Episode 1: Don’t Say It
“It’s your only option, Sabrina. You haven’t had a successful movie since you moved to L.A., and you’re in the tabloids nearly every week for sleeping with a new man.”
I sit back in my chair and meet the unflinching gaze of the man opposite me – my agent. I’m twenty-nine, divorced, betrayed and cheated on – not that anyone in this city knows the details behind my marriage ending. And since I signed the divorce papers a few months back, I’ve been letting loose and having a bit of fun. So what?
“If I were a man, it wouldn’t be an issue. No one would be passing judgment on me.”
“Yes, Sabrina, but you aren’t a man.” He holds up a hand, stopping my rant before it starts. “Maybe that’s not fair, but that’s life. Double standards still exist, and your behaviour has been labelled self-destructive. The producers and directors in L.A. won’t touch you with the bad press surrounding you, even if you are the daughter of Selena Manning-Somerset.”
The name of my mother is a dagger stabbing my gut then tearing upwards through my chest. Everyone that looks at Selena sees a loving mother, a successful, multi-talented star whose stunning good looks, delicate singing voice, and acting chops make her one of the most sought-after actresses in Hollywood. It’s proof that people see what they want to see.
Part of me wants to expose her secrets – tell the public who they’re really idolizing. But I haven’t told a soul that it was my mother who destroyed my marriage by sleeping with my husband. Not just because it’s painful and beyond humiliating, but because I’m not sure people will believe me or even care. And even if she doesn’t give a damn about me, her name has always brought me work.
Until now. Now I am the slut of the hour, apparently, and the actress no one wants to hire. Unless it’s one of the Australian soaps I’ve tried so hard to leave behind.
“I don’t want to go back to the soaps, Jack. I told you that.”
“I know you moved to L.A. with the idea of following in your mother’s footsteps, but-”
“Don’t say it,” I warn.
“You need to face reality, Sabrina. As harsh as it is for you to hear, you have your mother’s stunning beauty, but not her…reach.”
I knew it was coming, so why are the words still wreaking havoc with the small mouthfuls of food I’ve forced down with juice?
“I know I’m not as talented as her,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “But there has to be something else for me here. Anything else. What about one of those indie-movies you used to pitch to me all the time when I first came to L.A.?”
Anything would be better than crawling back to Australia on my hands and knees, tail tucked between my legs. Not only will I limit my pool of work further, but everyone who told me I would fail will gloat over their correct assumption.
Immediately, an image of Gabe Bradley glaring down at me flashes in my mind. We only met once—one night, eleven years ago, at an awards afterparty. Before everything went to hell, I’d thought there was something between us. The way he watched me dance, the way the air between us felt charged and anticipatory leaving me hot and wanting—it wasn’t one-sided. But later that night he saw me arguing with someone I used to work with, and whatever interest he’d felt turned to contempt.
His words are burned into my memory. You think you can hurt whoever you like and get away with it because your mother’s Selena Manning-Somerset. But she’s the star, not you.
I’d been furious, humiliated. And you think you’re important? I’d thrown back. You’re a nobody, Gabe Bradley. You’ll be forgotten in a year.
I can still see the disgust in his eyes when he told me I deserved the man I was with. I didn’t understand what he meant until later that night.
That was the only time we ever spoke. One conversation, one wound that never quite healed. His words sent me spiralling, then packing for L.A.—determined to prove him wrong, to be more than the girl who’d lived in her mother’s shadow. And yet, here we are, eleven years later, and he’s the one who made it.
There comes a point when you have to face it—your worst fear has already happened. You look down the barrel and admit you just don’t have what it takes to make it. I’m not destined for Oscars. I’ll never be the actress my mother is. At twenty-nine, I know what I can do, and I know what I can’t. I’ve given this career everything I have, and it still isn’t enough.
I’m not enough.
Now I’m exhausted. If I knew how to do anything else, I’d contemplate quitting, but I’ve spent my life dedicated to acting since I was two years old; it’s the only thing I know how to do.
“There has to be something here for me in Hollywood.”
Jack’s head shake and remorseful gaze suggest otherwise. “I’m sorry, Sabrina. Trust me, I’ve searched high and low.”
When I moved to L.A. eleven years ago, he thought I was the next big thing. As Selena’s daughter, I should have had success after success. But after not one, not two, but three box-office flops, I’ve run out of luck. I’m not as good as my mother or any of the A-listers. I hoped to join the ranks of the B-list actors—would have even settled for the C-listers—but this city’s chewed me up and spat me out like it has so many others.
“I know you don’t want to go home, but look at it this way, you reigned supreme Down Under. You were royalty in the industry.”
“Exactly,” I mutter. “I wanted to conquer new ground.”
“The way I see it, you can keep surviving out here, if you call what you’re doing now living, or you can thrive back home.”
“Australia isn’t home, Jack. It never was.”
I might have grown up in Sydney, the city I was born in, amidst nannies and carers, but I’d always imagined myself living here in L.A. with my mother. I thought once we were in the same country, we’d have that special mother-daughter bond I always dreamed about while growing up. I thought we’d be famous together, walk down the red carpet together. I thought that I’d matter to her once I was famous.
I was horribly naïve when it came to my mother, and I now see her for what she is – a truly selfish woman who wants nothing to do with me unless I enhance her image. But that doesn’t mean I want to return to Australia. Even if I have wondered what my life would be like if I never left, returning would be the final defeat.
“You haven’t even asked me what the soap is,” Jack continues. “Shouldn’t you at least hear what’s on offer before you turn it down? It’s a great op-”
“All right, tell me about the role.”
At this point, I’ve really no other option than to hear him out. Besides, I can’t stomach much more of this conversation. I want out. I want to go home and drink. I asked the waitress for vodka when I arrived at the bustling café twenty minutes ago, only for Jack to laugh it off and order coffee for me before scolding me the moment the waitress left us alone.
“Ryan Moore wants you to be a series regular in the third season of The Echo Point Hotel.”
“What?” I sit forward in my chair.
Jack smiles for the first time since we greeted each other with air kisses. “I thought that might get your attention.”
It has my attention for several reasons. “Didn’t he hire Gabe Bradley?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Gabe was a series regular during the second season. He’s now been made a permanent cast member. I take it you’ve seen the show?”
“An episode here and there.”
Actually, I recorded it religiously the year before last. One, because Cooper Dawson was in it. And two, the storyline was damn addicting. Australian TV recycles the same faces, but The Echo Point Hotel was different. Ryan Moore, the director, is an incredibly gifted actor who starred in a run of successful series in his younger years, then changed track and started writing, producing, and directing his own shows. Since then, he’s had another string of hits gaining airtime in the States.
The Echo Point Hotel might be brilliant, but I haven’t watched a single episode of season two—because, well, Gabe Bradley. I don’t care how successful or wonderful all the interviewers and tabloids claim Gabe is, I have no desire to watch him.
“Then you know just how successful the show is; just how impressive it is. Moore is about to start shooting the third season and he has a storyline he’s interested in pursuing. A storyline he thinks you’d be perfect for.”
“And what role, per se, does he think I’d be perfect for? A party girl or a whore, per chance?”
Jack stares at me blankly, not finding my comment amusing. “No, he wants a singer.”
Ice frosts over the two mouthfuls of rubbery eggs I forced down with my juice ten minutes ago. “You know I don’t sing anymore.”
“Mmm, I did tell Moore that, but he hoped you’d make an exception and I hoped for the same. You need to get back to work, Sabrina. Even if you’re not the star your mother is, you’re a solid actress and you’ll shine on The Echo Point Hotel. Besides, you always loved singing.”
“My album flopped. It was the worst flop the label ever had. I was a laughingstock.”
After my first box-office flop in the States, I’d tried to reinvent myself, to prove I was more than a washed-up actress chasing fame. So I made an album.
There’s no way to describe just how humiliating that time was. The reviews were brutal, the album ripped apart by every critic with a keyboard. I’d gotten used to bad press before — the gossip columns calling me one of Australia’s “mean girls,” Sabrina, Australia’s Witch — but this was different. The headlines didn’t just roll off me; they cut deep.
The fallout wrecked whatever confidence I had in my voice. I haven’t sung since.
“You were unlucky, Sabrina. The songs, the studio, the label. Moore agrees, which is why he thinks you’ll be a good fit for the role.” Jack smiles. “You’ll be singing front and centre with Gabe Bradley. It could totally reignite your music career and acting career.”
It’s an effort to swallow and keep breakfast from making a reappearance. I read somewhere that Gabe Bradley was playing the role of lead singer for a band Moore had written into the show. Singing on stage with him, cameras or not, is not something I can fathom.
“No thank you, Jack, I’ll pass.”
Jack’s smile vanishes. “Your career is dead in the water if you don’t take Moore’s offer.”
I push my chair back and stand up. “I’m sorry. I just…can’t.”
“Sabrina,” Jack stands too, placing the satchel he brought with him on the table, then undoing the buckle. “Read the script for your first appearance.”
“Moore’s written me in already?”
“If you don’t take the role, he’ll rewrite the first episode for whoever does accept the role, but I’ve read the part. It’s a great role, Sabrina; something to sink your teeth into. Read the script, watch the show.”
“I have-”
“Watch it again, then! This is an opportunity you shouldn’t walk away from lightly. You need to give it more than a fleeting thought.”
Reluctantly meeting Jack’s eyes, I nod and take the script from him. “I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
As I walk away, tucking the script under my arm, I know I can’t possibly accept Moore’s offer, no matter how much I might need to. He’s one of the few directors who could breathe life back into my nearly dead career, but I can’t work with Gabe Bradley, let alone sing with him.
