

  “Their mouths are bigger, believe me,” Theresa replied wryly. “Did Terrence come out and offer you any coffee?”

  “He’s brewing a fresh pot. Said he’ll be in, in a minute.”

  “Good boy. He got a promotion, as you can tell from our new receptionist. He’s my PA now.” She sat down on the couch beside Monica. “Give me all the dirt from W and F.”

  Monica chuckled, remembering that Theresa had gotten her start as a publicist at the show. “Who do you want to know about?”

  Theresa thought a moment. “Nicholas Kastley.”

  “You mean Nicholas Ghastly.” Both women laughed. “Well, he’s about a hundred and five now, and blind as a bat. He can’t remember his lines, so he has them taped all over the place: on the backs of chairs, on banisters. He won’t wear contacts for some insane reason.”

  “He’s always been that way. One time he mistook me for a coat stand.”

  “Well, about two months ago, he tripped over a coffee table and broke his left leg. He wouldn’t admit it was his fault. He claimed Gloria Hathaway was trying to kill him.”

  “Oh, God.” Theresa’s palm flew to her mouth, but Monica could see she wanted to laugh.

  “There are rumors that when his contract is up, his character is going to be killed off. Buried alive, I think.”

  “Ooh, that’s good,” said Theresa with wide eyes. “I don’t think they’ve ever done that.”

  “Knock, knock, who’s there,” a haughty voice called from the doorway. “Terrence. Terrence who? Terrence, Theresa’s personal slave.”

  Theresa rolled her eyes, beckoning him inside. “Just give us the coffee and be gone with you.”

  “See how she treats me?” Terrence lamented, handing over two coffees. He clasped his hands reverentially as he stood before Monica. “I just have to tell you, I think the show has been great lately. Great. I TiVo it and watch it when I get home from work around nine o’ clock at night—if I’m lucky.” He gave Theresa a pointed look, which she ignored, then turned back to Monica with worshipful eyes. “I loved that scene with you and Gloria Hathaway where you tore off her wig to reveal Antonia was bald.”

  Monica bowed her head with pleasure. “Thank you.”

  Terrence sighed. “Well, I’m off to put my chains back on and resume breaking rocks.” He regarded Theresa. “Anything else, boss lady?”

  “Nope. Just close the door behind you.”

  Terrence obeyed and was gone. Theresa took a sip of coffee, put it down on the coffee table, and lightly slapped the top of her thighs, getting down to business. “So, what’s going on?”

  Monica fished the latest issue of Soap World out of her bag, handing it over to Theresa, whose eyebrows lifted when she saw the headline. “It gets worse. Read it.”

  Monica didn’t want to watch Theresa as she read it, so she busied herself by studying the walls of Theresa’s office. Athletes, politicians, restaurateurs, other actors—FM handled them all. She turned back to Theresa when she heard her close the magazine with a sigh.

  “It’s not that bad. Seriously. They did a piece just like this on you when you started, remember?”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t ask if I was the next so-and-so.”

  Theresa paused for another sip of coffee, studying her. “What upsets you most about this?”

  “That she has no acting experience!” Monica hesitated. “And that it might not matter, that she still might . . . outshine me.” She looked down into her coffee. “You must think I’m re
ally shallow.”

  “No, I just think you’re a very popular actress, and no actress wants to be upstaged or risk losing her adoring public to someone else. And don’t forget: you do have an adoring public.”

  “I know.” It should have cheered Monica, but it didn’t.

  “You have been MIA for a while,” Theresa said carefully. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Just tired.”

  Which was true, but it wasn’t the whole story. The fact was that until now, she didn’t feel like she had any juice left to give to the public, especially since—and here she felt like a horrible, bitchy snob—it wasn’t the public she’d always dreamed of having. Yet the minute her status was threatened, what did she do? Scurry off to her publicist so they could figure out a way to keep her prominent among soap fans. What a hypocrite.

  “Well, we need to get you untired and reinspired. Get you on board with some charity events, some film openings, have you seen dining in chichi restaurants. Doing some soap fan events would be good, too. But you already know all this, Monica.”

  Monica nodded, feeling mildly chastised, which she supposed she deserved.

  “What we really need, though, is to have you seen out and about with someone incredibly suave and gorgeous.” Theresa paused, biting down on the tip of her pen. “You ever hear of Eric Mitchell? He was just traded to the New York Blades. He was voted one of People magazine’s ‘Top Fifty Bachelors,’ and next week he’s going to be on the cover of New York magazine. I cannot tell you how hot this guy is right now, both in terms of popularity and looks.”

  Monica was horrified. “And I cannot tell you how obnoxious he is. He just did a cameo on the show. He was awful, Theresa. And he hit on me!”