Page 144 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Thank heavens. Do you have any idea how mortifying it is for them to be using my sonnet's voice for a reading ofA Midsummer Night’s DreamorHamlet, let aloneKing Lear? No one in their right mind would book me. So what’s next? What do we do?”
“You sign the contract giving me permission to represent you, and I write up the cease-and-desist letters and have them delivered via FedEx. I’ll file the lawsuit Monday morning.”
Mike flips through the contract. “Five million in damages?”
“It’s a place to start, but if you look at their downloads and subscribers, it’s not unreasonable. I know it stings, but being fired from the play is exactly the kind of proof we need to shut this down for good. They’ve damaged your livelihood—clear as day.”
“How do I finance a lawsuit? I’m broke. I’ve got barely enough money to keep the lights on.”
“If you flip to page seven, you’ll see the terms of my payment.”
“‘One volume of annotated Shakespeare sonnets?’”
“I’d do it for free, but I really can’t live without that book.”
Mike doesn’t look up from the contract. “It’s my heart on a page.”
“I know. The next best thing to the man himself.”
He stares at me.
I hand him another file. “I’ll send digital copies later today for your records.” But I know from experience that holding physical documents is comforting.
He flips through them before setting the folder on the coffee table.
“Admittedly, I’m out of my depth when it comes to wills and estate planning,” I say, “but on my dad’s recommendation, I took the liberty of consulting with Lorraine Sharp. She’s the best estate planning attorney on the West Coast—and a fan of chocolate cake and espresso, it turns out. She walked me through the particulars and says your uncle’s ex-wife has no leg to stand on. Grandma knew what she was doing when she wrote her will. If they want a fight, we’ll legal up, but the house and property are yours. No court or judge can change that. Grandma Evie made certain.”
Mike holds his head in his hands.
“Do you need a minute?” I may need a minute myself. I remember this feeling from the pro bono work I did before I joined my dad’s firm. Providing relief and protection from the unfair, unjust, bad-faith sources that threatened clients’ homes, livelihoods, and safety was emotional work. I’d kept it together, leaned into my professionalism, but I’d cry in my car on the way home. Overwhelmed by their suffering, upset that me doing my job and telling them that they had rights under the law was all the comfort or support they had to cling to. It was uncomfortable. And if I wasn’t careful, helping someone with their legal troubles would mean I’d be faced with case after case of human tragedy. I’d be up against greedy, exploitive, cruel, bad actors. What would happen when clients had a case that wasn’t as defensible as they hoped? I became too burned out to feel anything but overwhelmed and scared. Switching to corporate law kept me safe and sheltered from the emotional high stakes.But at what cost? I helped companies, not people, and that work sucked the life out of me without giving anything back. At least helping people felt good, even if it ate me up at the same time.
The thing is, I think I’ve found a way to help people without that pain.
“When you’re ready, we have one more document to review today.” I slide a third folder over to Mike.
He straightens with a shaky sigh. His eyes aren’t wet, but he looks exhausted. Relief is a strange emotion. It crashes like a wave, and we can breathe again. It recedes and drags with it a bit of our armor, some of the walls we built. And when our internal shore is quiet, some of whatever we held back seeps out. Anger, sadness, shame, fear, and hope. But mostly we realize the effort of containing and defending was exhausting. It was a battle. We survived. Hope is restored, but oof, if we aren’t bone-weary and tired.
Mike opens the folder and stares at the document inside. “Why am I looking at a contract for Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre?”
I can’t help but wince. “Entertainment law is surprisingly multifaceted.” I’m talking faster now. “Did you know lawyers often represent clients in place of agents?”
“Bea?”
“I sent them an audition tape and your CV last week. After you got cagey about the boyfriend label and endgames.”
“You don’t have my audition tape.”
“I sorta”—I rub the back of my neck—“made a highlight reel after I watched all your undergrad plays. Just my favorite parts. I added some other recordings—the sonnet reading from Warwick’s that you posted, the Shaw you didn’t know I filmed, yourTitus Andronicusmonologue—along with some contraband recordings fromMacbethandMuch Ado.”
Mike is blinking rapidly.
“They want you to play Romeo in their production this summer. I think there is room for improvement with this contract, but I haven’t been negotiating on your behalf, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m too old to play Romeo.”
I beg to differ but stop short of snorting. “You can turn them down and live your couch-surfing dream. Or…” I have to take a deep breath, or else I’m going to fall apart. Professionalism, Beatrice. Come on. “We could find a new dream. Together. I love you. I want you to be happy. I don’t want anyone I love to give up what makes him happy to make me happy. But I think you’ve been selling yourself short. You told me that it was a deal breaker—someone who can’t support your dream. Well, you were aiming too low. Your work matters. It’s important. It’s a solid investment. I needed proof, so I set out to collect some evidence.” I tap the contract. “Your dream of acting onstage doesn’t have to be small. It can be big, global. It can lead to other opportunities that may excite you down the road—teaching, research, writing.”
“Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre…inLondon?” Mike holds the contract with slightly shaking hands.
