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  She did some more dabbing around her nose, waiting for the director to say “cut.” But he didn’t say “cut,” he just stood there on the other side of the camera, his hands braced on his knees, staring at her. It was so bizarre that she could actually feel the giggles building and began to panic. Why didn’t he just cut? CUT! CUT! CUT! What was wrong with this asshole?

  “CUT!” he shouted. “Print it,” he added, and hitched up his pants like he owned the thirty-second commercial world.

  The wardrobe guy was instantly yanking the skanky robe from her shoulders, as if he was afraid she would steal it. Leah leaned over, rolled down the jeans she had worn under the robe, then dodged her way through the crew, tripping over a cable and nearly face-planting in her haste to make her way to the makeup girl’s rolling cart of treats. Once there, she picked up a towel and wiped her face as best she could. She didn’t even bother with the janitor’s closet they tried to say was a dressing room—it smelled awful in there. She tossed the towel aside, grabbed her sandals and her backpack, and walked out into the bright California sunshine.

  She paused, looked up through the newly planted palm trees at the cloudless blue sky, flung her arms wide, and cried, “What am I still doing in L.A.?”

  Naturally, the heavens didn’t deign to answer. They never did.

  With a growl of exasperation, Leah marched across the parking lot to her old car.

  She’d been asking herself that question since her car’s transmission had started to tank a few months ago. Five years ago, she’d been the hottest actress on Broadway, the one everyone said was “going places.” She worked in plays that paid some serious scratch, had a beautiful rent-controlled apartment, loads of friends—her best friend, Lucy, who still lived in New York, was constantly reminding her of that.

  But Leah had left all that to come to L.A. to pursue a career in acting because it was what she’d always wanted to do. From the moment she’d been cast as a pussy willow in the first-grade play, she’d had the acting bug. In high school, she’d acted in every production, and when she couldn’t act, she joined the stage crew. When it came time to go to college, her parents—who still lived in an upscale Connecticut suburb—said acting was frivolous and they would only pay for her college if she majored in finance or law or even humanities. But not acting.

  She was wholly unprepared to make her own way, but nevertheless, Leah stepped off the money train and headed to NYU to study acting. She started doing community theater around New York, then landed a couple of minor roles in Broadway productions, and then began to get good, decent roles. And finally lead roles. Her agent and the critics started talking Hollywood. They said she was fresh and original, that she glittered on stage.

  But then Michael Raney, former love of her life and sorry-ass bastard, dumped her out of the clear blue sky. Just when she was riding the huge crest of love and success, he pushed her off the ride, and she’d plummeted to earth. For months afterward, she walked through a very thick and emotional fog. She suddenly hated acting. She suddenly hated New York, because everything there reminded her of him. She hated leaving her apartment at all because she couldn’t face the “Where’s Michael?” question she would invariably hear. She stopped getting calls from her agent. She stopped getting auditions. Everyone worried about her.

  And then one day, several months after he’d crushed her, Leah had had enough. She didn’t tell her parents she’d cashed out her retirement, bought a used Ford Escort, and left to find fame and fortune in L.A. until she was already in L.A. To this day, they were still a little prickly about it, especially since fame and fortune had eluded her completely since her fantastic fall from grace. Fast forward five years, and the best acting she’d done had been in a beer commercial. Granted, it was a Budweiser beer commercial, the cream of the beer commercial crop, but still . . .

  Now, here she was, doing Fluffy Tissue commercials.

  Her stupid car took several pumps on the gas and turnovers before it actually started. She crossed her fingers that it would make it all the way to the rundown bungalow in Venice she shared with another struggling actor, because at least there, she could bum a ride to her job waiting tables at a low-rent Italian restaurant.

  “How great is this scene?” she asked herself as she gingerly put the car into reverse. “Education at NYU: $50,000. Current Job: $6 an hour plus tips. Acting Career: So bad, it’s priceless,” she said, and laughed at her own sick humor.

  Unfortunately, it was true. She was almost thirty-four years old. Her chances for stardom were eroding away each day. A few weeks ago, her new agent told her that she needed to start thinking character roles at the same time she told her about a chance she had to land a role in War of the Soccer Moms, a studio film about a war between two groups of suburban moms.

  “Women reach a certain age, and a good meaty character role is about all they can hope for,” Frances had said as they sat in her tiny little beige office and popped chocolate- covered cherries, one after the other.

  “A certain age?” Leah had echoed, mildly confused.

  “Late thirties.”

  “Except that I’m not in my late thirties,” Leah pointed out, reaching for another chocolate-covered cherry.

  Frances adjusted her black, thick-framed glasses and leaned across her desk, her eyes reminiscent of a mutant fly. “Don’t fool yourself, Leah. You’re getting close to late thirties, and frankly, thirty-four is not that far from forty in the greater scheme of things.” She leaned back. “When you hit forty, forget it,” she said, making such a grand sweeping gesture that the fleshy part of her arm created a breeze, “The well dries up, and you are lucky if you can even get an audition anywhere, unless you make a name for yourself doing character roles. You really need to do this film.” And with that, Frances shoved the casting information at her, stuck a pencil behind her ear, and closed the box of chocolate-covered cherries before Leah could snatch another one.

  “Get something soccer mom-ish to wear to the audition,” she’d said, waving her heavily jeweled hand at Leah’s outfit. “You know, Keds, or something like that. Maybe one of those shirts with flowerpots or kittens on it. Do not go looking like a hottie. Soccer moms aren’t hotties.”

  “Okay,” Leah said uncertainly.

  “Great. Now go be a soccer mom,” Frances said cheerfully, then swiveled around in her seat to her computer. The meeting was, apparently, over.

  Leah opened the box and took one more chocolate cherry before she went to pursue a career in character roles.

  AT the time, she hadn’t been too crazy about the film, but now, as her car hissed and shuddered its way onto Sunset Boulevard, she prayed she got the damn part. She made it all the way home, her car gasping its way into the driveway of the house she shared with Roddick Anthony—or as she’d known him since she met him in an acting class four years ago, Brad.

  Brad was home, lounging as he often did. His skinny, lanky frame was barely enough to hold up his boxers, his loungewear of choice. He was sprawled across a plaid rent-to-own couch, eating Doritos, drinking cheap beer, and flipping channels. “Hey, how’d it go?” he asked as Leah dropped her bag in a chair next to the enormous, lopsided, half-finished peacock, her latest work of origami she refused to part with. She was going to finish it. Really.

  “Apparently, I do not possess the acting skills necessary to portray a sick housewife,” Leah said solemnly before heading for the kitchen.

  “Bummer. By the way, your agent called,” Brad said, looking away from the boob tube for a split second. “Something about soccer moms.”

  Leah stopped midstride and jerked around. “Soccer moms? What? What did she say?” she cried, suddenly hurtling toward the couch and Brad, who instantly fell back and raised the remote between them as if he was afraid she was going to hit him.

  “She said to call her, she had good news.”

  “Aaaiieee!” Leah shrieked and twirled around, lunging for the phone. “War of the Soccer Moms is a huge studio film that Harol
d Bristol is directing!” she said breathlessly as she punched in Frances’s number. “You know Harold Bristol, right?”

  “Yeah,” Brad said, twisting around on the couch. “He got the Academy nomination for Red Devil, right? So what’s the war?”

  “It’s this, like, war that happens in a suburban neighborhood between these soccer moms. It starts over something like a cheating husband and then escalates into full-scale war. They form armies and wage guerrilla warfare against each other until the government calls out the National Guard to end it. I had three callbacks for the role of one of the soccer moms, but then I didn’t hear anything, and I figured I was too fat for the role, and—Hello? Hi Verna, it’s Leah! May I speak with Frances, please?”

  She twirled around and beamed at Brad. “They have sixteen parts for women!”

  Whatever Brad might have responded, Leah didn’t hear, because Frances was suddenly singing into the phone, “It’s great news, sweetie! They’ve offered you the role of one of the soccer moms. They don’t know which yet, but it will almost certainly have lines. It’s two months of filming, three weeks of which are on location in Bellingham, Washington. Now the money is—”

  “Yes!” Leah shouted. “YES YES YES!” she shrieked, thrusting both arms into the air, phone included, before whirling around to face Brad. “I got the part! I got a part in a studio film! And it’s a speaking part!” She quickly returned the phone to her ear. “When does it start?”

  “Production starts in four weeks, but listen, I want to talk money with you.”

  “Okay,” Leah gasped, but she didn’t hear a word Frances was saying, because she was doing a little happy dance around the living room.

  Her troubles were over. She had a part in a studio film. She was back. Leah Klein, once the toast of Broadway was back. Who knew where it could lead?

  Subject: Soccer Moms!!

  From: Leah Kleinschmidt

  To: Lucy Frederick

  Time: 1:32 am

  I GOT SOCCER MOM #5!!! Isn’t that fantastic?? I’m in four huge scenes with Nicole Redding, and two with Charlene Ribisi. Or maybe with their stunt doubles—I’m not sure how the battle stuff is going to work out, altho we start boot camp tomorrow. Isn’t that a stitch? A three week boot camp to make us into soldiers! Oh, Lucy, this has been so much FUN!! The only downside has been the costumes. I mean, they are sexier than what you’d probably see on a real soccer mom like in Torrance or someplace like that, but they’re still pretty frumpy. And the camouflage uniforms we have to wear for the last two battle scenes are HORRIBLE. No one is happy. Those pants make our butts look enormous. It’s like my friend Trudy said, “We’re an army of asses.”

  So get a load of this: You know my boss, Henri, at the Silver Leaf Restaurant? The guy with hands everywhere and nowhere appropriate? I told him I needed a leave of absence for this film. And he was like, “What ees theees leave of absence? Theees eees not a job to have leave of absence! There are many girls to take your shifts!” Can you believe him? After how much I have worked for that asshole the last two years? So I said to his bald spot, because he’s so short and that’s really the only thing you can see when the lights are up, “You know, HENRY (he hates it when we call him Henry instead of ooon-reee), you are absolutely right. I quit!” HA HA. I walked out just before the evening shift started. I know what you are going to say, but I don’t need that stinking job, Lucy. I finally have the break I’ve been waiting for. I can feel it in my bones. Something fabulous is going to happen! I’ve got three auditions this week! THREE!

  And guess what? I figured it all out: I will make enough to pay rent and bills, yada yada yada, AND get a new car (I really want a new Thunderbird)!

  Okay, enough about me . . . I STILL can’t believe you are actually getting married!! GAWD, it seems like just yesterday we were clubbing in search of guys. And then I met Asshole and you met Pete (did he ever move to Atlanta like he promised?). Never mind. That’s been a long time ago, and YOU are getting married!!! But I never really thought you liked David. Didn’t you call him a moron?

  Subject: Re: Soccer Moms!!

  From: Lucy Frederick

  To: Leah Kleinschmidt

  Time: 8:30 am

  Leah. It has been TWO AND ONE-HALF YEARS since David and I started dating, and that was a full six months AFTER I said he had moronic tendencies with a streak of idiot. Just to put things in some sort of time perspective for you since you are obviously on LaLa time, I will remind you that 2.5 years ago you were going to come back to New York because you hadn’t gotten anything but a commercial and had a car that was falling apart and hated your waitress job. And 2.5 weeks ago, you e-mailed and asked if you could sleep on my couch because you were definitely coming back to NY. So let’s see—now you’ve made TWO national commercials, have a car that is falling apart, and quit your job waiting tables so you can be a soccer mom. Okay, I will concede that the soccer mom thing sounds pretty cool, altho I don’t get why a bunch of soccer moms would have a war, but whatever. You have scenes and lines and get face time with huge Hollywood stars! AND you get a new car! But if this doesn’t lead somewhere, you really ought to come back. We have to shop for bridesmaid dresses.

  Subject: Re: Re: Soccer Moms!!

  From: Leah Kleinschmidt

  To: Lucy Frederick

  Time: 10:10 pm

  You know I can’t come to NY before we film. But I will when we wrap, I promise. Did I tell you about Trudy? She’s hysterical—we worked together a couple of years ago. Trudy got a speaking role, too, and best of all, she is on my side in the war!!! You’d like her, Luce—she’s got dark brown hair and brown eyes and one of the stunt coordinators is already calling us Yin and Yang, because we’re the same height but, duh, I have blond hair and blue eyes. The only difference is that Yin got a boob job since I last saw her, and let’s just sat Yang is fairly jealous of her perfect breasts. In fact, I was looking around the other day and decided I am about the only one in all of L.A. who has not gotten a boob job yet. Do you think I need one? Be honest!

  P.S. I loved the new 4 Doors Around CD. Have you heard it?

  Subject: The Mess You Got Us Into

  From: Jack

  To: Mikey

  Time: 10:10 pm

  Get your ass back to L.A. These women are driving us nuts. Jesus, Raney, do you have any idea what you got us into with this movie? I know, I know, you thought twenty or so mostly available women was a gift from the gods, but I don’t think you took into account how much twenty some-odd women can talk. They talk all the damn time, and I do mean all the damn time, and all at once, too, and it doesn’t matter, because somehow, they can hear each other through all that chatter. And don’t even get me started on the cell phones. We put a ban on cell phones but no one cares. They don’t listen to us. They just take the call like they aren’t on a job or time isn’t money and then the next thing you know, they are telling everyone around them whatever the person on the other end of the line said, and then our whole drill goes down the tubes. It’s just damn chaos around here, and we’re all remembering that this film was YOUR brilliant idea, even if you did have to draw the straw to lead the volcano hike in Costa Rica (how convenient). So when are you going to be back? I’ve got a little surprise for you.

  Subject: Re: The Mess You Got Us Into

  From: Mikey

  To: Jack

  Time: 3:00 am

  What’s the surprise?

  Subject: Re: Re: The Mess You Got Us Into

  From: Jack

  To: Mikey

  Time: 6:00 am

  Well Raney, it would be a pretty sorry surprise if I told you, wouldn’t it? So when are you back?


  Subject: Re: Re: Re: The Mess You Got Us Into

  From: Mikey

  To: Jack

  Time: 4:00 pm

  I’ll be on the set Monday morning. That’s when I’ll show you schoolgirls how to handle a couple of women. Sheesh. You’re embarrassing me with all the whining.

  Chapter Three

  MICHAEL coasted into a parking spot with the new 4 Doors Around CD up full volume to test the speakers of his brand-spankin’ new silver Thunderbird convertible. Satisfied that the Bose speakers were adequate for his driving needs, he stepped out, locked her up, and then looked around.

  The Downey lot was literally teeming with women. Tall and short; reds, blondes, and brunettes; long legs, great racks, and fabulous derrieres. This film was truly a gift from the gods of Guy Universe—Michael was just glad he’d been able to talk his partners in T.A. into it.

  They hadn’t wanted to do it at first—what with their extreme sport adventure business taking off so well, the four of them had more on their plates than they could handle. They were already coordinating two action films this year in addition to having booked a half dozen extreme adventures with the extremely wealthy, and the prospect of adding a third film to the mix seemed too much. But Michael reminded them that in addition to the compressed schedule—the studio didn’t want a long shoot on location, given the number of actors and costs involved—there would be twenty to thirty women. Twenty to thirty good-looking women. Women who were, relatively speaking, available.