It was typical LA weather. Seattle meant rain and LA meant smog. One of these days no one was going to be able to even see their hand in front of their face. And, as a car owner, Rosamund felt as if she was contributing to the smog. Not that something that was probably put together with bubble gum and had more mileage than Melissa Milano counted as a car, but at least it could be parked anywhere without worrying about anything getting stolen.

The audition materials lay beside her in the passenger’s seat, along with some books about William Wallace and a half eaten poli-bacon burrito dog from Pink’s. Assuming she got a job one the BAD production, Rosamund would be doing exactly what she left England because she didn’t want to do pseudo-historical programs that were done on a shoestring. At least this one wouldn’t require Elizabethan clothing and jokes about sending Francis Drake to the New World in search of Queen Elizabeth’s knickers, although “Really Good Queen Bess” had been quite fun to make.

Rosamund lit up a cigarette at the stoplight. Audition, lunch with Crispin, cook dinner, and hit clubs. An actress should get an Oscar for club hopping. Most people in the business just starting out did more work behind the screens than on set. Any smart person knew one made friends with waiters so that one could get a decent table and calls about people who were already there, bartenders so that one could get the good gossip while sipping free drinks, and bouncers so that one could get past velvet ropes.

Rosamund parked in the visitors’ lot when she finally arrived. A few bites and her hot dog was finished. She checked her reflection in the mirror and reapplied sheer lip gloss. The next step was to grab purse and sunglasses. Her skirt rustled when she walked, and so it would draw attention in a passive way without any flaunting. Time to head in for the audition and then grab a proper lunch so that she could bitch about how the audition went.

Passing by what had to be auditions for the William Wallace part, she couldn’t help but smile. Scottish accents had gotten to her at the age of fifteen. All Fergus had left her with were fond memories and the remembrance of her father’s face when he got out of bed to deal with the burglars in the greenhouse. Da had certainly made use of his gun when he saw that the noise had been caused by terra cotta pots being knocked off by his daughter and his summer help. Rosamund doubted that she would ever again see anyone run that fast again. There was absolutely something about a Scottish accent that gave her the giggles and there was something about smelling mulch that made her feel very naughty.

Following the signs, she came to where a bunch of bleached blondes that had a combined weight of one hundred pounds. No artery clogging hot dogs for them and they probably had never seen a deep-fried Mars bar either. Odds were that it was a safe event that such a travesty was absolutely true. The lady with the audition lists….an ordeal if there ever was one.

“I believe I’m on the list for Princess Maria ? Rosamund Peacock….like the bird.”

“You’re on the list. Take a number and wait your turn. Pestering me won’t make things go faster either. I’m not a lesbian and you can’t offer me any bribe that hasn’t been suggested already.”

Secretaries tended to be so grumpy, but most of them were actresses who hadn’t gotten anywhere, so they had their excuses. The occasional nice one made up for the rest of the bunch. The time would pass quickly, plus there was plenty of time to take another look at the chaps up for William Wallace. She hadn’t seen many of them, but the ones she’d seen were scrummy. Good thing too, since they had big shoes to fill. The truth of the matter was that the Oscar should have gone to Mel Gibson’s ass.

Much later, and after dashing out for a total of two cigarettes, her name was called. After going through the usual business and doing a monologue from Shakespeare, it was over. The standard “we have your information and we’ll let your agent know” was said, but it was standard. Could have gone well, could have not. Beatrice was one of her favorite parts, and one Rosamund felt that she did well. Vibrant and witty would hopefully make an impression on these Americans. As a reward for doing so well, that meant she could spend the drive to lunch daydreaming about getting a part in the new Harry Potter movie. There was always a new Harry Potter movie, right ?