Playing With Her Heart (2 page)

But I let go of that
now. Because I am no longer Jill, aspiring New York actress
auditioning for her first Broadway role, and he is not Patrick, the
man who exudes talent and charisma every second he’s on stage.

He’s Paolo, a
mercurial and captivating artist, and my teacher. And right now I am
Ava, a twenty-two-year-old painter without a family. I face the
audience—nearly 1,600 empty seats and only a few occupied ones, the
spotlights from above beaming brightly, the antique gold auditorium
with high-flying balconies surrounding us.

He steps behind me. He
says not a word. Instead, he breathes out, “hmmm,” as he places
his hands on my arms, as if he’s considering Ava, then runs his
palms sensuously from my wrists to my shoulders.

“You must let go,
Ava. You try too hard to make your paintings perfect. You need to
make them
you
.”

I nod, breathless,
speechless, because this man Ava has admired, looked up to, is
touching her. He brushes my hair away from my neck, and I lean my
head to the side, letting him trace the vein in my neck with his
finger. Then, as if I’ve just remembered that I’m a good girl,
that I don’t do this, I jerk away.

Because I am,
shockingly—me—a good girl.

“I am only here to
learn.”

He narrows his eyes at
me. “I am teaching you.”

Ava wants to correct
him, to tell him he’s not, that he’s crossing lines, even though
the crossing of them feels good to this young woman who’s felt far
too much of the not-good in life for far too long. Ava’s not ready
for this yet. She wheels on him, fire in her eyes, lashing out with
the first sung lines in a heated duet.

“You don’t have
permission to lay your hands on me.”

He plays the gentleman,
giving a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me. I only touch you as
your teacher,” he sings softly, but powerfully in that tenor that
could melt igloos.

“That’s not
teaching.”

“Then find your own
way to paint.”

He starts to walk off.

Ava huffs, crosses her
arms, looks away, and sings roughly of all the ways this man makes
her crazy. He tells her how her brushstrokes are too controlled, her
head is too much in the way, she needs to throw her body into the act
of painting. And I hate it, and him, because he feels like the one
thing that stands between true creativity and me.

I sing an angry lament,
a furious plea to the universe to send me elsewhere. But yet, there
is no place else for me, nowhere to go. I’ve been left all alone,
and all I have is my art, and he’s the only one who can make it
better.

Make me better.

I chase him before he
leaves the empty classroom. Ava detests aloneness, even though it’s
the thing she knows best. He’s nearly off-stage, and I grab his
shirt, and he gives me this look—satisfaction and curiosity.

“I see you’ve
changed your mind…”

My shoulders fall in
resignation of Ava’s reality. I will only succeed with him. “I
need you, Professor Paolo.”

“Don’t call me
professor.”

“What should I call
you?”

“Don’t call me.
Kiss me.”

And then he casually
runs a strand of my hair in his fingers and lets it fall. I grab him,
bestowing a hard, wet kiss on his lips.

Patrick’s lips.
Paolo’s lips.

Oh God. He tastes
divine. Paolo. Patrick. My teacher. The actor I idolize. They all
collide at once—reality, make believe, years of crushing, a moment
of pretending. I don’t know if the way I feel right now comes from
me or from Ava, but all I know is—without even opening my eyes,
without even hearing ‘end scene’—we have a crazy kind of
chemistry that can’t be faked.

Then I break the kiss
and run offstage where I slam into Alexis Carbone, all bleached
blond, bosomy, and pipes like nobody’s business.

I don’t stand a
chance.

* * *

“Watch where you’re
going next time,” Alexis says in a perfectly sweet soprano, a voice
so pure and lovely that it nearly masks what’s underneath.
Because—call me crazy—but I’m pretty sure when you say ‘Watch
where you’re going’ that you’re not
actually
looking out
for the other person. But I’m still flustered from the kiss to end
all kisses so I mutter a quick “sorry” as I try to move past her
in the wings.

“Of course you’re
sorry. I’m here,” she says with a plastered-on smile, and a
haughty tilt of the head.

Her words burn, but
while I’m not a doormat, I won’t take her bait. I’ll do what I
do well.
Pretend
. “Why, I have no idea what you could
possibly mean. It’s delightful to see you, Alexis,” I say like a
Southern belle, then turn quickly for backstage.

I leave because if I
stay within her vicinity she might completely ruin my Patrick Carlson
buzz, and I need a few moments to relive what just happened on stage,
especially since I’m going to replay it tonight when I’m alone in
my darkened bedroom and imagining Patrick is with me, as I do nearly
every night. Patrick has done so many things to me already, has said
all the words I want to hear, has kissed me in all the ways I want to
be kissed. He has touched me under the covers in my imaginary life.
Now I’ve had a sampling of the real thing, and I can’t bear to
let it slip from my fingers so quickly. I press past the dressing
rooms, saying a quick goodbye to a stagehand wheeling a dolly in a
cramped hallway, then make my way to the stage door, pushing it open
into the alleyway that runs along the back of the theater.

Greeted by a snap of
cold air, I lean against the brick wall, drop my bag, and run a
finger across my lips as if I can reactivate that kiss, recall it
back into existence like it’s a hologram. I close my eyes and
replay. Patrick’s breath, so soft. The slightest bit of stubble on
his jawline. The way he tasted faintly of cinnamon.

The real thing—even
staged—is so much more potent than what I imagined, and he’s had
the starring role in all my fantasies for years. I’ve been with him
a thousand times over, touched him, felt him, tasted him. Let him do
the same to me. If I hadn’t been in love with this man since I saw
him play Sky Masterson in
Guys and Dolls
when I was seventeen
and desperately needed to escape from all the things that had fallen
to pieces that awful year of my life when I did everything wrong,
then this moment would have sealed the deal.

I want this part so
badly. I want it for me. I want it for my career, and I want it so I
can finally be more than just a person in the audience for him.

So I can be as real to
him as he’s felt to me.

I force myself to leave
this alleyway, and get on with my day before the director and
producer and Stillman himself call the NYPD on the crazy stalker
actress outside the theater. I head straight for nearby Bryant Park
where my good friend Reeve said he’d be waiting for me. He’s an
actor too, and I find him quickly, lounging at one of the metal
tables, reading the script for the movie he’s working on. He has
his girlfriend’s dog with him—a little brown and tan
chihuahua-mini pin in his lap. It’s adorable how Reeve has not only
fallen hard for Sutton, but also for her dog. He puts the dog and
pages down, stands up and holds his arms out wide, an expectant look
on his face. “So, do we have a reason to celebrate? Are you the new
ingenue of old Broadway?”

I shake my head, and
that’s when the reality comes crashing down. I will never have the
chance to act in this show. It’s as if I finished first in the
uneven bars, and then Olympic gymnast Gabby Douglas appeared out of
the blue to school me and win gold. “I highly doubt it. Alexis
Carbone showed up right after me,” I say, and my heart feels heavy
knowing the show I want is likely out of my grasp.

He makes a face as if I
just breathed last night’s onions on him. “Wait. Don’t tell me.
Ava has an evil twin sister and they want Alexis for that role?”

“Ha. I wish,” I say
and let my shoulders sag. I guess the effect of the stage kiss is
wearing off. “But you know it’s going to be her. She has an
insane following. Her fans love her and would line up for blocks to
see her.”

“Yeah, but look,
sometimes it’s the new kid who gets cast. You never know,” Reeve
says, and I know he’s trying to be encouraging, to buoy me up.

But already I feel a
hitch in my throat, and I fight back a tear. I don’t want to cry
over a role, but at the same time I worked so hard on this audition
and it felt like the chance of a lifetime. The chance that seemed as
if it could truly be mine. “I felt so thoroughly Ava, almost as if
the character had possessed me. I swear I could read it on the
director’s face too. The way he stood up after I sang, like I was
his Ava. I could have sworn it was my role just from the way he
looked at me. And then she walked in.”

“Hey,” he says, and
pulls me in for a quick hug. I let one more tear fall against his
shirt, as he pets my hair. “Sometimes you nail an audition and lose
out. Sometimes you flub one and still get a role. And sometimes you
do your damn best, and you beat out a star. You never know. The only
thing you can do is leave it all on the stage, and I’m sure you
did. I know you. You’ve never given less than 100 percent of your
heart and soul in any rehearsal, let alone a performance.”

I breathe deeply and
nod, then grab a tissue from my purse and swipe the errant tear from
my cheek.

“C’mon. I’m a
big-time film actor now,” he jokes, but there’s some truth to it
since he landed a starring role in
Escorted Lives
. “Let me
buy you a coffee.”

He leashes up the dog
and we wander over to a pretzel vendor who’s now hawking espressos,
lattes and coffees too, and order some hot beverages to stay warm on
this chilly day. I do my best to seem upbeat, even though I know my
phone will soon be ringing with the ‘Better luck next time’ call
from my agent.

Reeve breaks off a
piece of the pretzel to give to the tiny dog, who stands on his
little back legs to snag the bite.

“Are you a full-time
dog nanny for The Artful Dodger now?”

Reeve laughs. “What
can I say? He’s kind of an awesome dog, so I like hanging out with
him. And it makes Sutton happy to know he’s with me.”

“You’re so in love
with her, it makes me sick,” I tease, even though I think it’s
awesome that Reeve and Sutton are now officially together. I look at
my watch, knowing I should head home. “We’re still running
tomorrow, right?”

“Of course. I have to
kick your ass.”

“You wish.”

I walk away, thinking
of Reeve paired up with Sutton, and my roomie Kat now happily engaged
to her long-time love, Bryan. Funny, how it’s been so long since
I’ve even been with anyone—long as in years. Way longer than
anyone thinks. Much longer than I let on. Acting isn’t just my job.
It’s my whole damn life.

It’s the way I’ve
learned to live with all my regrets from long ago.

Davis

“She was brilliant,
but it’s largely irrelevant.”

I press my thumb and
forefinger against the bridge of my nose. I cannot believe I am
having this debate. I cannot believe this suit is being such a…suit.
It’s as if this production is run by accountants who don’t have a
clue.

“Irrelevant?”

I look up, and direct
the question to my executive producer, Don Kraftig, who’s sitting
across the aisle from me in a pinstriped, double-breasted number that
looks like he rented it from a Good Fellas close-out sale, a contrast
to my jeans and long-sleeve button down. We’re in the St. James,
the three of us: Don, Stillman and me. “How could it possibly be
irrelevant? She’s tailor–fucking-made for this part. She’s Ava.
Is there actually any question?”

My voice echoes around
the cavernous auditorium that will be filled shortly with spectators
for the final performances of
The King and I
, playing here
before we take over. For now, the red chairs that become home at
eight o’clock six nights a week to the buzz and hum of an audience
are empty, except for us. The auditions are over. The callbacks are
done. Patrick Carlson has left for the day, and we are sliding into
the early evening with this debate.

My executive producer
shrugs, an admission, or as much of one as I’ll ever get. “She
was amazing,” he concedes, and his voice—it sounds like a tin can
and I wish I could shake him, or really, shake some sense into him.
“But she’s not Alexis Carbone.”

“That’s the point,
Don. I don’t want Alexis Carbone. Alexis Carbone is a grade-A
classic diva and a half. Not to mention she misses shows if she has
so much as a sniffle.”

“All the better. She
should rest her voice if she’s ill,” he says, and now he sounds
prissy, and I would have half a mind to laugh if I wasn’t so damn
angry.

Instead, I choose a
different tactic. I try to speak in Don’s native tongue—dollars.
“You know how she is. She missed
one-third
of her
performances in
Fate Can Wait
. The running joke of the show
was that it should be called Alexis Can Wait. Don’t tell me you’ve
forgotten how many times theatergoers called the Logan Theater
Company asking for refunds when she wasn’t performing,” I say,
hoping that the reminder of how much money his competitors lost on
Alexis’ last role will do the trick.

“We are not the
Logans,” he says, folding his arms imperiously, as if that action
can somehow distance himself from Alexis’ one Broadway flop. “That
show was a mess. It had an awful title.”

“Yeah. It had a
hideous title. But the point is we have a show that’s not a mess.
Thanks to the incomparable Frederick Stillman—” I pause to
gesture, dramatically, of course, to the bald, bespectacled
theatrical genius next to me who has barely said a word because
Stillman doesn’t have to speak, his work does the talking, “—and
a show with a fantastic title, and score, and a sexy-as-hell
storyline about love and loss and sex and art, the likes of which New
York City hasn’t seen in years. Not since
Rent
. And you want
to throw in a wild card? An actress who misses a performance if her
cat has a hangnail?”