by Bobbi Marolt
She wandered down the hall, onto the stage, and then stretched out on the big pillow and waited for the other production members to arrive. Talking with Rachel wasn’t overly gruesome, and she relaxed until Clive arrived.
“Okay,” Clive said through the shuffle of footsteps. “I have some good news and some bad news. First of all, our cast did a bang-up job today, but the first thing we need to do is make a few changes to dialogue.”
Marty sat up and ignored Clive’s speech. She looked over at Liz and smiled internally. Seeing her, sensing the delicate blend of her perfume, remembering her soft breaths while she slept, and her tears of joy and unhappiness, she wanted all of those things back. Liz had been the object of her promise of care, but Marty miserably failed the test. Each time Liz had to leave, Marty weakened.
When Liz surrounded her, as she did that moment, she felt peaceful. Her eyes followed the course of curves that became Liz’s ear. She was worth an aggravating conversation with Rachel, if that talk might help their relationship. Not walking over to her and kissing Liz took all of Marty’s strength.
When she noticed that Liz’s eyes were on her, the emotional gravity pulled her closer. Did Liz miss her at all? Her eyes said yes. Marty broke away from her thoughts when Clive asked her a question. “What was that, Clive?”
“We’re waiting for your reaction,” he said as Felice exited the stage.
“Oh. Sure, whatever you think is best.” It seemed a harmless response and she could ask Felice about his comment later, but the air had gone dead around her. “Did I miss something important?”
“A biggie, Marty. I’m cutting the songs from the show.”
When his announcement sunk in, her eyes widened. “Why? They’re the best work Betty’s done.” She got up from the pillow.
He sighed. “You weren’t listening. The audience consensus is that the songs are good, but they take away from the impact of the characters sparring. They wanted the music to end and hear more dialogue. Betty’s songs have some great dialogue that Liz will work into the show.”
Marty paced a slow distance from the pillow and back again. Her bad vibes returned and she saw herself in that bedroom with Rachel. Rachel’s influence irritated her memory, and Marty’s self-doubt had again surfaced with Clive’s statement.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Marty said. “Singing is what I do best.”
“That’s crap. You’re a terrific actor and a better dramatic actor than you give yourself credit for. The songs are fine, but you and Felice can carry this show without a lot of pageantry. We’ll come off stronger as a dramatic comedy.”
She stopped pacing. She turned so abruptly that her hair swished around her shoulders. “Pageantry is my style, Clive. I give it to them big, loud, and sometimes belting a song that makes them weep for days.”
“Not this time. Sorry.” He sat back against his chair. “Sometimes you have to take a stage right exit.”
“And you’re making this decision on the comments of a small audience?”
“It’s not like they were a roomful of dumb blondes.” He looked over at Felice. “I mean no disrespect.”
A roomful of blondes. Didn’t anyone tell Clive it took only one blonde, attached to Rachel’s face, to fuck up my life? She looked at Liz. “And what does Madame Producer say?”
“I’m inclined to agree with Clive.”
Marty fumed. “You’re inclined to agree? Is that your way of saying you haven’t a clue what a seasoned producer might think?”
Liz backed away from her. “I beg your pardon?”
Clive stood. “Settle down, Marty.”
She tried his patience. “I will not settle down. I could have walked out of this production weeks ago, but Betty’s music kept me here.”
Clive stood, shaking his head. “No more. Pampering you stops now.” He motioned toward the aisle. “Walk. You’d be stupid to leave, but don’t let us stop you. This is theater. Things change quickly and you know that. The songs are cut, and if you can’t accept that, the door’s yours.” He headed toward the wing. “Everyone else, let’s regroup tomorrow at nine.”
She glared at Liz. “Where’s Felice? She should be here for this discussion.”
“Felice knows, and it’s not open for discussion. Don’t take Clive’s decision personally. It’s a business decision.”
Rachel had told her not to take it personally, but she did, and she took Clive’s music decision the same way. “My audience wants to hear a soundtrack.”
Liz shrugged. “Then they’ll have to see Wicked or West Side Story or some other show. You and Felice kicked ass on stage. Don’t you see that? They’re just songs.”
Marty folded her arms. No, she couldn’t focus on the need of the show or on Clive’s directive. She focused on her final minutes with Rachel.
“It’s nothing personal,” Rachel said without emotion. “It’s just sex.”
Marty pointed to the bedroom door. “Get out of here.” Rachel reached for her clothes. “Get out now.”
“Let me get dressed.”
Marty stormed toward Rachel and shouted again. “Now!” She grabbed a music box from the dresser and threw it at her. Marty just missed clocking her. Rachel dove across the bed to avoid a bottle of perfume to her head. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her. “Are you still here?” Marty side-armed another bottle of perfume. It exploded against the doorway. Without a scratch, Rachel fled the apartment and Marty never saw her again.
Marty sat on the pillow and stared at the base of the proscenium arch. Everything had fallen apart: her relationship with Liz, the songs, and her self-respect. Everything she needed was suddenly unavailable.
“I feel as though someone has torn every bone out of my body.”
“Marty,” Liz said and moved quickly to her. “Come on. It’s just a few songs.”
“No, it’s much more than a few songs. This is about my need to back away and figure out what the hell has happened to me.”
Felice entered the stage. “Liz, your taxi’s here.”
“Your taxi?”
Liz hesitated. “I’m flying to Aspen tonight. Another real estate sale.”
“What about the show? You have a responsibility here.”
“You’re right. I’ll cancel and reschedule after the show is established. I’ll be here for you, now.”
“Just go.” She looked away from Liz. “Do whatever you have to do.”
Liz leaned over and softly kissed her cheek. “We’ll talk soon.” She made a quick exit.
“Soon,” Marty muttered. “Soon after Aspen? Tonight? Maybe we shouldn’t talk at all.” Marty looked over at Felice. Felice’s eyes bore into her. “What?”
“Jamison hits jackass mode again. Liz brought champagne for you and you told her it gives you a headache. I saw the hurt in her eyes. I mean really, Marty. I’ve seen you drink champagne in your dressing room with her.”
“So?”
“You were intentionally discourteous. Then she tried with a rose and you snubbed her again. Don’t you understand she wants the two of you to make things right?” Felice pointed to Marty’s side of the set. “That’ll be you, if you don’t straighten up your act. Alone, bitter, and beige.”
Marty turned her head toward the set behind her, but stopped half way. She looked back at Felice. “You have a lot of nerve.”
“I’ve taunted you, but I’ve also had respect for you and the esteem your name holds. That respect disappeared today. Is playing jackass your new act? You’re rude. Fix it.”
“Don’t even think you can talk to me in that tone.”
“Someone has to tell you. Clive will, if you dare go into his office.” Felice laughed a little. “So you’re stuck with Tater tot. Knock it off.” She turned and walked down the stage steps. “Good night. If I don’t see you here tomorrow, you’re a fool.”
Alone on stage, Marty paced. “Intentionally discourteous. You’re rude. Pampering you stops now. The songs are cut.” She shouted to
an audience of none. “They’re just songs, Marty.” She crossed the stage and leaned against the arch. “Just songs,” she repeated softly and scanned the darkness of the hollow auditorium that became her. “You’re rude. Fix it!” She waited for her echo to disappear and then shouted a final time. “Anyone else care to take a swing at me?” Quick clapping sounded from the back of the mezzanine and strengthened as a shadowed figure approached the stage from her left.
“Brava!” Rachel shouted. “Remind me to leave a few bucks at the box office for that performance. Having a bad day, Martina?”
“Fuck you, Rachel.”
“Now that’s a warm welcome.”
“How did you get beyond security?”
“I walked through the door, like everyone else. Security knows me.” She stopped walking when she reached the center edge of the apron.
“Lucky me. Go home. I’ll call you later.”
Rachel smiled and reached for a footlight. “Allow me to recap. Your director offered to replace you.” She gave a quick turn to the light and it flicked off. “Your girlfriend is off to Colorado with Paul.” She darkened a second light. “Your costar thinks you’re a jackass, and I can attest to that observation.” She twisted off the third light.
“I’m not going to listen to this. You have—”
“You better listen because you need to hear this.” She looked back at the footlights. “What else? Ah! I missed this one: The songbird was reduced to a dramatic comedian.” She twisted off a fourth light. “Now for the final light. What’s happened to our lovely queen?” She turned the fifth light until it flickered continually. “Have you lost your luminous star quality?” Rachel tapped the sensitive light and it darkened. “Poof.” She grinned.
Marty looked up from the darkened row of lights. “Everything onstage is larger than life. Things aren’t that bad.”
“Is that so? I’m thinking differently. Otherwise you wouldn’t call me.” She walked up the steps and stood beside Marty. “I’m curious. What do you want from me?”
Uncomfortable under Rachel’s gaze, Marty moved to the armoire. She tightened her bathrobe.
“Oh, don’t worry, Miss Jamison. I have no interest in your precious body.”
“If anyone is aware of your disinterest, it’s me.” With her back to Rachel, she found the nerve to ask the ultimate question. “Why did you do that to me?”
“Why did I do what?”
Marty swung around and wanted to smack the smile from Rachel’s face. “Don’t play stupid. Why did you take that woman into our bed?”
“That was two years ago. My little tryst still haunts you?” She walked to the vanity and stopped.
“Just answer the question.”
Rachel slowly ran her finger over the top of the dressing table. “Because she was there and I wanted her.”
“We were in a relationship. Did I mean nothing to you?”
She laughed. “I loved you. I wanted to give every damn drop of my intellect and emotion to you, but I wasted my time. My love was unrequited.”
Marty’s eyes widened with anger. “What? I loved you. I took you everywhere with me. All the awards dinners, my guest appearances, I even took you to the White House.”
“Our photos were all over the newspapers, all over the world, for the endless procession of your events.”
“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy rubbing elbows with—”
“I did enjoy those things at first, but it took me a long time to understand that you were all about Marty Jamison and the show, and then the next show. I was never a priority with you.”
Marty glared at her. “That’s not true. I had you with me because—”
Rachel stepped closer. “Like it or not, I was an obedient puppy that you didn’t want. You took me out for walks in public, but when you took me home, life still wasn’t about us. You were too tired to talk with me, but you had the energy to plan your outfit for dinner the next night.”
“You never complained,” Marty shot back. “You didn’t complain when Paris welcomed us.”
“Parisians welcomed Marty Jamison. You dumped me onto the perimeter while you mesmerized everyone with a stroll through the Champs-Elysées or stuffed your face with vichyssoise.”
“I never touched vichyssoise.”
“Or me.”
“How can you say that? I introduced you as my girlfriend.” She followed Rachel to Felice’s side of the stage. “The President of Goddamn France knew you were my lover. Of course I touched you.”
“Sometimes you’d remember and squeeze me in between engagements. Let’s talk about one of those times. Do you remember the third night in Paris?”
“Do you honestly expect me to remember a particular night three years ago?”
“Try, Marty. Humor me this one time.”
If thinking about that night would get Rachel out of the Stanwyck a minute sooner, Marty would relent. She sat at the edge of Felice’s bed. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember that night. She looked up at Rachel with the hope that her face would dislodge a reminder of that evening.
“You see?” Rachel said. “I’ll remind you. For the first time in months, you said all the right things and touched me in all the right places. You were très affectueux, and I was so…damn…forgiving.”
“Then we did make love.”
Rachel shook her head. “Not quite. You killed the mood when you laughed.”
“I laughed?”
“You were kissing me and suddenly stopped to laugh. Do you remember your reason for laughing?”
Marty looked out to the house and thought hard. “Something about a reporter?”
“You cheerfully said to me ‘Did you hear that photographer tell me he’d shoot his wife for me?’ We were making love, Marty, and you were thinking about a fucking photographer. Do you know how much you hurt me?”
“Oh damn. I remember now.” She lowered her gaze to the floor. Had she been that cold? She pushed herself from the bed and walked to Rachel’s side. “We should have talked about it.”
Rachel walked away and sat at Felice’s vanity. Her anger turned softer. “Talk. Yeah, we should have.” She looked up at Marty with a smile that wasn’t one of happiness, but one of hurt. “When we were about to talk, your manager called and he topped your priority list for an hour.”
“You fell asleep. I turned out the light and—”
“I wasn’t sleeping. I was crying. In three years with you, I never made it to your priority list.”
“Why didn’t you insist we talk about your feelings? I never meant to hurt you.” She pulled her chair next to Rachel.
“You always put me off for a meeting or a photo shoot, whatever became the flavor of the day for your career. You blew this city away when you took over the lead in Bourbon Street. The world suddenly wanted Marty Jamison at their dinner tables, but you never had the time to fold a napkin for ours.”
She couldn’t dispute Rachel’s charges. Caught in the glitz of limelight, she’d given fame full control. “You had affairs after France. I was always suspicious but never knew for sure.”
Rachel nodded. “I decided I’d take advantage of all of those wives and friends you introduced to me. I set aside my emotional needs, but I craved physical attention. Those women were my playmates.”
“I can’t blame you. I neglected you.” She ran her hand over Rachel’s shoulder. “You’re right. Everything was about me.”
“A small part of me still believed you would come around. I convinced myself that the next day would be my day. Always the next day, but that day never came.”
It pained Marty when tears streamed down Rachel’s cheeks. “Oh, Rachel. Why did you put up with me?”
She wiped her eyes with her hand. “To answer your initial question further, I wanted you to catch me with that woman so you would throw me out of your life. I knew you wouldn’t come looking for me.”
“Why didn’t you just leave?”
“I couldn’t leave o
n my own. I was afraid you wouldn’t look for me.”
“Oh, God.” Liz’s words came back to her. I’m afraid you’d never find me again. “I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you. I’ve wanted to slap you silly, but you’re the one who should take that swing at me.”
“No. I’m sorry for the way I ended us. I can’t imagine how you felt, but I wasn’t proud. I was in pieces.” She took a breath. “Maybe we can find it in ourselves to forgive each other? We don’t ever have to see each other again.”
Marty put her arms around her. “I wish you had handled me differently, but now I understand your action. I’m sorry, Rachel. You deserved better than what I gave you.”
Rachel pulled back and looked directly into her eyes. “Yes, I did deserve better, but so did you. I’m sorry, too. What a pathetic pair we were.” Rachel gave her an awkward hug. “I wasn’t on a religious retreat, you know.”
“No nuns, huh?” She asked with a smile. “That’s a relief.”
“I was in Hyannis, with my girlfriend.”
“You’re happy with her?”
“Yeah. She’s not in the business and we’ve been together for almost a year.” She stood and took Marty’s hand. “Come on. We need to fix your lights.”
They walked to the darkened footlights. Marty knelt, assuming they would twist the lights on, but Rachel stopped her when she reached for the first bulb.
“No. That’s not how you’ll get the lights back on.” Rachel sat on the floor and pulled Marty down beside her. She pointed to the first light. “Tell me why Clive offered you the door.”
“I…I’ve been bossy. I’ve insisted things go my way.” She felt like a heel.
“Uh-huh. It’s still all about Marty Jamison. You need to learn that that’s not true. Joyce told you everything was about the show. Did you ever stop to think that your private life was the biggest part of the show?”
“I took Joyce too literally. She always had time for her husband and daughters and grandchildren.”
Rachel nodded. “I’ll give you this light. I think you have sense enough not to walk, but to let Clive run the show.”
“Gee, thanks.” She watched as Rachel turned the light on.