Free Power Play by Deirdre Martin

couldn’t.
    â€œI watched you this week,” he murmured.
    Monica smiled to cover the churning already starting in her stomach. Monty tuned in to W and F religiously so he could critique Monica’s performance. For ten years she’d listened to his notes and observations, but it always made her tense.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œFirst of all, you’re gesticulating too much. You certainly didn’t learn that in my class.”
    â€œThe director told me to!”
    â€œThe director is a fucking moron,” Monty declared. “If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be directing in daytime.”
    Monica’s cheeks burned brighter. I’m a fucking moron, too, she thought. That’s what he thinks. That’s what he’s thought for a decade. “Go on,” she urged quietly.
    â€œI don’t think you’re inhabiting your character anymore. I don’t think you’re really trying to get at the emotion behind the text. Your performances are becoming less and less nuanced.”
    Monica blinked with alarm. What if Monty was right? What if that was why the executive producer talked about Chessy helping to bring the show in a new direction? What if she sucked ?
    â€œYou need to really dig,” Monty continued.
    You try digging when you have to memorize an eighty-page script five nights a week, Monica longed to say, or when you have one day to shoot a show. She did the best she could. But clearly it wasn’t good enough.
    Monty sighed heavily. “I hate to see you wasting yourself this way, Monica. You have incredible talent. And yet there you are on that ridiculous soap opera —and acting badly as well, in my opinion. You have to decide which is more important,” Monty sniffed. “Money or your art.”
    Monica swallowed. Was it really that black and white? Maybe it was. She looked at Monty, the beloved teacher who had helped her excel at Julliard, the man who had told her she could make a living doing what she loved, unlike her parents, whose stance had always been, “Acting is a nice hobby, but you’ll never make a living from it.” She’d proven them wrong—because of Monty and what he’d been able to pull out of her.
    â€œWhen it’s time to renew my contract, I’ll think about it,” she promised. “In the meantime, I need to make a living, Monty, so I’m working as hard as I can to maintain what I have. You can understand that, can’t you?”
    â€œArtist or hack, Monica. You decide.”

SIX
    â€œStop winking. You look like you have something in your eye.”
    Eric looked momentarily crestfallen as he escorted Monica to their window table at Dijon, NYC’s hottest new restaurant. Theresa had worked her magic again: there were paparazzi waiting outside, snapping pictures, demanding to know if she and Eric were a bona fide item. Monica smiled coyly but said nothing. Eric winked at them while giving the thumbs-up twice: once while they were going into the restaurant, and yet again through the window once they were seated. This was going to be harder than Monica thought.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with winking?” Eric asked. “It tells them, ‘Yeah, something is definitely going on,’ while at the same time maintaining the mystery.”
    â€œYou’re a master of the media now, huh?”
    Monica opened the menu, stifling an exhausted yawn. She was in the majority of scenes filmed earlier in the day, and she was incredibly weary. She’d gone above and beyond to really dig into the character of Roxie the way Monty advised. If anyone noticed, they hadn’t said anything.
    â€œHow was your week?” Eric asked.
    â€œLong. Tiring. Yours?” Christ, they sounded like some old married couple finally sitting down to dinner on a Friday night, eager to forget the nine-to-five grind.
    â€œGreat. Those pictures of us really boosted my profile with my teammates. I think our