“They knew all along they weren’t going to have Wade,” mused Charlotte. “They sat through that whole interview pretending to be interested, letting the poor man talk, when they came prepared to request their own director.”
“Wade’s going to be devastated,” said Paula. “Twice he’s been up for our directing job, and twice he wasn’t chosen. It will be really hard on him. I wonder if there’s anything else we can do.” Her fingers played with the pearls at her throat. “What about this? We apologize, explain the situation so he knows it wasn’t our choice, and we offer him a smaller job with the company.”
“You can try,” said Charlotte, “but he seemed like a proud man, and I don’t think he’d settle for someone else’s table scraps.” Paula winced. “In fact,” Charlotte continued, “he might see that as an insult. And what about the budget? We don’t have enough money, surely, to create an extra position just for him. But I do agree he’s going to be very disappointed. And more than a little angry, would be my guess.”
“Actually,” said Paula, “before this goes any further, I need to get my hands on a copy of her contract. I want to check out the director approval business for myself.”
“Good idea. But to bring in a director from the UK to work here on such short notice—won’t there be an issue getting him a work visa or whatever it’s called?” asked Charlotte. “It’s been ten years since I went through the process, and anyway, the RSC sorted it all out for the company. Surely getting him the documentation he needs will take months—much longer than we’ve got. Every day that this production isn’t in preparation is time wasted and could end up costing us money if we aren’t ready to open on time.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” said Paula. “Nancy’ll take care of the paperwork, and it can be issued through the US Embassy in London in three to five working days, although even that’s a delay we don’t need. This director those two want could be on his way by the end of next week. That is, if he even agrees to come here at the salary we’re offering. I hope he won’t. This really is going to make things difficult with Wade. He was desperate for this job, and I’m afraid I rather let him think he was a shoo-in for it.”
Charlotte took a sip of water. “What’s his name, this director Audrey wants?”
Paula glanced at the name on the piece of paper Maxine had handed her. “Edmund Albright.”
Chapter 5
“Well here we go again,” said Paula Van Dusen the following Friday. “Another arrival.” For this one, however, there had been no refurbishment of the director’s bungalow, no Rolls-Royce pickup at the airport, and no welcoming party on the front steps of the hotel.
Paula described the arrival plans as “a little more low-key.” Charlotte dubbed them “a bit more down-market.”
“I suppose just to be marginally polite, though, someone will have to say hello and hand over his key,” said Paula.
“I can take care of that,” Charlotte replied. “You’ve probably got better things to do.”
“Not sure about better things to do, but I’m happy to let you handle it. I’m going to give this one a miss.”
When the local taxi dropped off its passenger at the front door of the hotel, Charlotte stepped forward and, with what she hoped looked like a sincere smile, held out her hand as she introduced herself, adding, “And you must be Edmund Albright.”
In his early thirties and wreathed in a self-satisfied air of youthful confidence, he gave her a practiced, charming grin as he brushed a floppy lock of brown hair off his forehead in a mannered, affected way. He wore a chocolate-brown cashmere sweater and carried a beige jacket draped over his arm. “Yes,” he said with the faintest trace of a lisp, “that’s me.”
Charlotte welcomed him on behalf of the theater company and hotel and added, “The director’s bungalow is down this way, if you’d like to follow me?” She picked up the smaller of his bags and led the way to the bungalow. She unlocked the door, opened it, and handed the key to the new occupant. “Again, welcome. We hope you’ll enjoy your tenure with our company. We’re all looking forward to working with you. The cast is eager to get on with rehearsals.”
“As am I. And the call has gone out for . . . what time?”
“Nine o’clock Monday morning. You’ll have a couple of days to settle in, and the cast will be in the auditorium, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and keen to meet you and to hear your thoughts.”
“Excellent,” said Edmund. “I’ve had a terrific idea for this production and can’t wait to share it with everybody.” He gave her a charming grin. “They’re going to love it.”
*
Carrying cups of Monday morning coffee from the cafeteria, the cast and crew of the Catskills Shakespeare Theater Company, some with their hair still wet from the shower, trooped into the theater and found seats in the first four rows. In the center of the first row, an empty seat on each side of her, sat Audrey, her eyes shining with excitement. The other actors, chatting eagerly to one another, did not include her in their conversations. But one actress, seeing Audrey on her own, hesitated, then approached her.
Small and trim, Mattie Lane wore her long brown hair piled on top of her head, held in place with a bright-red toothed clip. Her features were fine and delicate, and she walked with a fluid, graceful ease.
“Good morning,” she said to Audrey. “I’m Mattie Lane. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be working with you. May I . . . ?” She smiled and gestured at one of the empty seats.
“Yes, do, by all means.”
Aaron, in charge of the meeting, scurried across the floor in front of the stage, stopping to exchange a few words with Mattie and then taking a seat at the end of the front row beside Charlotte. When a lone figure emerged from the wings and took center stage, talk immediately died down, replaced by an air of nervous anticipation, and all eyes, including Charlotte’s and Aaron’s, turned toward Edmund Albright. He was neatly dressed in the same beige slacks he’d worn on his arrival and the beige jacket he’d been carrying.
He gazed at his audience for a moment, then crossed the stage and lightly and smoothly descended the small set of stairs at one side that brought him to the same level as the cast. In a few long, swift strides, he was standing in front of them.
After introducing himself, he launched into a discussion of the themes and structure of the play. At first, the cast listened attentively, especially when he discussed the treatment of women in the play, but as he drifted into a lecture on when the play was written and how it fits into Shakespeare’s body of work, the audience began to fidget. And then he took his remarks in an unexpected direction that snapped everyone, especially Charlotte, back to attention.
“Some of you may have read that wonderful essay by the late Sir Alec Guinness on the concept of performing Shakespeare’s plays outside their usual Elizabethan and Jacobean time frame. Shakespeare has been performed in everything from Edwardian costumes to modern dress. You may have heard about the controversial production of Richard III with Ian McKellen, in which the cast wore Nazi costumes.” Sensing where this was going, a low conversational buzz rippled through the audience. Knowing he now had their full attention, Albright continued. “So I’m proposing that our production of Much Ado About Nothing be set just after the Civil War, when the surviving soldiers return home.” Charlotte and Aaron, immediately realizing the huge complications for costuming, turned to each other. Aaron shook his head and mouthed a silent “No way”; Charlotte replied an equally silent “Impossible,” accompanied by a small but emphatic shake of her head.
“Now I know some of you might be a bit shocked by this idea,” Albright went on, “but it’s got your attention, hasn’t it? And it’s going to get everybody’s attention! And once you’ve had a chance to think it over and get used to the idea, if you’re not in favor of it now, I’m sure you’ll warm to it and finally embrace it.”
Charlotte leaned forward and scanned the faces of the cast members along the row, trying to gauge just ho
w warmly they were embracing the concept. Some looked upset, others looked puzzled, but Audrey Ashley’s expression had gone from one of open admiring anticipation before the director started speaking to one of horror, and Charlotte knew why.
The idea of dressing a forty-five-year-old woman, playing a part meant for someone half her age, in a Scarlett O’Hara–type costume with frills and a picture hat was appalling. Audrey no doubt feared she would look ridiculous and that when the publicity photos were released, she’d be a laughingstock. Edmund must surely realize that. And yet here he was, the new director, at Audrey’s request. Audrey’s narrowed eyes and tightly pinched lips indicated her reaction to Albright’s announcement had changed from horror to hard anger.
*
“Of course it’s not going to happen,” spluttered Charlotte as she and Aaron walked back to the costume office when the meeting was over. “We couldn’t possibly design and create all those costumes in time. And what’s more, we don’t even begin to have the budget for something like that. And think of the waste. They’d never be used again.”
“What if he suggests we rent the costumes?” Aaron asked.
“Out of the question,” said Charlotte. “We could never afford it. And what’s more, he never should have made that announcement without consulting me. Now he’s going to look like an idiot when he has to retract all that Civil War rubbish and tell the cast we’re going ahead with a standard, normal production.”
She unlocked the door to her office and tossed her notebook on her desk.
“I wonder why he would want to do that,” mused Aaron. “Everybody likes Shakespeare just the way it is. It’s what they expect. It’s what they come for.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Lots of productions set in different times have been popular enough, but as you say, the purists like Shakespeare done the old-fashioned way, and you could very well be right that this type of production won’t suit our audiences. Do you know, I don’t think we’ve ever attempted to stage anything quite as outlandish as that. Probably because we don’t have the resources or funds to take on such risk. A flop would be financially catastrophic. We just can’t afford to have people stay away.”
Charlotte was prevented from saying any more by her ringing telephone. “Oh, hello,” she said. “Yes, he spoke to the cast.” She paused to listen. “It was, shall we say, interesting.” Another pause. “That’s a good idea. See you when you get here.”
Aaron stopped leafing through the paperback copy of Much Ado About Nothing he’d picked up off Charlotte’s desk. “When who gets here?”
“Paula Van Dusen’s on her way through town and has decided to stop in. She hasn’t met our Mr. Edmund Albright yet. She thought it might be a good idea if she popped in to say hello.”
Aaron coughed lightly and nodded, then raised the book slightly. “Has Edmund Albright actually read this? I wonder why he wants to do it this way. I don’t see how it would work with a Civil War setting.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s read it. And he’s probably given a lot of thought to how he wants to stage it. But you raise a really good point when you ask why he would want to do it that way.”
*
“The Civil War?” Paula Van Dusen clasped her hands to her chest as she doubled up with laughter. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“I wish I were,” said Charlotte. “But that’s what he said. And you should have seen the thunderous look on Audrey Ashley’s face. If looks could kill.”
That sent Paula into gales of laughter. “Oh, I’ll bet poor old Wade Radcliffe with his stodgy, traditional version of the play’s looking pretty good to her right about now.”
“Well, let’s go meet Edmund.” Charlotte picked up her handbag. As they strolled through the backstage corridor that would bring them to the cafeteria and then the rear entrance to the hotel, Paula asked, “North or South?”
“North or South what?”
“Did Edmund Albright say if the characters would be representing the North or South? Or both? I’m not that familiar with the play. If it’s the South, will it be all ‘fiddledeedee’ and ‘after all, tomorrow is another day’?”
“No, it won’t,” said Charlotte. “I doubt he’d change the script. At least I hope not.”
They passed Charlotte’s bungalow and continued on to the director’s. As they got closer, a loud voice coming from inside brought them up short, and they crept closer, pausing to listen. The door was open and a woman’s voice carried clearly.
“I arranged for you to come here so you could help me. I trusted you to make me look good, and this is how you repay me?” The speaker paused, indicating that someone else was speaking, but Paula and Charlotte couldn’t hear the response. “No, I absolutely will not do it like this. Over my dead body.” A moment later, Audrey Ashley stormed out of the house and, throwing Charlotte and Paula a look filled with determined vengeance, thundered past them and turned down the path that led to her bungalow.
“Let’s give her a few minutes and then look in on her when we’ve finished here,” said Charlotte as Paula knocked on the door of Edmund Albright’s bungalow.
“Come!”
They entered the bungalow to find Edmund standing in the middle of the sitting room with his arms folded. This bungalow was dull, dated, and dowdy, as the star bungalow had been before Paula’s renovation. Everything in the sitting room, from carpet to curtains, was a tired, dreary shade of brown. It wouldn’t take too long to get depressed in here, thought Charlotte as a feeling of something bordering on pity for Simon Dyer, the previous occupant, flashed through her mind. Maybe he left because he just couldn’t take one more day in the bungalow.
“Hello, again, Edmund,” said Charlotte. “I’d like to introduce you to Paula Van Dusen, the chairperson of our theater board.”
Paula, in a pale-pink sleeveless summer dress, stood out like a buoy in the middle of a brown ocean. The two shook hands, and Paula asked if they might sit down.
“Forgive me,” said Edmund. “Should have offered. Please.” Charlotte and Paula sat on a brown corduroy sofa that sagged beneath their weight. They hauled themselves forward a little to perch on the edge. Edmund pulled a chair out from the table and sat facing them. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back slightly.
“I can’t offer you anything to drink, I’m afraid,” he said. “I have no idea where the shops are, and I haven’t had time to get anything in.”
“No, of course not,” said Charlotte, “but that’s not why we’re here.” She threw a glance at Paula. “I’ll come right to the point. We need to discuss that announcement you made this morning to the cast and crew about performing Much Ado About Nothing against a Civil War backdrop. The financial implications are enormous for the company, you see, and by rights you should have discussed your concept with us before dropping that bombshell.” She smiled nervously. “I don’t know how well the idea will go down with the cast, but it certainly has me very concerned, I must say.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I thought you would have been well up for a challenge. I heard you were with the RSC, so I wouldn’t have thought this would be anything you couldn’t handle.”
“The RSC has a sizeable costume department and is well equipped and staffed to handle anything and everything,” said Charlotte, “given enough time. The thing is”—she raised her hands in a fluttery little gesture—“here, there’s just me and my assistant Aaron, who has to spread himself pretty thin over several production areas, so you see, your idea would place unrealistic demands on us.”
Paula Van Dusen made a little throat-clearing noise, and Edmund turned his blue eyes to her.
“And not only do we have Charlotte’s concerns to consider,” Paula said, “but to put it bluntly, we simply don’t have the budget for such an ambitious enterprise. Not for costumes, or sets, or anything. So I’m afraid the board simply can’t authorize it.”
“Not to mention the time factor,” Charlotte chimed in. “We’re on a very tight ti
meline to get that production up on its legs, with a new leading actress and a new director.”
“So you see, for all the reasons we’ve given you, a Civil War production is absolutely out of the question,” Paula concluded. “But I must admit I’m a bit curious. Why or how did you come up with the idea of that concept?”
“Well, during my research, I read about an RSC production that was set in a country house just after the First World War. And it was hugely successful, I might add. Much Ado opens with soldiers coming home from a war, so I thought because this is America, why not the Civil War? And because this is New York State, I thought why not the North?”
“So it’s the North, not the South?” Paula asked.
“That’s right. And you were there when I told the cast about it,” Edmund said, turning to Charlotte. “You saw their reaction. They were gobsmacked! Think what the media will make of it. And is there a theater anywhere that couldn’t do with a bit more press?”
“I just don’t see it working for us,” said Charlotte. “Our theater is all about classic Shakespeare. Our audiences are used to seeing the plays performed a certain way, and that’s what they come for. They like the traditional versions.”
“I do hope you won’t take this the wrong way,” Edmund said with a tired smile that came nowhere near his eyes, “but since when does the costume designer tell the director what kind of production we’re having?” He leaned forward, clasping his palms together, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s up to me, as the director, to orchestrate the mounting of the production. I’m responsible for the overall practical and creative interpretation of the script. I have final say on the whole process, from design and preproduction to staging and execution. So you’ll just have to find a way to get those costumes made.”
He turned to Paula. “This is about my vision, not your budget. So you’ll just have to find the money.” His voice had a hard, cold edge to it, but, thought Charlotte, was there also the slightest hint of nervous doubt? He adopted a more conciliatory tone as he added, “You look like a resourceful woman. I’m sure if you both dig a little deeper, you can find a way to get this done.”
Much Ado About Murder Page 4