Not in the Script Read Free Page A

eight hours in little more than leather chaps and a cowboy hat—and pretending you enjoy it—isn’t acting, I don’t know what is.
    It’s been six months since Liz hooked me up with a world-famous acting coach. Then McGregor called my coach a few weeks ago to say he was still looking for another male lead, and I jumped at the chance to audition.
    Today is my third callback. The casting director gave me the same poker face as she did during my previous screen tests, but in the end, she smiled and said, “Loved it. Follow me.”
    She led me through a maze of halls covered with movie and TV memorabilia and told me to wait outside McGregor’s office while they watched my final audition tape.
    After forty-five minutes, the office door finally opens. “Mr. McGregor would like to speak with you,” the casting director tells me. Then as she passes me on the way out, she pauses to whisper, “He’s a little eccentric, but trust me, he can make you a star.”
    I’ve only taken my first step into the massive corner office when a man comes at me so fast that all I see is a blur of flaming red hair. “Here you are, in the flesh!” McGregor says. “And every bit as handsome.”
    Liz warned me about his thick Scottish accent, so I was expecting it, but I’m still not sure I understood him right. “Uh, thanks,” I reply. “It’s good to meet you.”
    At six-two I tower over McGregor by several inches. It doesn’t matter, though—the guy oozes confidence. And he’s probably held at least a dozen gold statues in the hand I now shake, so it’s deserved.
    The walls of his office are plastered with promotional posters and photo after photo of stars he’s worked with. Oak shelves are stuffed with books and portfolios, and award statues are lined up in a glass case. It’s like being in a museum. I don’t dare touch anything.
    McGregor motions for me to sit in a black armchair in front of his desk, then settles into his own chair opposite me. “Sorry for the wait,” he says. “I was on the phone with your agent.” This was their fourth call, which should mean I’m at least on the short list. “Mr. Elliott, it’s taken some snooping around to get the full picture of you, but I’ve gained the impression that you didn’t grow up hoping to be a model-slash-actor like so many others in this business.” I hesitate before nodding. “What were your original plans?” he goes on. “Say, ten years ago?”
    â€œLike … when I was a kid?”
    â€œIsn’t that when most dreams begin?” he asks. “As a child in Scotland, I wanted to run away to Spain and be a matador. But here I am in the US, red-inking a comfort list longer than the Great Wall of China.” He slides a legal-size sheet of paper across his desk so I can see what he’s crossed out: a steam shower and on-site massage therapist are just a few of the demands someone has made. “
Bull
fighting, indeed. How about you?”
    â€œWell … I think I first wanted to be an astronaut, and then a baseball player,” I reply, loosening up. “But then I got this crazy idea when I was in the third grade and took like twenty pairs of my mom’s shoes, set up a store on the sidewalk in front of my house,and sold every last pair to the girls in my neighborhood. They didn’t even care that the shoes were too big.”
    McGregor raises his bushy ginger brows at me. “I can’t imagine why.”
    I shift in my chair. “Anyway, from then on, all I wanted to be was a businessman—buying, selling, making deals. Whatever.”
    That’s still the only thing I want to do, but as my buddy Devin once put it, I traded my college plans for bronzing powder.
    â€œI assume your mother got her shoes back?” McGregor asks.
    I smile when I recall all her spiky high heels, in every