SirianaSims

Greta Hawthorne thumbs through the pictures in concentrated silence. Her subtle yet obviously expensive perfume wafts through the air, carried by the air conditioning unit working overtime against the late summer sun that insists on bearing down on the valley.

She pauses to hold up one of the photos, squinting at it as if she’s inspecting counterfeit currency. Then she closes the folder with my name and places it on top of the rather impressive stack on her desk.

“Paul, these headshots are almost a decade old. And while they’re good – those full-body ones are particularly impressive – you’re not thirty any more. We need something current.”

I shift awkwardly, feeling heat rise in my cheeks at both her admonishing tone and the unexpected compliment.

“I’ve been meaning to update them,” I mumble, my voice sounding less confident than I’d intended.

She leans forward slightly, her piercing blue eyes locked on mine.

“Stop meaning and start doing. Book something for next week. I’ll send you some names of photographers I trust.”

“Got it,” I nod quickly, trying to hide my embarrassment.

She scribbles something onto the notepad, already moving on. “And you said you don’t have a manager?”

“Uh, no. Not yet.”

“Then who’s managing your social media presence?”

“I guess… I am,” I say hesitantly. “I’m not exactly active, though.”

She puts down the pen, shaking her head as if I just confessed to something truly scandalous.

“Paul, if you’re serious about getting back in the game, you need the right people around you, people who know what they’re doing. I have someone in mind, if that’s OK with you?”

I nod again, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my chest, painfully aware of how amateurish I must look. Heat pricks at the back of my neck. What am I even doing here? Over fifteen years in the business and it feels like I’m starting from scratch.

Greta leans back, the chair creaking softly beneath her. She glances down at her notes.

“Now, before we dive into the specifics, why did you step away from on-camera acting? Voice work is fine, of course, but with your history?” She shrugs. “People wonder.”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Most worthwhile things are,” she replies bluntly. “What happened?”

“Llama Man happened.” I pause, searching for the right words. “Don’t get me wrong, it was mostly great. I will forever be grateful for everything that role got me, for getting to play such an iconic character. But that’s also the problem, isn’t it? After the show ended, that’s all I was known for. I’d show up to auditions where the director had no intention of casting me, they just wanted to meet me. Most of the time, they’d say they couldn’t take me seriously as anything else, or they’d want me to essentially play the exact same role. I couldn’t break free. So after a while, I just… gave up, I guess. And then they made the animated series and I’ve had plenty of voice work since.”

Her eyes narrow. “When was your last screen audition?”

“Maybe five or six years ago. I never liked them, the whole process feels like an exercise in humiliation.”

Greta arches an eyebrow. “Well, you will have to suck it up and get yourself out there again. Beggars can’t be choosers, Paul.”

“I’m not a beggar,” I reply gruffly, feeling my jaw tighten defensively. “I’m independently wealthy.” The words slip out before I can stop them, childish, I know, but the mere thought of stepping back into an audition room puts me on edge.

She peers at me over her glasses, choosing to ignore my outburst. Clearly a professional, unlike me. “Are there any directors or producers I should avoid reaching out to on your behalf?”

“Uh…”

She catches my hesitation immediately.

“Spill it, Paul. Everything that happens in this room is confidential, and I can’t help you properly unless I know. Neither of us want any nasty surprises.”

I shift in my seat, clearing my throat. “Well, there might be one. Floyd Kauffman.”

“Kauffman? Why?”

“There was an… incident.”

“Could you be more specific?”

I don’t want to, but something tells me Greta won’t let it go that easily. “I, uh, accidentally slept with his wife.”

Greta raises her eyebrows. “Accidentally?“

The memory is surprisingly clear. Irene had been flirting with me on set for weeks, and I was still somewhat new to being famous, to being approached by beautiful women instead of being the one to take the initiative.

All I knew was that she was the director’s personal assistant, and it made sense that she wanted to meet in secret to keep it professional on set. Her fingers softly brushing against me when she passed by soon turned into stolen kisses in the dressing room, the tension becoming more unbearable for each day.

I should have realised when I saw the house, but I followed her blindly to the bedroom, caught up in my eagerness to finally taste her, feel her, do all the things I had been fantasising about for so long. We quickly lost track of time.

And then Floyd came home. Irene tried to calm him down but I was certain that he was going to throttle me. He shoved me into the wall, raging, yelling incoherently – and then he hesitated, as if realising that there was still one more week of filming left and makeup can only hide so much.

Kauffman’s movies always came first. Maybe that’s why Irene did what she did.

A wave of embarrassment heats my face as I hide it in my hands.

“I mean, I slept with her on purpose, obviously, but I didn’t know she was his wife.” I didn’t want to know either, never paid enough attention or asked the obvious questions. Naivety or plausible deniability? I no longer remember.

Greta firmly marks something on her notepad. “Very well, he’s out then.” She smirks slightly, amusement in her voice. “Any other directors you’ve cucked, accidentally or otherwise?”

I groan through my fingers.

“… none that I’m aware of.”

“Good enough,” she says, returning to her notes, unfazed. “We’ll get new headshots, clean up your socials, and find you a reliable manager. Do you know Miles Donovan? He’s fantastic with comebacks.”

“Fine by me.” I suddenly feel exhausted. “Greta, I have to ask – why me? Sierra says you’ve been wanting me to call for years. But you’re the best. You can have your pick. So why do you want to work with someone who’s been out of the spotlight for nearly a decade? Surely you can find someone less… difficult to represent.”

Greta just smiles, then stands and turns towards the window behind her. She reaches up to open the blinds and the large diamond on her hand glitters, catching the relentless sun. I remember the small ring box still hidden in my bedroom. I really should get around to returning that.

“Come here, Paul.”

Her voice is suddenly soft, her back still turned. I join her by the large window.

“Both of my sons grew up watching you save the world every week. You were their hero. You were everyone’s hero. We all wondered what you’d do next. And then you just… disappeared.”

Across the street, on the old theatre building, an ancient billboard still proudly displays a weathered Llama Man logo.

She turns to me.

“Recognising talent is my job, Paul. More than that, it’s my life. And I can’t stand to see it wasted. I want to get you back on that screen, and I want to remind people why they fell in love with Paul Romeo in the first place.”

I feel an odd tug of emotion, a mixture of long-forgotten pride, shame, and something else. A sense of excitement that I haven’t felt in years.

“Well, I suppose if anyone can do that, it’s you.”

She sends me a wry smile.

“Welcome back, Paul.”