Read Online The Dimple Strikes Back by Lucy Woodhull - Free Book Online Page B

fresh martini. One shouldn’t guzzle Bombay Sapphire on an empty stomach, but it’d been a guzzle sort of week.
    His eyes narrowed in ‘I detect bullshit’ mode. Or so it seemed to me. “So you encountered an art thief at work in an office?”
    I nodded.
    “And he kidnapped you.”
    I nodded. I drank.
    “Then you got away and got them…him arrested and were the hero?”
    Hey! I liked the word hero. I smiled and nodded.
    “Astonishing.”
    Astonishing—even better. I shook my head. “No, no. It coulda happened to anyone.” Anyone with a weakness for dimples.
    “You leveraged it into a successful career, though.” He scooched closer, just a wee bit. “The thieves—what were they like? I mean, what does it take to do that?”
    For a moment, I couldn’t find a way to answer. Sam wasn’t bad-bad, merely…morally relative. He’d got very insulted when accused of being evil. “Thieves…adapt. If they want to be successful, they’re calm. Smart. Flexible.”
    Danny considered that, smiling as I watched him mentally work it into his character. When I offered no more, he asked, “Were you in Los Angeles to try and break into film?”
    “Yes, but failing. I couldn’t even get auditions.” The soul-crushing defeat of those years haunted me. My chest tightened. “I wasn’t pretty enough to be the girl next door. In LA, a ‘girl next door’ is always a model. I tried to go for the ‘quirky sidekick’ sort of roles, but there were a billion of us average-looking sorts of ladies with acting degrees we still had to pay off and few roles to nab. Being shorter than hell didn’t help me.”
    Understanding washed across his face. “It’s so difficult for women in this business. You get, what, perhaps one role out of four in a script?”
    I laughed. “If that. And we’re usually only there for the hero to hump, so she’s got to be a babe. What else are we good for?”
    A wry grin. “I can’t think of one thing.”
    “And I’m a White lady—I benefit from the gross fact that so many role breakdowns specify Caucasian only.”
    Bitterness drew his brows together. “Asian men are either kung-fu masters, takeout delivery guys or funny, sexless clowns. In a few years, I can play an old kung-fu master, dispensing clichéd wisdom to a new generation.”
    “Lucky you.”
    He stroked his chin. “At least I’ll get a fancy beard.” Staring into his Scotch, he said, “A couple of years ago, the RSC put on the Chinese equivalent of Hamlet with an almost all-White cast. Because, you know, there are so few good Asian actors. We can’t even get cast in our own works.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I knew what the smack of sexism felt like, but his racist experiences much have been enraging, disheartening, dehumanizing—to say the least. I squeezed his arm, as if that would erase the degradation.
    “If I hadn’t lucked into The Silent Forest , and if it hadn’t somehow blossomed out of the arthouse circuit, I’d probably be selling shoes or something now.”
    “Can I gush over you in that movie? I was in college, and it was me and my friends’ favourite sob-fest.” I clasped my hands over my heart. Yes, it was that kind of film. “When Chyou died in your arms?” My voice ended in a squeak and my lip fluttered.
    He laughed at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was probably a dozen years older than he’d been in that three-hankie film, but even more handsome with maturity. “Do I need to find the smelling salts?”
    “No, no—” I held him at arm’s length dramatically, “I’ll be fine…someday. No, I won’t. I’ll never get over that movie!”
    “You’re too kind.” He leant back and turned inward. “My parents were so gutted when I wanted to do that film. The language. The nudity. My mother.” He shuddered. I guess the horrors of a mother’s shame are universal in any culture. “I’m first-generation born in the UK, and let’s just say they probably would have preferred that I