制霸好莱坞

"What a pity," Lillian complained over the phone. "If my shift rotation hadn't been so inconvenient this month, I could have come to see your premiere. But now it's really hard to get a chance to return to New York."

Lillian's schedule was erratic—sometimes she had free time, but other times she was stuck in an overburdened emergency department, barely finding time to even take a sip of water. For the past few months, she'd been overloaded, working non-stop. Even if she wanted to come back to New York for the show, she'd have to wait until her shift finally ended.

"It's okay—I'm performing continuously until July," Jenny replied. "You still have five months; just call me a few days in advance, or it will be difficult to arrange tickets."

"I've heard from Cesare," Lillian said with a laugh. "Your box office is so popular that even he has to secure tickets in advance—and there are only two tickets per show!"

"That's because he asked James for them," Jenny explained helplessly. "Now there are only two last-minute hospitality tickets available for the entire venue. Even if I want to book a ticket, I have to call more than half a month in advance; otherwise, all I can get are standing tickets."

"Chicago" had been running for over a month now, and Jenny had grown accustomed to performing one show a day. The musical ran six days a week—two afternoon shows (for which hospitality tickets were plentiful) and four evening shows. Jenny, assigned to Group B, was responsible only for the evening performance. While she and Cesare could easily get a dozen or more tickets for the matinee, evening tickets were nearly impossible to obtain. On Yahoo, prices even soared into the thousands; a first-class ticket cost $700, and despite occasional same-day discounts in the off-season, tickets were sold out well in advance. Fans now reserved first-class seats as soon as the theater's half‑month advance sales began—often after midnight, with seats vanishing in less than thirty minutes. Some die-hard fans even lined up at the ticket office for an hour or two just to grab tickets for shows weeks ahead.

Such a hot box office was an anomaly on Broadway—a stage still deeply affected by 9/11. Although "Chicago" had always been famous, its box office pull was still somewhat behind megahits like "Cats" and "The Phantom of the Opera." These days, if you were lucky, you might still snag a few remaining "Cats" tickets at TKTS, but discounted tickets for "Chicago" were virtually impossible. On the afternoon tickets went on sale, even standing-room options would vanish in minutes.

"That's a good thing," Lillian teased, clearly happy for Jenny. "I heard from Cesare about the grand scene in the back alley. Honey, you're becoming a big shot."

Jenny sank onto her sofa and covered her face. "I don't even know how to go out anymore. I mean, I can handle signing for fifty people—but one hundred? Two hundred? I simply don't have the time, and if I only sign a few autographs, it's unfair to everyone else."

Perhaps it was her gracious nature—or maybe it was the magnetic power of her understated performances—but since audiences knew her only through the musicals, the number of fans crowding the back alley after each show kept growing. Jenny was forced to remain backstage after performances, waiting until the ticket office opened at midnight before she could slip out. Now she fully understood why Cesare had insisted she needed an assistant. Without her new aide, Mary, to keep watch and drive her to the parking lot, leaving the theater safely would be nearly impossible.

"Don't tell me you're complaining about your own popularity," Lillian laughed. "Honey, that's a bit hypocritical."

Jenny chuckled. "Alright, I'll be honest—I might be poor, but I'm happily enduring this exhausting journey to fame. At least I'm lucky. In Los Angeles and New York, there are thousands of girls as tired and struggling as I am, but none as famous."

"Yeah, baby—that's the spirit," Lillian joked. "Keep venting a little, and you'll be a top star in no time."

"By the way, have you heard from Cesare?" Jenny asked as she reluctantly got up to choose an outfit for the day. "Yes—I guess she won't last long. If all goes well, in a few days the tabloids will run gossip like, 'Top Star Battle? JJJ Forces Wilma's Top Actress Away.'"

"Then I hope they pick a beautiful photo of you for the cover," Lillian added with a chuckle before ending the call. "My afternoon tea is almost over. Let's talk later. Bye."

After hanging up, Jenny quickly changed and applied a bit of makeup. These days, she rarely ventured out without makeup—and if she did, she always paired it with a hat and sunglasses. Now she understood why so many celebrities shield their faces at airports and in public: keeping unretouched photos from circulating was part of maintaining a professional image.

Once she was ready, her assistant Mary appeared downstairs and drove Jenny's rental Audi A6 out of the building's private parking lot. Jenny exchanged greetings with the building's concierge—a perk only available in upscale apartments—before climbing into the car. Mary handed her a box of packaged salad. "Here—it's Mario's salad, no vinaigrette," Mary said.

"Thank you," Jenny replied as she opened the box and began eating in the passenger seat. Mary, slightly plump and exasperated, shook her head and remarked, "I don't understand how you can eat this stuff three times a day—that's exactly why I'm driving you, dear Jenny."

Mary herself was very beautiful, though decidedly sturdy. After high school, she had encountered setbacks in both Hollywood and New York but refused to give up or return to college. With her family's support, she'd performed in experimental Broadway dramas—often for free—despite being turned down for other roles. To make ends meet, Mary worked mornings and took short-term assistant jobs in the evenings, scraping together enough money to support her next dramatic venture.

Jenny merely smiled, grateful that Dave's opportunity last year had spared her from a similar grind. Otherwise, she might have found herself living a life not unlike Mary's—juggling day jobs and drama gigs while waiting for a slim chance at success.

Her building on the Upper West Side wasn't far from Broadway. Jenny got out of the car at the theater entrance while Mary drove back to the parking lot. Just before entering, a motorcycle zipped past the staff entrance. A reporter dismounted and called out with a familiar smile, "Hi, Jenny—can you give me a smile?"

Roxy's success had transformed Jenny's life in nearly every way, and most of these dramatic changes had taken place within a single month. She couldn't even begin to sum them up or understand why they were happening. The fans crowding the back alley for autographs, the changing attitudes among the troupe, the flood of interview invitations, and even the sudden appearance of drama critics—all were changes she'd expected. But Judy hadn't foreseen paparazzi joining the mix. "Your popularity is growing much faster than we thought," Judy had remarked.

Of course, only a few paparazzi now ventured to snap her pictures—and they never stuck around too long. Typically, only two would appear sporadically when she arrived at the theater in the afternoon, capturing a photo or two. Jenny suspected they'd bribed security to learn her daily schedule, allowing them to appear with eerie precision.

"Good afternoon, Tom," she greeted with a professional smile. The courses Cesare arranged were finally paying off. Under the tutelage of an expression coach, Jenny had discovered her most flattering angles and perfected her signature smile. Now, she could effortlessly flash a business-appropriate grin for any photographer.

"Ah, you remember my name!" Tom called out happily. "Have you been well? I heard there are some personnel changes in the troupe."

Being well-connected was key for paparazzi. Judy had once set aside fifteen precious minutes to instruct Jenny on handling them: be friendly, but don't reveal too much. Paparazzi held the power to shape public image—if they published unflattering photos for too long, it could hurt a star's reputation. That's why PR teams would sometimes proactively release a batch of stylish street photos. And with paparazzi, even a single word could become headline news. Jenny gave Tom a puzzled look, as if she hadn't quite caught his words, and quickly excused herself to join the staff corridor.

"Hi, Jennifer!" A chorus of greetings greeted her there, and Jenny responded to each with a professional smile.

Her daily schedule was set: she'd arrive at 3 PM for a brief rehearsal and warm-up, adjust her state, review her movements, and receive guidance from her coach—all in preparation for the 8 PM performance. In fixed-theater productions, the team was well-coordinated after the premiere, eliminating the need for daily makeup rehearsals—a relief compared to the hectic preparation period. However, today an afternoon show meant that the rehearsal room wouldn't be available until 4 PM, forcing Jenny to eat in the car.

"Good luck with the afternoon performance," she said, offering encouragement to Amos from Group B who was about to go on stage. Then she gently knocked on the manager's office door.

"James, do you have something to discuss?" Jenny asked.

"Hi," James greeted with an exaggerated smile as he pulled her inside. "Come, meet Ann Benson."

"Hi, Ann," Jenny said with a warm, professional smile to the striking Latin beauty before her. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."(Admittedly, "looking forward" was a trite expression—but she had heard so much about Ann Benson.)

Comparing the professional levels of London's West End and Broadway wasn't a question answered in a few words. The British entertainment industry was markedly different from that in the United States. For one thing, Great Britain was much poorer. The UK had almost no film industry, and its major TV network—the BBC—was state‑owned and not profit-driven. Its remuneration levels couldn't compare to those of Hollywood. Consequently, musicals were far more attractive in the UK than in the U.S. On Broadway, one rarely saw handsome men or strikingly beautiful women; the best talents often opted for Hollywood or the music industry. Meanwhile, London's West End regularly featured performers with both captivating looks and strong singing and dancing skills—consider Catherine Zeta-Jones, for instance, who got her start in musicals.

James had spent two weeks in London. Shortly after returning to New York, Jenny heard more about Ann Benson. Rumor had it that Ann was the new Wilma from the Cambridge Theatre—lured to audition with an offer of a $10,000 weekly salary and a Hollywood guest appearance. Judging by James's current behavior, the outcome was already evident.

"Hi," Ann greeted warmly. "I'm really looking forward to working with you, Jennifer. I've seen your performance—and I must say, you're a major reason I signed the contract."

Ann was younger and even more beautiful than Dietrich, and she could easily pass the committee to become the new A‑group Wilma. Her professional abilities seemed to surpass Dietrich's, and from her confident tone it was clear she wasn't afraid of competition.

Jenny wasn't afraid of challenges—and in fact, she welcomed Ann's arrival because it meant Dietrich might finally be shown the door. "Then I'll have to work even harder. If I'm not careful, the role of the drama critic's sweetheart will soon be mine," she said. Ann smiled, and James quickly interjected, "Remember, we encourage healthy competition, ladies."

Although Group B was using the large rehearsal room, James had come well prepared. He led them to the smaller room Jenny had used before, where she and Ann rehearsed several scenes. Jenny quickly realized that Ann's confidence was well-founded. Perhaps the competition in the UK was tougher, or maybe Ann truly was talented—her dramatic skills far exceeded Dietrich's. At the very least, she could keep pace with Jenny's performance. And while her voice wasn't as powerful as Dietrich's when it came to singing and dancing, her overall skills were impressive.

"After tonight's performance, I'm firing Dietrich," James declared as Group A's rehearsal drew to a close. Jenny left Ann to continue practicing while she and James returned to the large rehearsal room. During the session, James asked, "Do you want to stay and watch?"

"Are you trying to please me?" Jenny retorted. James shrugged. "You really seem to get a kick out of pointing at her and laughing when she's in trouble—I think it's your way of venting your anger."

Jenny wanted to fire back, but it only reinforced her low opinion of James. Had he fired Dietrich immediately upon learning the truth, she might have enjoyed watching it happen. Instead, punishing Dietrich for alleged wrongdoing made her see Dietrich as a victim of capitalist exploitation (an outrageous thought, perhaps, but one Jenny couldn't shake). Watching James laugh made her feel complicit—a utilitarian so blinded by ambition that she risked becoming expendable herself someday.

"Thank you for your low opinion of my personality," she said sarcastically, though she instantly regretted the remark.

If Jenny were more forthright, she might have spoken more coldly to James. But since he had hired Ann at a high salary—and invested heavily in this play with plans to push for a Tony Award nomination over the next six months—she knew that any ridicule would be futile. Cesare's warning echoed in her mind: this industry relied on connections, and even as she grew more self-reliant, James's favor might yet prove indispensable.

"But even if you hold such a low opinion of me, you're still willing to indulge my petty desire for revenge," she countered, masking her sarcasm with a perfect professional smile and a note of gratitude. "Thank you for taking care of me, James."

Her efforts weren't entirely unrewarded. A month later, James's charm reappeared. "Just remember this: I could have made her the B‑unit Velma," he said with an exaggerated wink. "But because of you, she got fired—and I'll let a few curious ears know it was due to a cocaine addiction."

Few actors had never dabbled in illegal drugs, yet few producers tolerated drug use. The reason was obvious—drug addiction was a major red flag. Dietrich's journey on Broadway was now destined to become even more difficult.

"Should I say thank you?" Jenny asked insincerely."I think a kiss would be a fitting return," James replied, blowing her a playful kiss.

Jenny felt a wave of nausea. Any affection she once had for James was nearly obliterated by his behavior. It wasn't that she entirely disdained him—but Jenny simply lacked the capacity to invest her heart in someone else. Self-centered by nature, she had long since relegated James to the category of people she could never truly call friends; his actions in the cocaine and peanut oil incident had sealed that fate.

"What about your principle of not dating actors?" she asked absentmindedly."I thought our agreement was that I'd date you after this play became successful," James shrugged. "And in my opinion, we're on our way."

Jenny could sense the nervousness behind his playful smile—she knew he was testing her once again. Although she remained reluctant, their dynamic had shifted since the last time they squared off; this time, she could easily brush off his reaction if she chose to reject him.

"You call this success?" she indirectly questioned, adding, "Honey, we haven't even won a Tony yet." With that, she pushed open the door, smiled at James, and stepped into the rehearsal room.

The routine rehearsal was relaxed. Actors stretched and whispered among themselves, their eyes drifting toward Dietrich. Jenny wasn't surprised—rumors spread quickly in the troupe. Someone must have seen Ann and Dietrich leave the manager's office together just moments before.

Under the teacher's watchful eye, no dramatic scenes erupted. Once the rehearsal ended, everyone dispersed for dinner—except Jenny. Thanks to her assistant, she arranged for Mary to drive her to a nearby health food store to pick up some organic chicken salad.

Dietrich lingered, struggling to pack her bag. After everyone had left, she finally approached Jenny as if in casual conversation. "So, you saw the new Velma in James's place?"

Though their friendship had always been superficial—and they'd avoided discussing the "overwhelming" issues raised in the reviews—they had been talking less since the performance. This was the first time Dietrich had spoken to Jenny in several days.

Jenny studied her for a few seconds and sensed that Dietrich already knew her fate—perhaps she'd anticipated this moment after the premiere—and was now behaving with a dignified calm.

Jenny realized this was her moment to choose. She could tell Dietrich outright, "You didn't act as if you were trying to coax me into taking drugs for this role or frame me for allergies. And yes, I saw the new Velma—who is a hundred times better than you—and you'll be fired. You'll never find another job again, all because you dared to plot against me and taste my revenge, bitch."

Or she could opt for the second approach: play dumb, avoid mentioning the real reasons behind her dismissal (her disgust) or Dietrich's true feelings (her sense of suppression), and employ the "Cesare method" to handle everything.

The first option would be a direct slap in the face—exhilarating, but risky. The second, though like stumbling in the dark in a fancy dress, was better for PR. Jenny didn't need a former colleague airing her dirty laundry to the paparazzi.

"Be proud of yourself, Cesare," Jenny thought, silently vowing never to admit it aloud. "You've truly succeeded in training me."

"Oh, I don't know…" she said flusteredly, avoiding Dietrich's eyes. "James didn't say anything—he just introduced me to Ann…"

Dietrich nodded calmly. "I understand." Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she gave Jenny a complicated look before turning to leave. Jenny hurried after her, following out of the rehearsal room. In a sincere tone, she said, "Dietrich, I'm truly sorry. If I could, I'd want you to stay—I really would. It's just that some things aren't in my control. I never expected them to say that."

Several colleagues passed by, watching the exchange with interest. At the dressing room door, Dietrich finally interrupted with a slightly impatient tone, "I know. I know."Though she didn't say it outright, her expression seemed to ask, Why is a stupid girl like you so lucky? Jenny could almost feel Dietrich's frustration—after doing everything possible to keep her job, Dietrich was now facing dismissal. Deeply disappointed yet trapped by circumstances, Dietrich's complex mix of superiority and guilt was palpable. Perhaps it was the familiar paradox that "stupid girls are always lucky." The fear and irritability of impending unemployment had given rise to her strange, impatient demeanor.

Still, it was hard to truly despise someone who simply did their job well—even if that person was, in Dietrich's eyes, foolish. The likelihood of Dietrich blurting something outrageous to a reporter seemed slim.

Then, with a small sniff, the "stupid girl" paused before unexpectedly stepping forward to hug Dietrich. "I'll miss you, dear. I really will," she said sincerely.

Though she couldn't clearly read Dietrich's face, Jenny sensed an eye-roll behind that embrace. As Dietrich's arms tightened around her, Jenny made a few mental notes:

I must confirm with James later that when firing her, he should say it was a committee decision—never mention cocaine, to avoid suspicion

.…Sometimes, it's nice to be a "white lotus" type bitch.

Author's Note:Ann Benson is a fictional character of mine. Also, the BBC mentioned here is indeed a state‑owned TV station.