Juliette Novella, In-Progress

Is it better to live or to die? To love or to be loved? This is the tragedy of living.

Introduction.

Moonlight on ivory curtains. Frogs croaking, crickets chirping. The sky is blue even in darkness. An evening blue, not accompanied by sun. Breathing is coming from somewhere, fast and short. She lies there, staring at the ceiling. How did it get this way? Her heart thumps in her chest. She longs for silence. Even in death, there’s a melody, a serenade of peace. She hears it. The violins, the piano keys. The quiet composers play their long-forgotten sonnets as the score to her ending. But is it the end? How will she know? Her body must rest. There is still work to be done. She cannot surrender without her mind.

One.

Juliette wakes with a start. There is something different about today. She feels it in her bones. She rubs her eyes, remembering the night before. She was drunk out of her mind. The taste of wine and whiskey still burns in her throat. She looks to her side; there’s a man on the floor. Tall and asleep. She remembers kissing him, though she knows she shouldn’t have. 

They were at a party, his name was Victor Malone, and he was handsome. Juliette was invited as a plus-one. It was a decadent party; some would call it an event. It was full of people in the film business. Actors, Directors, Backup Dancers, everyone. Juliette’s friend, Madeline, said it would be good for Juliette to get out. Share her name with the world. The party was fun. Madeline went home with a man named Scott near the middle. She told Juliette to stay sober, and if she needed to call, Madeline would answer. That’s when Juliette met Victor. She’d been standing in a corner, resisting the urge to grab a glass of something, when he appeared beside her. She wore a long white dress with wine-red lipstick and heels. Victor was in a black suit. He had an accent and dark hair. He asked her about herself, calling her beautiful. She noticed he was older, but she saw it in a more polite way than an attractive way. 

“What do you do, Juliette?” He asked her. She’d told him her name earlier.

“I write.” She said.

“Why are you here if you write? You look like an actress.” They were sitting on barstools now.

“I’m no actress; I can’t lie very well.”

“Acting isn’t just lying. There’s a soul in it, a passion. You have that. I see it in your eyes.”

“I mean, I suppose I’ve never tried. I just want to give people something to remember.”

There were fewer people, nearing 1 a.m., the bar lit by candlelight. The pianist was playing Claire De Lune. Juliette sipped her second glass of wine, knowing it was wrong. Knowing she should leave, return to her apartment, and listen to car horns and city noises. She told Madeline she’d stay sober. But she was curious about Victor. He had the air of someone secretive, someone who knew more than he let on. Maybe it was the wine, but she knew it wasn’t. 

The bartender walked up, hands held together neatly. “Any refills?”

“Could I get another glass?” Juliette said.

“Whiskey, please,” Victor said.

The bartender scurried off, and Victor looked at Juliette. He brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Writing will get you nowhere. You’re too young to have your potential wasted so quickly.”

“But acting will?” Juliette asked, chuckling.

“I could help you. You could be walking the red carpet like that-” He snapped his fingers, “-if you’d give it a chance.”

Juliette knew he was just trying to get her to sleep with him. But she also knew she was getting nowhere. What she didn’t tell Victor is that she was an actress, but barely a good one. She longed to write poetry and share her own art with the world. Her mother got her to do diaper commercials when she was young, but when her mother realized Juliette was a lost cause, she gave it up. All Juliette wanted was to make her mother proud, so she rejoined the acting business around 17. She didn’t get many jobs in that little New England town, so she moved to the city, to further her career. Juliette knew, though, that Victor was right, there was a passion required for acting that she just didn't have. She had her passion for poetry, though, and that was something. It hit her then, sitting on that cold barstool, wine stirring in her stomach, that maybe this was the key. All she’d ever wanted was to be in control, and this could be it. If she truly could put effort into the acting, then maybe people would begin to take her poetry seriously. They’re both arts of their own, aren’t they? Every man she’s offered her poetry to has turned her down with a scoff, and she has barely any money left in the bank. She could build her way up to the top and then quit to write her poetry. Books would sell faster if she had some notoriety, and maybe she could even sell them globally! But no, she was thinking too fast. Also probably drinking too fast.

“Tell me more.” She said, leaning in.

A smile formed on Victor’s lips. He told her how he produced films and had many friends in the industry. He went on to list all the films he’d worked on, which Juliette found vain, but she nodded and smiled anyway. She drank his whiskey while he spoke of people who could train and get her started like that, (he did the snapping fingers thing again), and he said he’d heard whispers of a new movie with a young, White female lead that could be perfect for her. Juliette laughed when he said that because she knew it was stupid. She’d had her fair share of acting lessons and experience, but she knew she wouldn’t be playing the lead of anything. 

Once they were outside, Victor gave her his business card and contact information. Juliette was stumbling and slurring her words. Victor wouldn’t shut up about himself for the rest of the evening, so she drowned herself in wine, whiskey, and maybe some vodka, too. She thanked him for a good night, and as she was about to hail a cab, he grabbed her arm. It hurt. 

“Why don’t you come back to my place?” He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

Juliette stared at him, considering. She didn’t want to be that woman, the one to fuck her way to the top. What if he was a serial killer? But she was drunk and couldn’t think straight. She knew he wouldn’t try to get her a job if she was rude to him. 

That’s just what men do.

So that’s when she kissed him.

Now, she is sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at him. She’s trying to remember how or why he was on the ground, but her head is throbbing. It’s different from other times she’s been drunk because she knows it was worth it. She has mixed feelings about Victor. She hates him and how he reminds her of every man who’s turned her down or slept with her and then never called. But she does wonder if he’ll keep his word. At the time, she really believed him. The time was last night. Ugh. Juliette puts on a robe that seems clean enough, hanging on the hook of the bedroom door and wanders down to the kitchen. It’s a large penthouse, the kind with multiple stories. It’s minimalist decor, with splashes of modern art hanging on the walls. No pictures and no magnets on the fridge. It looks like it barely lived in. She does notice her red heels scattered at the foot of the stairs. She’d kicked them off the night before. Juliette picks them up and places them neatly by the door. She’s not ready to leave just yet. There are trophies on the counter and framed awards. She wonders just how famous he is; she tuned most of what he was saying out last night. Juliette decides she wants coffee and walks over to the coffee maker. It has a touch screen, which seems expensive. It, too, looks unused. She digs around for a mug and finds one with the words World’s Greatest Producer; she rolls her eyes. She places the cup below the machine and presses the SELECT button on the screen. There are a million choices and flavors; it’s frustrating; she just wants black. Finally, after scrolling to the bottom, she sees the option and presses it. The coffee shoots out into the cup. It tastes bitter, but that’s what she wants. Her head is already starting to feel less foggy. She immediately regrets implying anything to Victor about acting. Juliette knows she doesn’t want to do it. What was she thinking? Sleeping with a man to become someone she doesn’t want to be. She should just go home and call it a day. Her 9 to 5 at Corey’s Coffee tomorrow seems far away, and she still has time to run some errands. Juliette chuckles, thinking of her drunken dreams last night. She thought she could just become a poet in London or Rome or wherever the fuck from…being an actress? In what world does that make sense? This man with an expensive home and a strong nose isn’t going to help her; if anything, he doesn’t even remember her name. She starts drinking the coffee faster. 

“Juliette?”

She looked up. It was Victor. He was wearing a towel, and his hair was wet. She didn’t even hear the shower running.

“I thought you’d have left by now.” He says.

“I’m about to leave.” She says. 

“No, stay, I’ll order some breakfast.”

“Victor,” She starts.

He walks over and holds her chin, “It’s good. It’ll give us time to discuss business.”

She looks up. She knew it. “Are you sure?”

He kisses her cheek and goes to make his own coffee. Juliette smiles. Maybe he does use that coffee maker after all.

Victor orders fresh strawberries and french toast, which comes sitting at the doorstep in a matter of minutes. Juliette watches Victor as he reads the paper, not speaking. He looks less handsome in the daylight, but Juliette realizes she must look worse. Mascara smudged around her eyes, lipstick on her chin. She needs this though, her “big break.” She grabs another strawberry from the plate, wipes her lips and eyes with a napkin, and waits.

Victor doesn’t speak for another few moments. He looks up at her. “I don’t offer this to everyone.”

“I know,” says Juliette.

“You’ll have to make sacrifices and work. This isn’t a game.”

She takes a deep breath, “I’m prepared for whatever it takes.” Not true, but she wants this. She does.

“There are people in this business that will try to take advantage of you; I don’t want you to think of me like that. I see real purpose in you; I do. From here on out, I want our relationship to be strictly professional.” Victor says.

Thank God. “I agree,” Juliette says, nodding. “I want to take this opportunity for what it is. I’m not an idiot, and I want people to take me seriously.”

Victor narrows his eyes. “You have to realize, some of the roles you may be playing could be…against your beliefs, so to speak, and you will have to make do with that. You’ll be a character. That’s what actors are. Some even reinvent themselves completely.”

Juliette nods. She wasn’t ready. 

They shake hands after Victor tells Juliette that he’ll contact his friend about the acting job he’d mentioned and that she should wait by the phone for a call. Juliette hasn’t felt this excited in a long time. Maybe being an actress is for her. She’s not sure. All she knows is that millions of people would kill themselves for an opportunity like this; those people would probably hate her for how irrational she’s being and how selfish it is. But she doesn’t care; she’s started to get butterflies in her stomach just thinking about it, thinking about having the money to go wherever she wants, be whoever she wants. 

Juliette changes back into her dress from the night before and puts on her red heels. She says goodbye to Victor and waves down a taxi. 

“Where to?” the driver asked. When she stepped in, he looked skeptically at her dress.

“50th and Main.” Close enough to her apartment. She’d walk the rest. Cab fares are too expensive these days.

“Come from a wedding?” The driver asks.

“Something like that,” Juliette answers.

He starts driving. There’s traffic. Juliette gazes out the window. Watching the buildings move above her. There’s brick, asphalt, stone, all of it. Some have vines growing on them. She loves this city; no matter how built it gets, it’ll always have its history. But she also hates it. She feels like she’s gotten everything she possibly could out of it. She may be young, but she knows deep down that it's not what she wants. To be a poet, she needs inspiration. She’s tried in this city, she has, but she can’t stay in the same place any longer. Mentally or physically. Juliette feels that if Victor can get her anywhere, he’ll want her to move out West. She’ll be long gone by then. 

The cab stops at the street corner. Juliette pays the man in cash (it was unreasonably expensive), and she gets out. Her apartment complex is still about 8 and ½ blocks away. She sighs. Bicycles speed by her as she walks. All she wants to do is just lay in her bed and call her mother. Juliette’s relationship with her mother is a complicated one. The whole acting business struggle and the silent anger that followed. She loved her mother, but she could tell her mother didn’t ever love her the way mothers are supposed to. She saw an ungrateful daughter, a selfish one, a stupid one, a rude one. But she never told Juliette that; she just went through the motions with her. Juliette’s mother had her when she was 40, with a man who she screwed behind her husband's back. The husband divorced her, and the other man paid child support for a few years before dying. Juliette knew her mother was angry about it; she also had a failed acting career, and she wanted Juliette to make up for that. Juliette is convinced that if she can just show her mother she can be successful, her mother will be proud of her. It’s not like her mother never hugged her, gave her advice, or cooked her dinner. It was odd. Juliette just couldn’t figure her out. No matter how many good grades she got or how many nice boys she brought home, there was always an underlying disappointment she had weighed over her like a dark cloud.

Juliette is standing at the front step of her apartment building before she can finish her train of thought. If she calls her mother, she should probably call Madeline too. Juliette finds her keys in her purse and walks up to her door. She unlocks it and steps inside. Her apartment is small, just a studio, but she likes it. The walls are brick, and the fire escape has a nice view. She hangs her purse on the coat hanger and sets her keys on the counter. She finds her silk pajamas and changes. She washes her face off and puts her hair up. Finally, Juliette falls onto her bed. 

She wakes up, and the sky is dark. Shit. How long did she sleep? She looks at the clock beside her bed; it reads 9:22 p.m. How did she sleep for so long? She wasn’t even that tired. Juliette gets out of bed and shuts the window and curtains. Looking out the window, she sees a man down the street. He’s turned away with a cigarette in his right hand. He’s talking to someone, but she can’t tell who. She’s about to continue closing the window when she hears the man with the cigarette yell something. He throws the cigarette on the ground, stepping on it, and storms off. Juliette tries to see who he is yelling at, but it’s too dark, and the streetlights barely illuminate anything. She yawns, shutting the window with a creak. 

Juliette decides to make herself some dinner. She walks over to the kitchen. Maybe Madeline is awake. Juliette grabs the phone off the wall, dials Madeline’s number, puts it on speaker, and waits.

Madeline picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” Juliette says, grabbing pasta and sauce from the cupboard. 

“Juliette! Where the fuck were you? I tried calling, but you wouldn’t pick up!”

“Sorry, I just fell asleep, but I was meaning to call you, too. How was Scott?” Juliette says as the water begins to boil.

Madeline sighs, “He’s a dick, you know that.”

“Yeah, he treats you shit; I don’t know why you give him the time of day.” 

“He can be a real gentleman sometimes.” She pauses, “Enough about Scott, where were you, Jules? Don’t tell me you were just sleeping the entire day.”

Juliette hesitates. She doesn’t want Madeline to know about her “opportunity” yet. It would get around too fast, and she doesn’t think Victor would be too pleased. She wants to be honest with Madeline, though; she’s her best friend. “I went home with a guy.”

“Really? Jules!! Tell me everything.” 

“There’s nothing really to tell. He was boring, and I left this morning.”

“You went to his house?! Was he rich? All those guys are stupidly rich. And old. Ew, was he old?”

The pasta is ready. “He was…” Juliette laughs, “He was older but sweet.” She strains the pasta and puts it into a bowl, steam rolling off it. 

“You’re insane. He’s probably married.”

Juliette thinks back to the penthouse with no pictures. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I should’ve just stayed with you. Half the guys at those parties are like registered sex offenders.”

“Madeline! You’re overreacting; I’m alive and perfectly fine.” 

“Well, call me next time.” She pauses, “Did you talk to anyone about your poetry?”

The sauce pours down onto the pasta. Not too much, but not too little. “I--yes, a few people.” Juliette says.

“That’s great, Jules! And?” 

“And…nothing. They aren’t looking for anything like my work. They want a fucking-- reality tv pitch. You know that better than anyone.” 

Madeline’s film pitches had all been turned down for reality shows.

Madeline sighs. “You don’t have to be so rude, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Maddie, it’s just--” Juliette stops, taking a bite of her dinner, “It’s just hard right now. Poetry, it’s not in high demand.”

“I have been so supportive of you. But you make it so difficult and act all self-deprecating about it! I love you, but if you really want this, you have to stop moping and do something!”

I am, Juliette thinks. “I know.”

“It’s been a year.”

“Look, Madeline, I have to go; I’m gonna make some dinner,” Juliette says quickly. She hears Madeline begin to protest on the other end, “I’ll see you later this week, okay?”

Juliette hangs up and looks down at her pasta bowl. It’s cold now, and she’s lost any appetite she once had. She holds her phone tightly in her hand. As she bites the inside of her cheek, she slowly dials a sequence she’s known longer than any other. The numbers come naturally; they always have. 

As her phone rings, Juliette’s eyes begin to water. She does this to herself every Sunday and doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s her version of religion; who knows? By the sixth ring, Juliette closes her eyes. 

A French accent answers, “Hello! You’ve reached Eléonore. I am unable to answer the phone at the moment, but I’m eagerly waiting to return your call! Leave a message after the beep, s'il vous plait!” 

As the recording plays, Juliette mouths the words along. She’s heard this voicemail countless times—the bright and happy tone that was never once spoken to her, the French slip at the end, the pauses in between each sentence—she knows it all. 

As the beep sounds, Juliette collects herself, “He,y Maman, it’s Juliette, your daughter,” she cringes at her words. “Last night, I found a man willing to give me another chance at acting. I think maybe you’d like him. But probably not. He tells me he’ll make me the biggest star. I don't know about that. Anyways, I just thought I would tell you. 

To be continued…