Maybe one of Luke's plays.
The idea seemed to come from nowhere. But then she knew she had been thinking about it for a long time. They were fine plays; she knew they would be better when he finished rewriting them. And if she directed one, he would know there were no hard feelings.
But she could not do that. Because of course he would come to Sydney to take part in the rehearsals.
What a ridiculous idea.
She heard a click: the fax machine switching on. She looked at her watch. Three o'clock. Midnight in New York. Turning, she watched the sheet of paper inch into view. She imagined Luke standing in his library, watching his letter disappear into his fax machine. Giving it to me to read.
She gazed across the room at the white sheet of paper with lines of handwriting that she recognized as Luke's. I don't want another friendly hello. I already know what that looks like.
In a little while, she took the bowl of apples back to the kitchen, skirting the fax machine. She went to her bedroom and found a book to read. She changed the disc she had been listening to, putting on the Mozart clarinet quintet, one of her favorites. And then she could not stand it any more and she picked up the letter and began to read.
My dearest love, by now you must be back in Sydney. I've seen some of the Melbourne papers at a newsstand that seems to carry every major paper in the world, so I know^ how well you've done. I'm not surprised, but I'm enormously impressed, because I know that a brilliant acting career doesn't guarantee a smooth transition to directing, where you have to deal with everyone, not just your ow^n character. I'm very proud of you. I hope you're as proud of yourself.
I must confess, my love, that I don't know how^ to write to you
Acts of L
o V E ~ 325
anymore. The letters waiting for you when you returned from Melbourne were written while I was trying to figure out what to do next. I love you, I want to marry you, I want us to be together, to achieve as much as we can, together and separately. But I don't think you want to hear me say that. I don't know what you want to hear me say. All I know for certain is that, if you don't tell me to stop, I'll go on writing, indefinitely, I suppose, because I cannot break my connection with you. Any bond between us is better than none.
If you aren't yet ready to tell me what you want, I can wait. I have no more cross-country skiing to w^rite about (curses on a city that clears its streets all too soon), but there is alw^ays my w^ork, and yours, and, as a last resort, opera and ballet and Sotheby's. I love you. Luke.
The sun shone brilliantly; the clarinet soared in a joyous melody. Jessica went back to the couch, picked up the earlier letters, and tucked them in with the collection in her box. But not this one, not yet. I want to read it a few times — a few dozen times — before I put it away.
And then she thought of Edward. She had no desire to go to dinner with him—what could she have been thinking of.' I'll call him, she decided, and tell him I just don't feel like going out tonight. But before she could pick up the telephone, it rang beneath her hand.
"Yes," she said, thinking of Edward.
"Jessica Fontaine.^" A woman's voice. Jessica sat on the couch, frowning, trying to place it. Too loud, aggressive, almost antagonistic, a little slurred, as if she were— She clenched her hand around the telephone. As if she were drunk.
"Yes, who is this.'" she asked, though she already knew.
"Claudia Cameron. You don't know me; we never met, but you seem to know my husband. Luke Cameron."
"Your husband?"
"He was. But we're still close. Very close. We care about each other— we're very close!—and I want to know why the hell you're writing letters to him."
/ don't have to tal to her. I should just hang up.
What would Luf^e want me to do?
326 ~ Judith Michael
He tries to protect her; he'd want me to do the same.
There was the sound of ice cHnking in a glass. "Damn it, answer me! Are you afraid of me? You ought to be, you know, I can ruin you, I can smear you—"
Stung, Jessica snapped, "By planting lies with gossip columnists."
"Oh, so you did get it. Then you know I can smear you all over New York if I want to. And I may want to. Answer my question! Why do you write letters to my husband?"
"I write letters to your ex-husband because we're friends."
"'Friends' is what people say when they're sleeping together. I read some of those letters, all about the theater and Australia . . . who do you think you're fooling.? I could tell you're sleeping with him."
"That would be hard to do, since he's in New York and I'm in Sydney."
"Oh, clever, clever. You actresses, you're all the same; there isn't an actress in the world I'd trust. You're trying to take Luke away from me, get him to go to Sydney so I won't have him close anymore. I asked him, and he said you were."
"What?"
"He said you were sleeping together."
"He never told you that."
"He did. He said—"
"He said we were friends. He said I'm directing a play for the first time, and he helps me with problems I'm having."
"You don't know what he said!"
"I know him. I know what he would say."
"If you think you know him that well, you're sleeping with him."
It was so illogical that Jessica burst out laughing.
"Don't you dare laugh at me!" Ice clinked in her glass. "You're finished! Do you understand? You won't have Luke—ever!—and you won't get any work in this town. Ever! I have powerful friends who'll stop you, and when Luke hears how you laughed at me he'll never look at you again. He'll throw away your letters, and if you call and beg and beg he'll hang up on you. I know how he is when he's pushed. So stay away from him! If you do, my friend won't print those other things she has."
"She has nothing. You don't know what you're talking about." The hell with her, Jessica thought furiously. They've been divorced for over eleven
Acts of L
o V E ~ 327
years; who does she think she is to tell me whether I can be with Luke or not? And does she really think she and her gossip friend could keep me away if I really wanted to come back? "This is crazy—"
"Don't tell me I'm crazy!"
"You're being ridiculous. I'm not after Luke and I'm not coming to New York, but, believe me, if I wanted to you couldn't stop me."
"Oh, can't I. The minute you get off that plane—"
"There is no plane. What is wrong with you? I told you I'm not—"
"You're lying! Listen, I'm telling you, if you take Luke away from me, I'll kill myself. I mean it! He's all I've got."
"You said you had powerful friends."
"I do. Or I did. I don't know exactly what happened to them; I haven't seen them lately. Maybe they're out of town. But it's not important because I've got Luke, he cares about me, and if you take him away, I'll kill myself. I've decided, you know; I'm serious. You should know that before you get on that plane."
"Claudia, listen to me." Jessica's anger was gone; she felt only a deep sadness. "I'm not coming to New York. These are terrible things you're saying and there's no reason for them. You have so many things to live for—"
"Like what?" Jessica heard her crunch ice in her teeth. "You don't know anything about it! You've always been in the spotlight, you've never suffered or failed at anything, you're clever and beautiful and people applaud and say how fantastic you are. What do you know about failing? What do you know about waking up every day and not having any idea what you'll do that day because you're not good at anything! I lost Luke, you know, and now I don't see my friends anymore, I've lost people all over the place, but what would you know about that? You haven't lost anything, yon find things, like other women's husbands, and then you take them away. You take and take and take, and people clap for you, but nothing works for me; everything's a failure. I'm a failure. Luke doesn't care; he loves me anyway. He doesn't love you! And if he does ... If
he does I'll kill myself."
"Don't say that. You're young, you can get help—"
"You mean a shrink?"
"Someone to help you find things to fill your days and give shape to your life. You have years to meet new people and find new ways of living. I know what it is to feel despair and loneliness—"
328 ~ Judith Michael
"Bullshit."
"I've had some terrible times; I had to—"
"Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. God, you actors, you lie through your teeth. I hate all of you. I hate the theater. I hate New York. I hate Luke. No, that's not true, Luke is all I've got. I love Luke. He'll miss me when I'm dead. He'll cry and say it's his fault. No, he'll say it's your fault. Then he'll hate you. And kaput, that's the end of you and Luke. I wish I could hear him curse you for what you did, but I won't be here, will I.?"
"Claudia, stop it. You're not going to kill yourself; you don't want to kill yourself. You need help."
"Don't give me any fucking advice, lady, I don't need it! Just stay away from my husband. STAY AWAYl" The phone slammed into its cradle.
Jessica sat for a long moment still holding the telephone, as if Claudia's voice might miraculously reappear. But at last she hung up. She was shaking from the violence of Claudia's rage and desperation, and from her own helplessness. There must have been things she could have said that would have been more helpful, more encouraging, less confrontational... And if Claudia really did kill herself. . .
But she wouldn't, Jessica thought. People who talked about suicide seldom actually did it; talking seemed to diminish the urgency. Was that right.? Hadn't she read that somewhere?
The truth was, she knew almost nothing about suicide and almost nothing about Claudia.
I should call Luf^e. He should know she's talking this way.
She looked at her watch. Damn it, she thought, why can't we be in the same time zone? Almost one a.m. in New York. He would be asleep. I'll call later, she thought.
The telephone rang. "Jessica," said Edward, "how about Catalina for dinner? I don't want to make a reservation if you don't want to go there."
"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 lif(e 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 plaj 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.
330 ~ Judith Michael
But she did no work. She was nervous and suddenly feeHng 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 o( 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
Acts of L
o V E ~ 331
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 }i2iX. 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 1 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."
332 ~ Judith Michael
"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.
Acts of Love Page 39