“You’re nervous now?” Milly leaned across her tidy, organized desk and squinted. “How are you going to feel when you’re auditioning in front of David Fincher or Jordan Peele? Or when you’ve been on set for ten hours, and you’re tired, you feel like shit, and you know that every mistake you make—every second you waste—is costing the studio money?”

“I can do this,” Kitty said, and chided herself. She sounded so small, so desperate.

“I can do this. I’ve got what it takes. All I need is one chance.” Milly held up a finger with each banal assertion. “I’ve only been in this profession for ten months, Kitty, and believe me, I’ve heard it all before.”

Kitty took a deep breath, already resigned to the fact that this meeting—this forty-five-second “slot”—had gone terribly wrong, that she would have to put it down to a learning experience, and maybe get Luke to pull another favor. She felt frustrated, as if she’d let herself down, when really she hadn’t been given the opportunity to do much more than stutter.

But she didn’t spend an hour on a stinking city bus, and shell out four hundred dollars on headshots, only to stand shaking by this jangly bitch’s door. She stepped forward, showing some personality at last, and tossed the envelope onto Milly’s desk. They were good photographs. Antonio had spent two hours with her, and had found mannerisms, moments, lights, that even Kitty didn’t know she had.

“Someone is going to discover me,” she said. Her voice still trembled, but there was some fuel beneath it, at least. “If it isn’t you, it’ll be someone else.”

Milly nodded, and was that an approving look in her eye? She picked up the envelope, removed the photographs, shuffled through them—laid a couple out on her desk.

“You’re a beautiful woman. Jesus, it’d take makeup an hour to dull those cheekbones.” A smile—a distinct hint of warmth—at last. She sat back in her chair. Jingle-jangle. “You look like a star. But, sweetie, my roster is full of stars. It’s a veritable galaxy.”

“I’ve got more than looks,” Kitty said.

Milly’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it. “My Lyft is here.” She grabbed her MacBook, her phone, her purse, then gathered up Kitty’s headshots, juggling everything as she got to her feet. “Walk with me.”

They left Milly’s office, swept through the waiting room, then down a single flight of stairs to street level. Milly talked throughout, while rearranging her armload of items and texting her Lyft driver.

“Passion. Determination. Talent. All essential qualities, but in Hollywood, all very common qualities. Jesus, my mailman has a demo reel. Do you hear what I’m telling you, Kitty?”

“I do.”