Acts of Love (52 page)

“Edward, I'd rather not go anywhere. I'd rather not go out tonight. I have some work to do, a telephone call to make, and I'm nervous about tomorrow night. I wouldn't be good company.”

“You're the only company I want, however you're feeling. Jessica, you can't let me down; you're all I've thought about since we talked this morning.” His lightheartedness was gone; now his voice was deeply melancholy, with that strain of neediness that always in the past had made Jessica want to stroke his brow and comfort him. “We've been apart so long—we have so much to talk about—my God, it feels like years. Jessica, Jessica, don't shut the door on me, please don't shut me out.”

She frowned. It was not just that his lightheartedness was gone; now there was something calculating in his voice and his words, as if he had done this dozens of times before.
Whenever he meets someone like me, who responds to a needy man.

“Just a few hours,” he said. “Whatever you have to do can wait that long, can't it? You can give me a few hours of happiness . . . I've waited so long, been patient so long . . .”

He's a taker, she thought. This isn't love; it's appropriation. He doesn't care about me at all; he cares only about what he wants, what he can take. Just like Claudia. Maybe Luke and I attract them. Except when we're attracting each other. But I can't keep propping up Edward the way Luke props up Claudia. I have too much to do, and that's not what I'm looking for.

Oh, Edward, she told him silently, what a shame that you're a fake. We could have had a good time, being friends and working together. And who knows where we might have gone, if we'd had a chance?

But she could not say any of that. A week of previews, and opening night a week later, meant that she had to have a cooperative Edward, not a hostile one.

“I don't want to shut you out; you know I enjoy being with you. But I can't take any chances with this play, Edward; everything I want to do in the future depends on it. That goes for you, too, doesn't it? We both need a success. Please try to understand: I need to be alone right now. There isn't anyone I want to be with; I just want to be quiet and alone.”

“There's no one you want to be with?”

“That's what I said. Did you think I'd singled you out?”

“No, I don't think you'd do that. But this is foolish, Jessica. We could be anxious together, about the play and about each other.”

My goodness, he is very good. Why didn't I see before how skilled he is?

She eased the conversation to an end and stood up.
I've got to get out of here. This is too much for one day.
Tucking her notebook and pencils into her tote, she drove to Circular Quay and took the first ferry leaving the dock for Manly. It was a slow one, not the Jetcat she and Edward had taken, and sitting in a sheltered spot on the deck, she took out her notebook and settled back to work.

But she did no work. She was nervous and suddenly feeling depressed, and she forgot Claudia, and forgot about calling Luke, as she let her thoughts roam. She gazed at the shoreline: huge stucco houses in various shades of pastel, densely wooded slopes with leaves so dark green they were almost black, small crescent-shaped beaches with private docks and boats rocking gently against them. The sun shone fuzzily through a haze that turned the sky almost white, and the water was gray and choppy. Jessica felt a stab of nostalgia for Lopez Island and her house on its small beach between the cliffs that had always symbolized protection and safety. No protection here, she thought. Nothing stands between me and previews and next Tuesday's opening, not even Hermione, though she would if she could.

But it was Hermione to whom she turned when things began to go wrong at the first preview. The theater was almost full, but the audience was restless, and when the stage went to black at the end of the first act and the houselights came up, Jessica and Hermione quickly ducked out. In the lobby, they stood beside the podium where an usher was selling programs, and watched the audience come out. A few of them kept going, and left the theater.

“What's happened to Angela?” Jessica asked. “She's so distracted, as if she's worried or angry or frustrated . . . something's bothering her. She was fine at rehearsal this afternoon; has she said anything to you?”

“No, but when I got here she was hanging on the phone like a lovesick teenager. Maybe a lover's spat?”

“I don't know. She's married, but her husband isn't here; he's in Los Angeles, in a touring company of
Phantom of the Opera.
I hadn't heard anything about an affair.”

“Neither had I. Do you think the audience notices it?”

“Yes. Oh, maybe not; I don't know. They seemed awfully restless to me and some were leaving just now.”

“Most likely they're out there smoking. Shall I talk to Angela? Or do you want to do it?”

“My stomach is in such knots, would you mind doing it? I think the others are reacting to her; they're not as good as they were in Melbourne. . . .” Her voice trailed away. She felt sick, and she waited in line with some members of the audience to get a seltzer at the bar at the end of the lobby. She took it outside, to the plaza lapped by the harbor's waves and lit by large bright globes. Clusters of theatergoers from both theaters were drinking champagne and coffee, talking and smoking.
Of course they didn't go home; they just came out here because it's a pleasant night and they can smoke.
She hovered beside groups of people, eavesdropping, but before she could hear any comments about the play someone called her.

“Jessica!” She turned and saw Alfonse Murre sliding sideways through the crowd. His thin mustache was quivering, his bald head sparkled beneath the globe lights. He shook her hand, averting his eyes from her cane. “My dear, dear Jessica, it's been far too long. You absolutely vanished after that day in my office. But you've been busy, haven't you? And to such good purpose! This is quite fine, you know. Of course, the prudent man does not make judgements on the basis of just one act, but so far, so far, dear Jessica, I am having a very pleasant evening.”

And that was how Jessica knew that
Journeys End
would be a hit.

And that Alfonse Murre would be delighted to talk to her about working together in the future.

And that she and Hermione, so close to the play, had exaggerated any troubles Angela Crown might be—

“There
is
a problem with Angela, isn't there?” Murre asked. “I mean, she's definitely not on top of every line, and that's not like her. I've worked with her, you know; a very competent actress. Perhaps she's not well?”

“I don't know.” There was no point in lying; the audience might or might not know something was wrong, but people who knew the theater would not miss it. “Hermione's trying to find out.”

He gave a little nod, acknowledging her honesty. “Let's hope it's a small matter, and brief.”

“Thank you,” Jessica said, and their eyes met, for the first time with interest and the beginnings of respect.

Backstage, she found Hermione in the makeup room, at the end of a row of small cubicles partitioned off for each actor. At the other end, Angela was redoing her makeup.

“What happened?”

“Her husband's got lung cancer and it doesn't look good. Surgery next week. She says she has to be with him, and I can't blame her.” Their eyes met. “Jessie—”

“We have an understudy,” Jessica said. “She's not as good as Angela, but she's young and quick and we can work with her. She'll be all right.”

“In one week?”

“In one week, night and day if necessary. She'll be fine. She's never missed a rehearsal, she knows her lines, the blocking, everything. She'll never be Angela, but she's all we've got. I'll start working with her tomorrow morning. You'll have to take the cast rehearsals.”

“I can do that if you'll give me your notes after each performance.”

“Of course.”

Dan Clanagh walked past. “Places, everybody, for act two.”

“What were they saying outside?” Hermione asked.

“I didn't hear much, but they seem happy. Alfonse Murre wants to know where I've been keeping myself.”

“Son of a bitch. But that means he knows we've got something good. And he probably talked to some critic who also thinks it's good. I could strangle newspaper editors; they aren't supposed to send critics to previews, but one or two always show up and run an early review, and if it's a killer the play might never get to opening night. Who came tonight?”

“I asked Dan; he told me it's Gregory Varden. I don't know him; do you?”

“Sharp, savvy, brutal when he wants to be. Probably the smartest, most feared critic around. Reviews for the
Sydney Herald
and has a weekly column. Likes new playwrights, to keep the blood supply fresh. His words, not mine.”

“Do you suppose Alfonse talked to him?”

“I'll bet my house and car he did; Alfonse likes to know he's not alone in his opinions. So I predict a rave in tomorrow's paper. And that gets us home free, you know. I wouldn't pop the champagne yet, but, based on experience, a rave at this point means lines at the box office.”

“Alfonse knows Angela is having trouble.”

“Shit. Well, of course he'd see that. If he told Varden, it could be a problem. We'll have to get out a release on Lucinda stepping in, before it gets written in stone that our leading lady is less than wonderful. In fact, Varden's probably noticed something himself. Do I talk to him about it at the second intermission? No, no, and no; what a blunder that would be. We'll have to let him do his own thing. And she might be terrific from now on. Keep your fingers crossed.”

She was not terrific, Jessica thought, standing in the back of the theater for the second act, but she was better than in the first act. If she could keep it up, the preview week would be all right. Not great, but all right. If she couldn't . . .
Well, Lucinda Tabor is about to get the chance of a lifetime, and she and I are going to work twenty hours a day if necessary so she'll be ready to step in at any time.

At the next intermission she went backstage and found Lucinda in a corner, reading a newspaper. “Lucy, something's happened. Angela has to leave the cast, and you're going to be playing Helen when we open next week.”

Lucinda grew deathly pale. “Why?”

“Her husband is ill; she's going to Los Angeles to be with him. She'll stay for this week. At least that's what she says now. You and I are going to spend the next few days working harder than we've ever worked before, so you'll be ready to step in whenever she takes off.”

“But this doesn't happen!” Lucinda's voice rose.

“Keep your voice down. We're not telling the others until they finish the third act.”

“Telling the others. Oh, God, then it's true. But it can't be. Jessica, talk her into staying. You can do that, can't you? Tell her she has to do it; her husband will be fine; I mean, she doesn't have to be there every minute; she has to stay here!”

“I said keep your voice down,” Jessica snapped. “What in God's name is wrong with you? This is what every actor dreams of; this is a phenomenal chance, Lucy.”

“But I'm not ready for it! Oh, God, oh, God, Jessica, I can't do it.”

“You took the job of understudy.”

“Because I knew it was safe. Angela never gets sick, nothing
ever
happens to Angela. I never
ever
thought . . .”

“Well, you have all tonight to think about it before we get to work in the morning. You do know the part.”

“Yes, but that doesn't mean—”

“And you took notes? You wrote down all the suggestions I gave Angela, all the things we discussed?”

“Yes, you told me to. But, Jessica—”

“This isn't a debate, Lucy, this is the way it's going to be. Now I want you to go home and read the play a few times tonight.”

“Read it?”

“Get a stronger feel for all the characters, and the way the story flows. Think about it as a whole, not just about Helen. We'll start early tomorrow. Can you be at my house at seven-thirty?”

Lucinda looked at her helplessly. Jessica held her eyes. Finally she gave a little nod. “I guess.”

“You know where I live? The top of Point Piper. I'll see you then. And Lucy . . .”

“Yes?”

“You'll be all right. We're going to work very hard and you'll be fine. You must believe that.”

“I don't know why
you
believe it. I don't know why you chose me in the first place. I shouldn't have tried out. I should have said no. But I thought, you know, I'd learn a lot, watching you and Angela, and then someday I'd work up to a part like this. All the other parts I've played were smaller; you knew that.”

“They were good parts and you played them well. Your videotapes were good.”

“But they weren't leads. And I didn't have to follow somebody like Angela.”

“Don't think about that. You'll be your own Helen, quite different from Angela's.”

“And I'm too young. Helen is forty. I'm twenty-eight.”

Jessica gazed at her. “You look older. You told us you were older. Thirty-two, I think.”

“Because I thought I wanted to do this. Everybody was pushing me, my parents and my boyfriend and my acting coach in Melbourne  . . . they said I had to take chances or I wouldn't get anywhere. But Jessica, Helen
scares
me.”

“Why?”

“Well, she reminds me of my mother, she's—” Jessica burst out laughing, and Lucinda said, “Please don't. Don't laugh or be impatient; just listen, please. I never told you this because I was so sure—I mean, I
knew
—there was no way in the world I'd ever have to play Helen, but she does remind me of her . . . I mean, she's so sure of herself, so
sweeping
the way she goes through life with everybody admiring her, and my mother's like that and she's always expected me to be like her, but I'm not! People keep telling me to do this and do that and behave this way or that way, but it's like they're asking me to run up a mountain:
I can't do it.
Maybe someday I'll be ready for Helen. I'd love to have you direct me when I am—if I am—but until then, I'm sorry, but I just don't think I can handle it.”