by JP Delaney
“For Hedda Gabler?” I say, surprised. It’s a production I’ve been dying to see. Tickets are like hen’s teeth.
She nods. “He’s picking you up at seven—there’s a message on the voicemail. Until then, try to get some rest. Frankly, Claire, you look terrible.”
36
He likes my apartment, he says. It’s just the sort of place he’d imagined me living in. Unpretentious, but with impeccable taste.
I excuse the faint odor of paint by saying I’ve just redecorated.
We get a cab to the theater, where we walk past the SOLD OUT signs and a queue for returns and I wonder how on earth he managed to get these tickets. But of course, he’s wealthy. Stella came from old money. And since they weren’t divorced when she died, Patrick inherited every cent.
It was one of the first things that made the police suspicious, Frank told me. Which is illogical when you think about it. It’s hardly Patrick’s fault his wife was rich. And what Kathryn suspects Patrick of has absolutely nothing to do with money.
Once again I can’t help reflecting on Kathryn’s obsession with Patrick. If this was a play, bringing him down would be her through line—Stanislavski’s term for a character’s overwhelming inner need, the thing that drives them to make tragic errors.
I just have to hope that, in this case, she realizes her error before it’s too late.
Stay professional, I tell myself. It’s just acting. Just a part.
But even as I think that, I realize it isn’t true anymore. If it ever was.
* * *
—
Patrick loves the theater. That much is obvious even before we settle ourselves in our seats. He seems to come alive, drinking in our surroundings, the other theatergoers, the buzz of anticipation.
He’s always been drawn to illusion, he says, the idea that one thing can represent another.
“My dream is that one day I’ll write my own play about Baudelaire and the two Venuses,” he tells me as we wait for the play to start. “It seems tailor-made for theater. Not a theater like this, of course—it would have to be somewhere experimental, somewhere prepared to deal with really provocative material.”
“How would you do it?”
He thinks. “I’d probably structure it around Baudelaire’s trial—when Les Fleurs du Mal was banned for obscenity. I love a good courtroom drama.”
“Me too.”
“Really?” He glances sideways at me. “Best courtroom movie?”
“Easy. And it’s not 12 Angry Men, even though it’s directed by Sidney Lumet. It’s—”
“The Verdict,” he finishes approvingly. “Written by David Mamet.”
I nod. “But my very favorite genre is film noir. Particularly New York noir. There’s one called Laura with Gene Tierney in the title role—”
“I must have seen it a hundred times. Do you remember the bit where—”
Waiting for the house lights to dim, talking about movies and plays we both love, it occurs to me that this evening probably qualifies as one of my better dates. So long as I don’t think about the microphone and the listeners, of course.
And I don’t. Or at least, my character doesn’t. My character’s having the time of her life.
* * *
—
The first half of the play is even better than I’d hoped. I can relate to Hedda, a woman who does all sorts of apparently crazy shit just because she’s bored with everyday life, gradually getting herself in deeper and deeper until she’s spiraling out of control. The performances are so good that, at the interval, I don’t even want to talk. I want to stay inside the bubble of Ibsen’s world until it’s time for the second half.
Picking up on my mood, Patrick says quietly, “I’ll get us drinks. We don’t need to chat.”
Waiting for him to return, I hear a voice behind me say poisonously, “Of course, all that overacting always goes down well with audiences. They don’t know any better, the sweethearts. Oh, hello, Claire.”
I try to slip away, but it’s too late. An actor—Raoul something. A friend of a friend of Jess’s.
“Darling. Isn’t it dreadful?” He offers his cheek for me to kiss.
“I’m enjoying it,” I say faintly. At that moment, Patrick returns with two plastic containers of wine. He puts them down and looks quizzically at Raoul and his friends, waiting to be introduced.
“Yes? Perhaps when you haven’t actually worked for a while it gets harder to judge,” Raoul sneers.
“This is Raoul,” I say reluctantly to Patrick. “He recently played a singing rat in a musical.”
“A singing squirrel, actually,” Raoul says. His eyes narrow. “Really, Claire, what is that extraordinary accent? Have you gone native in the hope of getting work?”
“I’ve heard the second half is better,” I say, to distract him.
But Raoul, once started, isn’t going to give up. “Talking of accents, I saw that delicious piece of rough from the Harley Bar earlier. I gather congratulations are in order…? Jeez, what a time I had with Claire last night. If we’d fucked any harder I’d have ended up circumcised.”
He gets Brian’s Australian twang note-perfect. His friends laugh sycophantically. Patrick chuckles too.
He steps forward and clasps Raoul by both shoulders, as if he’s congratulating him on the wittiness of his joke. Then, abruptly, he brings his head down on Raoul’s nose. Raoul crumples like a marionette and falls to the floor. Behind us, a woman gasps in shock.
Raoul, on his knees, salaams gently to the carpet. Blood and mucus drip from his nose.
“Do you want to see the second half?” Patrick says calmly to me. “Or would you rather leave?”
37
“Not a pleasant fellow,” he remarks when we’re outside. There’s a light summer drizzle, but Patrick seems not to notice.
“Actors can be so bitchy,” I agree shakily.
We start walking west. “What did he mean, by the way?” Patrick asks, as he glances around to scour the traffic for a cab.
“Which bit?”
“About you not working.”
“Oh—” I shrug. “I had this dumb idea I might try to become an actor. Raoul and his friends soon made me realize what a stupid ambition that was.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea. You need something to give your life direction. And you’d be good at it. You should check out the Theatre Program at Columbia. They do private coaching.” A cab appears and Patrick stops it with a gesture. “East Harlem,” he says to the driver, holding the door open for me.
“I can’t afford coaching,” I say once we’re seated and the driver’s pulling out into the traffic again.
“I’ll lend you the money.”
“Patrick, don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous? I can afford it. And then I’ll write my play, and you can star in it.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say. I’m getting angry now. “You don’t know anything about us. I could just disappear with your money—I could be a con artist. It happens.”
“You, a con artist?” He sounds amused. “I think I know everything I need to know about you, Claire. Trust, remember?”
“I’ll see about classes,” I mutter. “But I can’t take your money.”
We drive uptown in silence.
“What he said about that Australian guy—” I begin.
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Claire. Until you decide you want to be with me, who you sleep with is your own business.”
“Patrick, I want to explain.”
And I do, I really do. I have this almost irresistible urge to tell him everything.
Because I’m certain that when he finds out this is all some stupid sting, he’s going to feel utterly betrayed. That he’ll hate me. And it’s important to me that Patr
ick doesn’t hate me.
I open my mouth to say something that will stop that happening. Some hint or warning or promise—
Then I think of Frank and Kathryn, following us in an unmarked van. Listening. Relying on me.
Reluctantly, I drag myself back to the script.
“I think I told you I lost someone close to me.”
“Yes. Your teacher. Fairbank.”
“I’ve never really told you how he died.”
He nods. “I was waiting until you were ready to talk about it.”
“As well as being my teacher, he was married.” I stare out of the cab window at the wet blur of passing streets. “When it all came out about him and me, he was fired. His wife left him, and of course there wasn’t a prayer of him getting another job in teaching. He ended up…” I take a deep breath. “It was supposed to be a suicide pact. But I didn’t have the courage to go through with my side of it. And I haven’t managed to find the courage since.”
The tears are coming now, trickling down my cheeks. Not entirely fake tears. They’re tears of shame at the lies I’m telling. At the tawdriness of this stupid story.
The driver brakes suddenly, leaning on his horn, and swerves to change lanes. Patrick puts his arm around my shoulder to stop me falling off the seat. It feels good.
I could love this man, I realize. Instead, I’m lying to him.
“That’s why I dropped out of college and came to New York,” I say. “Ever since, I’ve felt like someone standing on the edge of a high diving board. Too scared to jump, too embarrassed to go back.”
Patrick, I could love you.
“The bastard,” Patrick says softly. “The despicable, cowardly, self-serving bastard. Seducing you—that’s bad enough. Making you go along with his pathetic sexual fantasies—that makes my blood boil, although you say you enjoyed it. But to lay the burden of his guilt on you as well—that’s just spineless.”
I look at him, astonished. “Is it?”
“Who could do a thing like that? If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”
He smiles and strokes my cheek. But I remember Raoul, crumpling to the carpet, and I don’t doubt he means it.
* * *
—
At my apartment building he gets out. For a moment I think he’s going to send the cab away and my heart leaps into my mouth. But then he stoops and says to the driver, “Just a minute.”
“So you’re not asking yourself up,” I observe shyly as he walks me to my door.
He studies me for a moment. Rain glints in his hair. “Did I ever tell you how the relationship between Baudelaire and his White Venus ended?”
I shake my head. “I know they slept together. And that it didn’t work out.”
Patrick nods. “He told her he preferred to remember her as a goddess, not a woman.”
I laugh. “I’ll tell you now, I’m hardly a goddess. Maybe a bit the opposite.”
“My point is, sex can be a test for any relationship. As Baudelaire’s friend Flaubert said, we should be wary of touching our idols, lest the gilt come off in our hands.” He reaches up and tucks a stray strand of hair back behind my ear. “So if I don’t ask myself up, Claire, it’s not because I don’t want to. Just that I’ll wait to be invited.” He leaves a pause. When I don’t say anything, he smiles. “For now, then, I’ll content myself with this.” He leans in and kisses me.
If we were in a movie, I think, this would be the climactic moment, the moment when the camera would pull up and away and the credits would start to roll. The lovers, embracing, in the New York night. The rain making everything shiny and new and cinematic: the city lights, the waiting yellow cab, the sappy music coming from the cab’s radio. The woman fitting her body to the man’s, kissing him back ever more deeply. I want you.
38
“Look, when I was working for Henry I could get any man to do or say anything I wanted within about five minutes,” I argue. “Yet Patrick still hasn’t said one thing that incriminates him.”
“Claire makes a good point,” Frank says quietly.
It’s the next morning, and we’re debating what to do next. Frank looks tired. The strain of surveillance is taking its toll. Only Kathryn is as full of restless energy as ever, a terrier eager for the kill.
She shrugs. “I never said it would be quick. Or easy.”
“But you said we’d get something,” I point out. “And that if we didn’t, we’d stop the operation.”
“I didn’t mean after just a few meetings. If we end it now, we’ll never know if a little more patience would have meant we succeeded.” She looks at Frank. “I’ve been working on these killings for seven years, Frank. The murders of at least eight women. I’m not going to walk away now just because the actress has cold feet.” The way she says actress drips with scorn.
“It’s not cold feet,” I retort. “I just don’t know what we’re trying to prove anymore. Or where else we can go with it.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“I’m going to have to sleep with him, aren’t I?” I say.
They both react at the same time.
FRANK DURBAN
KATHRYN LATHAM
No way!
Absolutely not.
ME
That was the clue he gave me—when he was talking about how Baudelaire slept with his White Venus. He said it was like a test. I think he meant, that’s when you’ll get to see the real Patrick Fogler.
KATHRYN
That’s not how I read it.
FRANK
It’s crossing a red line. From psychological entrapment to honey trap.
ME
But then we’d know the truth. Whether he’s a killer or—or just a nice guy grieving for his dead wife.
Kathryn stares at me.
KATHRYN
My God—you think he’s innocent, don’t you? You actually believe every word he’s saying! Claire, as your handler—
ME
My handler? I’m not a fucking dog.
KATHRYN
As your handler, the minute I think you’re starting to believe your own lines is the minute I put a stop to this. And as for sleeping with him—forget it.
For a moment we glare at each other, each daring the other to blink. Then:
ME
Fuck you.
I go into the bedroom, slamming the door. Behind me I hear Frank’s voice.
FRANK
Star temperament. Maybe I should talk to her.
KATHRYN
She’s got you wrapped around her little finger, hasn’t she?
INT. THE APARTMENT—BEDROOM—CONTINUOUS
I’m listening through the closed door.
FRANK’S VOICE
What’s that supposed to mean?
KATHRYN’S VOICE
Come on, Frank. She knows exactly how to manipulate men like you. She’s been doing it all her life.
I go over to the mirror and stare at my reflection. In the glass, my character stares right back at me, unblinking. She touches the microphone necklace. I imagine her ripping it off in one violent, extravagant gesture. Turning and hurling it at the wall, where it shatters. Screaming that we’ve gotten Patrick all wrong. That he’s no more a killer than Frank is. As a scene, it would play beautifully. It would be so satisfying. So right. But I don’t do it.
39
That night, I walk the streets of New York, thinking.
I remember when I had to do a sex scene for Tumult. The director talked us through it, rehearsed it fully clothed, reduced the crew to make us feel as comfortable as possible. The irony was, Laurence and I were already sleeping together by then.
I’d wanted to do it for real in the movie, as a dar
e, but Laurence wouldn’t. Even so, it was after filming that scene the rumors about our incredible on-screen chemistry began. That was when he’d started to get nervous. In fact—it occurs to me now—maybe it was no coincidence his wife and kids turned up soon after. Maybe that was just his cowardly way of extricating himself from our relationship. He’d been looking to keep himself amused in a foreign country. Instead, the British teenager he’d picked was turning clingy and intense.
I hadn’t minded taking my clothes off in front of the camera, though. Quite the reverse. Compared with Dan Day-Lewis living in a wheelchair to play the part of a paraplegic, it was nothing. But it was proof I was committed, that I’d give the role everything I had.
For the same reason, I don’t really buy Kathryn’s objections to me sleeping with Patrick now. She knew I was attracted to him when we started, and she ruthlessly used that for her operation. She can hardly set things up the way she has and then bleat that it mustn’t get sexual.
No, the main reason I’m hesitating is that I have a horrible feeling that if I do sleep with him, it’ll only deepen his feelings for me. That I’ll inadvertently ensnare him even further in Dr. Latham’s web.
That, and a sense that our first night together really shouldn’t be shared with Frank, Kathryn, and a dozen tiny cameras.
But there are many voices in my head, and they don’t all agree.
KATHRYN LATHAM
This is what you do, Claire. You lose sight of the difference between the script and reality. That’s why you need me to tell you what to do.
MARCIE