Page 77 of You Spin Me

The problem with pretending that you know what you’re doing? You end up not knowing what you’re doing. Why didn’t I ask Jones more about this job so I could prepare? What if there are long scripts I have to read?

Anxiety has me itching to move, so I sneak out of bed, wishing I’d brought some extra clothes with me. If I had a mat and sweats, I could do a floor barre here. Maybe I should go home.

Cal’s still sleeping, so I write him a note and get dressed as quietly as I can. But as I’m setting it on the nightstand next to him, a hand reaches out to grab my wrist. “Are you sneaking out on me?”

“I was trying to let you sleep.”

“Come back to bed, and I’ll remind you of why you should stay. Then I’ll make you breakfast.”

After kissing him on the cheek I whisper, “Go back to sleep. I’ll see you”—then I remember that I actually have a performance tonight, something I usually keep front of mind—“um, soon.”

“If I let you go now, will you come back tonight?”

“I have a show.”

“After your show?”

Work, dance, sleep and skincare are typically numbers one through four on my priority list. Men fall somewhere between numbers ten and twenty. But being with Cal and talking with Cal and kissing Cal… I mean, we haven’t even had sex yet and already it’s all so very different than my experiences with other guys that my priorities are all confused. “I don’t know if I can stay up till the wee hours three days in a row and do five shows this weekend. I’m thirty, not twenty. I need sleep. Like, at least five hours in a row.”

With a groan—which I hope is because his scars give him pain, not me being a pain—he sits up and rifles through his nightstand drawer, then places a set of keys in my palm and closes my fingers around them. “If you come here after your show and hang out with Cash or go to bed, I promise to not wake you. Then you can wake me any way you want—any time you want—tomorrow.”

Before I can answer, he loops both arms around me and pulls me close. Squeezing my butt and kissing his way up my neck, he murmurs, “Please?”

How can I say no? I have a feeling he’s let me in further than he has anyone. He’s taking a chance. And since my work today and tomorrow is either on the radio or playing a character that the costume designer has worked hard to make unattractive, who cares if I have giant bags under my eyes and dull skin?

I take a deep breath and whisper, “See you tonight.”

Because I’m me,it takes me just as long to get dressed and do my hair and makeup to go record at the station where no one will see me as it does to get ready for an audition or a date or anything other than dance class. So as usual, I’m running late. And that’s before I get lost. Not on my way to the station, but inside the fucking building.

At Shakespeare Boston, they’re used to me always being a wee bit behind, and up at Chichester, the traffic has been my excuse when I run late, but even I know that showing up late for a brand-new gig is not a great way to start.

Somehow, I’ve ended up in a room full of cubicles where everyone’s on the phone. I’ve about decided to retrace my steps instead of waiting for someone to be free to ask directions, when a man takes me by the elbow and steers me toward a desk. “You’re late.”

“I—I know; I’m sorry, but—”

“Don’t want to hear it. Phones are off the hook. You’re there”—he points at a desk?—“and company directory’s in the drawer.”

“But I’m not here to—”

“I don’t care what the temp agency told you, I need a receptionist. And I need one now.” When I don’t move, he jabs a finger at the phone, where several lines are lit up. “Do I need to call the agency back?”

I’m so confused at this point that I’m about to turn tail and go home, when a voice behind me asks, “Hey, isn’t that our new girl?”

When I turn around, a human string bean offers me his hand. “Jess, right? I recognize your voice from the tape Jones made. I’m Porky.”

“Porky?” Never has a person been so ill-named.

The guy who thinks I’m the receptionist sneers at him. “Peter, get back to your cage. I’m trying to run a business here.”

“Can’t do it without the talent, Alan.” Porky/Peter nods slowly. “Heh-heh, that almost rhymes.”

Still gripping my elbow, Alan rolls his eyes. “Are you going to answer the phones or not?”

Relieving him of my arm, and taking a step towards Porky—or Peter, whatever his name is—I beam a winning smile at Alan. “I’m afraid you’ve made an incorrect assumption”—and a sexist oneI want to say, but no need to burn bridges on my first day—“I am, indeed, talent, but I got lost.”

“Come on, Jess, I’ll show you to our cage.” With a courtly little bow, he gestures in the direction of a door I hadn’t noticed before. “I’m Pete, by the way, but you can call me Porky. Everyone does.” He tips his head back at Alan, now seated at the desk and answering the phone himself. “Only that dickhead calls me Peter.”

Even though his movements are unhurried, Porky’s legs are twice as long as mine, so I have to jog to keep up. After ushering me into a recording studio crowded with so much equipment that it seems smaller than it is, he introduces me to Jonny “Rocket” Rogers. Jonny’s voice is higher pitched and a little nasal, and he’s the portly one.

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