Page 17 of You Spin Me

Anya gives me a nod of appreciation. “I admit it, I am pleasantly surprised.” She pats me on the shoulder. “No actress wants to look bad onstage. But you get it. We all want the look to work, to make your job easier.”

Standing, I check my unfamiliar profile in the three-way mirror. “As Hamlet says, ‘There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.’”

Wanda winks at me before closing up her portfolio of drawings. “Miles was afraid to tell you himself. He made us do it.”

A flash of anger sparks, but I extinguish it with a sigh. “I can hardly blame him. I spend an awful lot of time and money on my appearance.” When I check my reflection in the mirror, Prudence’s poor choices distract me from zeroing in on my wrinkles and breasts. I have to admit it’s a bit of a relief. “Maybe this old dog can learn some new tricks.”

Anya laughs. “Pah! Old dog. Get out of here, you spring chicken.”

A little shiver of anticipation mixes with fear of the unknown and zips through me. Unchartered territory.

Kind of like what’s going on between Cal and me.

There’sa different DJ on WBAR as I drive home from rehearsal late Saturday afternoon. I never paid much attention to the person talking between the songs before, but I miss Cal’s voice. Turning off the radio, I try to talk myself into calling one of my friends to see what they have going on tonight, but once I’m home staring at my phone, I can’t quite get myself to do it. In the past we’d all head out together at the end of a day of rehearsal, making plans as we went.

I could call my friend Bella. She’s not inHamleteither, but she does have a kid and would have to pay for a sitter.

While I’m wishing I knew how to contact Cal and wondering what fabulous plans he might have tonight—probably at some club or concert—the phone rings. Thinking that Cal might have somehow gotten a hold of my number even though it’s unlisted, I pick up instead of letting the machine get it first.

Unfortunately, it’s not Cal. It’s this guy Charles that I met at a bar when I was out with teacher friends back in December. He’s hot. He likes to say I’m hot. He has work contacts that get us into the hottest restaurants.

Everything else between us is ice cold, however. I slept with him after the first date because, you know, a guy treats you to a meal at a fancy place and you feel obligated to put out.

Plus, I usually like sex. I didn’t with Charles. He took the quid-pro-quo thing to a whole new level, like I was literally there to service him. I don’t know why I slept with him a second time. I guess I’m a Pollyanna that way. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d had a bad day or had performance anxiety the first time. It was marginally better, but only because he came so fast and was out the door even faster.

Normally I wouldn’t go out with any guy on such short notice, but Charles can be persuasive. He says something about a guy from work who had reservations at this new place that it takes months to get into but his girlfriend got sick. Probably whoever Charles asked out first got sick, but whatever. It’s not like I have other plans.

Later though, in the car on the way back from the restaurant, I’m wishing I hadn’t said yes. Wishing I’d pushed through the awkwardness and called a friend instead.

It’s not like I could even eat half the food. Charles must’ve mentioned my “hot bod” about fifty thousand times, which made me feel self-conscious, like I shouldn’t eat because thin girls don’t eat, so I only took two bites of everything.

Hearing that I’m hot or sexy or gorgeous—those words have always been so important to me. The power of seducing a guy has always been intoxicating.

Something’s changed.

And it’s not just about turning thirty.

As we take the Allston exit from the Mass Pike, a warm, masculine voice breaks into my thoughts, and it’s not the guy driving me home. Without asking permission, even though Charles is ridiculously protective of his car stereo, I turn up the volume on the radio.

“It’s a nippy twenty-five degrees under clear skies right now, or so they tell me. Your weeknight jock Callihan here, subbing in on a Saturday night. So tell me: What’s happening, Boston? Are you heading to Spit or leaving the Bruins game? I’ll keep you company whether you’re staying in or going to a party. Let’s kick it off with ‘Rescue Me’ by the Alarm.”

I’m wishing Cal would rescueme, when I realize he already has. The sound of his voice makes me realize that not only do I not owe Charles anything, I don’t particularly like him.

The moment we pull up in front of my apartment building, I open the door before Charles can even get the car in park. “Thanks, man. That was great.”

His lips flatten into a thin line. “I don’t get to come in? What the fuck?”

“Sorry, I’m super tired and I have an early call tomorrow.”

“Can’t we have sex? I’ll leave right after.”

Pushing the apology trying to escape past my lips to the side, I make myself say, “Nope. Gotta go to bed. Good night.”

Unfortunately, my clean exit is foiled by a tangled purse strap. When I turn around to free it from the car, Charles grabs my wrist. “Come on, Jess. You’re so smokin’ in that dress; you’ve had me riled up all night.”

“I said no. No, thank you,” I add with a forced smile. When he doesn’t let go, I enunciate even more clearly. “Did you not hear what I said, Charles?”

“But I’m hard as a rock,” he whines. “You dress like you do, a guy expects to get laid.”

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