Angelica Shepard tossed aside the script she'd been reading. It was beyond her skills as an actress even to begin to get into character for a part in yet another off-off-Broadway play under financial duress, and most likely—and this is only if she was lucky—it would have a short run, and the reviews would be atrocious.
When she began to study acting right out of high school, she'd given herself ten years to "make it" to the top. Meaning, she would be able to support herself and, if the gods smiled on her, she'd be able to quit her second job. At eighteen, ten years had seemed like a lifetime. Now at thirty-two, four years past her self-imposed deadline, she was still searching for the role that would catapult her to stardom.
She glanced at the script, then told herself to forget it. Something better was sure to come along.
A cup of tea would be nice right now, she decided as she walked three feet from her living room/bedroom to the small kitchen—if you could even call it a kitchen. It consisted of one small counter, four cabinets that hung above the countertop, a mini-stove, and a refrigerator. She'd made the best of the limited space, calling it home for more than ten years. It was a small studio, even by New York standards, but Angelica couldn't help feeling a wee bit of pride. Purchasing the place on her own, and in the city, was quite an accomplishment. Yes, she had to supplement her acting career with a part-time job bartending at one of New York's hottest nightspots, but without that job, she would never have been able to pay the mortgage, much less continue to pursue an acting career. Many times, Angelica had wanted to throw in the towel and just work at the club full-time, but she was determined to pursue an acting career a while longer. Maybe after six months, she would once again reevaluate her career choice.
She filled the white ceramic teakettle from the tap and placed it on top of the burner. Walking the few feet back into the living room/bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the small chest of drawers that held her entire wardrobe. She had medium-length coffee-colored hair and hazel eyes, which were just beginning to reveal the first signs of crow's-feet. Her skin was still smooth, her lips full, her teeth perfectly aligned, but she could see the beginning signs of aging. Maybe she should consider having Botox injections. Her friends swore by the stuff. But the thought of injecting botox in her system was a bit too much.
She'd had high hopes for a part she'd auditioned for just last week. The role had called for an actress in her mid to late twenties who could sing reasonably well, dance, and, of course, act. Her agent, Al Greenberg, a kindly old guy who'd been in the business forever, had promised her he would call and tell her if she'd gotten the part. No sooner had that thought crossed her mind than her cell phone's music ring filled the small studio apartment at the same time the teakettle began its low whistle. She grabbed her cell phone, leapt to the stove, and removed the kettle.