Acts of Love (50 page)

“No. But it will. Someday.” She kissed Hermione's cheek. “I'd rather be here, doing this, than anywhere else doing anything else. It's mostly wonderful, you know, just being back.”

“Good. I'm counting on that. Now come on; we're going to be part of the audience and watch a terrific play.”

In the back of the theater, Jessica leaned against the wall, too nervous to take the seat on the aisle, beside Hermione, that had been reserved for her. As soon as the lights came up on the stage, she was leaning forward, urging the actors on, silently saying their lines just before they did, her eyes moving to the places they would move, always half a beat ahead of them. Her hands were clenched, her body rigid with tension, as if she were pushing and pulling her cast to remember everything they had learned in rehearsal and then to go beyond that, to be better than that, because she knew that often happened in the exhilaration of performing.

The audience was friendly. They had applauded the set when the lights came up; they applauded Angela Crown, who was well-known to them; and they laughed and were quiet in all the right places. By the third act, Jessica was beginning to feel excited. Her hands were still clenched, her body still pushing forward from the wall, but she was no longer terrified that she and Hermione had been wrong. There were trouble spots, but they had time to smooth them out. Angela was still too mechanical, but they could work on that. Nora was responding to the audience and giving a better performance than in rehearsals. Whit had a few clumsy moments, but mostly he was a strong and sympathetic lover. And then there was Edward.

“He was incredible,” Hermione said as she and Jessica left the theater while the audience was still applauding. “You were right—thank God you didn't let me talk you out of him—he was absolutely incredible.”

“Yes.” Jessica felt closer to him than at any other time. It seemed possible that she could love him. He had made the audience weep and he had touched something deep within her, a longing for powerful emotions that had been closed off in her years alone. They had flared brilliantly with Luke, but then had been damped down again. Until tonight, when Edward had made them stir.

“Champagne?” Hermione asked. They were the first to arrive at her hotel suite, where the cast and the crew heads would wait for reviews. She poured two glasses. “The food should be here in a minute.”

When the others came in, superstitiously afraid to say it had gone well, Hermione oversaw the buffet. “Scampi and Chinese stir-fry. My own private tradition: the same supper after every opening. It goes back too many years for me to remember how it started, but it makes me feel good, so I impose it on everyone.”

“Tastes terrific,” said Whitbread through a mouthful of stir-fry.

“It tastes like straw,” Edward retorted. “How can any of you eat, with this terrible waiting?”

“Damned if I know,” Hermione said cheerfully. “I just know I'm hungry.”

Hours later, several copies of the early edition of Melbourne's major newspaper were brought in and there was silence while everyone read.

Journeys End,
which opened last night at Centre Stage prior to its run at the Drama Theater in Sydney, is a powerful, finely crafted play that almost realizes its potential. Jessica Fontaine, the American actress, in her debut as a director, has focused emotion and tension in just the right places—I thought the audience was holding its collective breath at more than one point, not sure what would happen next—and the stage set is a triumph: two turntables representing two apartments whose inhabitants are at odds and always just missing each other; as the metaphor of the revolving turntables perfectly illustrates.

The weakness is in the interaction of the cast. Angela Crown is almost powerful enough for Helen and Nora Thomas has found her breakthrough role in Doris, but the two women never clash with the ferocity the script begs for. Whitbread Castle is a strong Rex, but he and Angela Crown, even in their extraordinarily beautiful love scene at the end, did not convince me that their coming together was inevitable. I thought to myself, “What luck that this worked out,” and I would guess that that was not the intent of the playwright, or of Ms. Fontaine. The true star of the evening was Edward Smith, a drama professor plucked from obscurity with marvelous insight on Ms. Fontaine's part. In a breathtaking performance as Stan, he is totally convincing, pathetic and admirable at the same time—no mean feat for the most experienced actor, much less one in his first major role.

Jessica skimmed the rest, knowing that most readers never finished reading a review: they only wanted the overall thumbs-up or thumbs-down. And this was definitely thumbs-up. It was not a great review, but it had good quotes for advertisements in Melbourne and Sydney, and it was positive and tantalizing enough to sell tickets for the remainder of the week. They would rehearse each day, smoothing rough edges, dropping lines that had not worked with the audience, adding movement where the stage had seemed static. They would do the same for a week of previews in Sydney. And then they would be ready for opening night.

“Jessica!” Angela stood on a chair, holding her champagne glass high. “A toast! A round of applause!”

The others began to clap. “You're wonderful, Jessica,” Whitbread said loudly. “We love you.”

“You're all wonderful,” Jessica said. “I told you earlier, you're the best cast I could have found, and the best crew. I don't need reviews to tell me that. It was a wonderful opening night.” She had told them that before, too. Everything they were saying now, and would say for the next few days in the exhilaration and relief of good reviews, would be a repeat of things they had said before. “Thank you, all of you,” she said, repeating something else she had said a dozen times that night. “And don't forget rehearsal tomorrow, ten o'clock.”

There were groans and laughter and as they began talking among themselves again, Jessica folded the newspaper and slipped it into the large tote she carried. Now she could think about other things.

“I'm going to bed,” she murmured to Hermione beneath the chatter of the others. “Will you make notes before rehearsal?”

“Already thinking about it. Are you all right?”

“I just need to be alone for a while.”

“A good thought. As soon as I can, I'm kicking everybody out of here. Good night, Jessie. At the risk of repeating myself, I want to tell you that you've done a tremendous job and we're all pretty damned proud of you. And grateful.”

They held each other for a moment, and then Jessica left.

In the living room of her suite, she kicked off her shoes, took off her suit jacket, and sat on a soft couch that shaped itself to her body and made her immediately want to go to sleep. But she could not do that. Because she had to call Luke.

She struggled to sit upright in the clutches of the cushions. What time was it in New York? She tried to calculate it, then gave up and reached for a pencil. Four
A.M
. Friday in Melbourne. Two
P.M
. Thursday in New York.

He'll be at work. Unless he's out of town, in which case I guess I'll talk to his secretary.

Her hand was trembling as she picked up the telephone and placed the call. “Luke Cameron,” he said, answering it on the second ring, and at the sound of his voice Jessica's eyes filled with tears.

“Hello?” he said.

“Luke, it's Jessica.”

She heard him draw in his breath. There was a brief pause, and then he said, “You read the article.”

“I had to. It involved both of us.”

“I didn't want you to be distracted from— Wait, this is opening night. How did it go? Was it a triumph?”

She laughed with the sheer pleasure of hearing his voice. “Almost. We have some work to do.”

“And Angela?”

“Pretty good. One critic said the love affair didn't seem inevitable. I seem to have failed there.”

“It must have been hell, directing someone in that role. I wanted to write to you about it, but I thought I'd let you say it first.”

“There was nothing to say.”

“Not even to me?”

She was crying and said nothing. She should not have called him. She was all right as long as she did not hear his voice.

“I'm sorry. Jessica, my darling, I don't ever want to make things worse for you. But we're so damn far apart and I keep trying to reach you in one way or another—”

“Luke, tell me about that column.”

“Do you know how incredibly wonderful it is to hear your voice? I will tell you about it, but this comes first. I miss you. I love you. I love your letters. I look for them every day; I can't wait to get home to find one.”

She forced back her tears. “Luke, please tell me.”

“Well, then. First of all, it's my fault. I should have known better, and it's been driving me crazy that I let you in for this. Claudia sent it. I haven't mentioned her in my letters because I thought it didn't concern you, but she's gotten worse lately, always a little drunk and on one drug of choice or another, always antagonistic, as if she's daring people to slap her down. Peruggia dropped her and even the Phelans don't want her gambling there anymore. I may be the only one who tolerates her, and I give her money because I assume some of it goes for food, even though most of it probably goes for drugs and alcohol. She comes here at odd hours, early morning, late at night, wanting money, but mostly wanting company, someone to tell her that everything will be fine tomorrow or next week or next month. I think about you, and what you've done with your life, and I look at Claudia, and I suppose I'm not very sympathetic, which makes her even angrier. Anyway, she showed up a couple of weeks ago when I was at breakfast and she wandered around the apartment and found your letters on my desk. I'd bought a box for them and she opened it and started reading. Your early letters were in envelopes with return addresses and she came storming in, carrying one of them, demanding to know all about you. I would never talk to her about you so I changed the subject, which I should have known was just the wrong thing to do.”

“So she called that gossip columnist. Your friend.”

“Tricia. I haven't seen her since I got back from Lopez. She isn't any happier with me than Claudia is. So there they were: two angry women concocting a vicious piece of garbage that doesn't hurt me but does hurt someone they don't even know. But it isn't important, Jessica, no one pays attention to those things.”

“They did when I lived there. Mostly for titillation, but also because they got clues about how to behave with certain people. Have things changed so much since I left?” When he was silent, she said, “It may be a piece of garbage, but it says what everyone would say if I came back to New York. I told you that when I said I wouldn't go with you.”

“Look, these are two women who want to hurt someone because they think they've been hurt. Why do you assume the rest of New York would be anything like that? They'd remember you and welcome you. And if some people are cruel, we'll deal with it together. Jessica, my love, we're stronger than they are.”

“Luke, please stop.” She had drawn herself more tightly into the
corner of the couch as if to defend herself against his arguments, and she knew that
this time he could hear the tears in her voice, but she was too tired to care. “I
can't argue with you; I'm so tired”—
and I miss you, I love you,
I want your arms around me, I want to be in bed with you, I want to be riding beside you
and seeing how beautiful the world is when we're together—
“and
I've got to get some sleep. We're rehearsing tomorrow morning and I have
meetings after that . . . you know all this; you know what I have to do.
I'm sorry you have to deal with Claudia, I know it's hard for you, but I
can't help you . . . I can't do anything at all. I
couldn't even if I was in New York; all I could do is watch people
snicker. . . . I'm sorry, I think I'm talking in my sleep.
I'm sorry, Luke, about so many things. . . .”

There was a pause. “I'll write to you. Goodnight, my darling. Sleep well.”

She heard the click of the telephone and then there was only cold emptiness where his voice had been. She put down the telephone and in another minute, still curled up on the couch, she was asleep.

*  *  *

“Our last night of previews,” Hermione said. “I'm going to miss Melbourne: such fine audiences, such sensitive, discerning critics. And,” she added casually, “advance sales in Sydney are roaring along; I even got two new theater parties for later in the run.”

Jessica looked up from her packing. “I'd forgotten the theater parties.”

“That was your job: forgetting them. I told you I'd take care of everything. Right now the previews are sold out; ditto the first three weeks. We broke even up to tonight; we'll make a profit in Sydney. You and I will not be sleeping in doorways for the foreseeable future.”

They smiled together.

“I do like this business of women hooking up together,” Hermione said. “I'm having fun, I'm making money, and I don't have to play any sexual games or build up any egos.”

“You built up mine,” Jessica said.

“And a good thing I did. I meant male egos; yours was worth building up. Have you heard from your New York director lately?”

“Speaking of male egos?”

“Speaking of males.”

“I forgot to tell him the name of my hotel here. I imagine I'll have something waiting for me in Sydney.”

Ten letters waited for her in Sydney, lying neatly on her fax machine, and she rushed, almost tripping, to get them. The maid was cleaning the spare room where she had stayed while Jessica was in Melbourne, and Hope was making joyful dashes about the living room, as if rediscovering it now that everything was normal again. Jessica had the whole day to herself. Dan Clanagh and Augie Mack were overseeing the installation of the turntables and sets at the Drama Theater; Hermione was in meetings; there would be no rehearsal until the next morning, with the first preview that night. Jessica took coffee and a basket of apples to the living room and sat down to read.