by JP Delaney
You did one unprofessional thing and it screwed up your career. And now here you are again, making the same stupid mistake—falling in love with your costar. I’m done representing you.
FRANK DURBAN
Remember what Kathryn said, Claire? This is like bomb disposal. Touch the wrong wire and—boom.
But even bomb disposal teams, I think, when they find a suspect package, don’t always bother fiddling about with wires. Sometimes they just jump right in and blow the whole thing up. The best solutions are often the bluntest.
One thing Kathryn definitely is right about, though: I’m too involved, and in a way I never anticipated. Looking back, I can’t even tell when my allegiances got so muddled.
But if I pull out, I’ll lose Patrick, and that’s something I don’t want to do.
40
INT. BASEMENT BAR—NIGHT
Patrick and I are back in the same candlelit bar we went to that first evening. We’re on our second bottle of wine.
ME
Stella too?
PATRICK
I loved her. We were married for four years, after all. But now…I’m not sad she’s dead. That’s not a nice thing to say, is it? But it’s true. Because, if she hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be here with you.
ME
Don’t you ever wonder who killed her?
PATRICK
All the time. But the police are so incompetent, I doubt we’ll ever know.
He pulls out a package—a thin, square box—and places it on the table.
PATRICK
Open it.
I do as he says. Inside is a necklace—a gorgeous, intricate torque made of silver.
ME
It’s beautiful.
Something occurs to me.
ME
Was it hers?
PATRICK
She wore it, sometimes. But now it’s yours. Put it on.
ME
But—my God, Patrick. It must be worth a fortune.
PATRICK
That’s why I want you to have it. You won’t mind taking off that one you always wear?
ME
This?
I touch Frank’s faux-gilt monstrosity.
ME
I honestly won’t mind if I never see this again.
But then I hesitate. Does taking off the microphone mean they won’t be able to hear us? Or will it be sensitive enough to pick up what we’re saying from my bag?
Patrick mistakes my hesitation for something else.
PATRICK
I want you to have it, Claire.
I make a decision.
ME
Help me, would you?
I lean my head forward, baring my neck for him. As he’s swapping the necklaces over, I make another decision too.
ME
Can we go to your apartment? Tonight, I mean?
PATRICK
Why? Yours is hardly far away.
INT. SURVEILLANCE VAN—NIGHT
Grimacing, Frank twiddles knobs to get sound from the microphone, muffled now that it’s in my bag.
MY VOICE (FAINTLY)
I don’t feel comfortable in mine.
FRANK DURBAN
(under his breath)
Shit!
I can picture the scene all too easily. And I find I really don’t care.
INT. PATRICK’S APARTMENT—NIGHT
Patrick lives in a beautiful modern apartment overlooking the cathedral in Morningside Heights, filled with Turkish rugs, books, and European art. I wander around, looking at everything, while he fixes us drinks.
I know I should really talk this through some more with Frank and Kathryn. But I don’t want to. I want to do it now, right away: to commit, to leap before I’ve looked.
Don’t think. Act.
Patrick turns around—and sees I’ve undone my shirt. I’ve taken off my bra.
PATRICK
I thought you weren’t ready for that.
ME
So did I.
I step toward him.
ME
(whispering)
Do whatever you want with me, Patrick.
PATRICK
(considering)
Oh, I will.
He slips his hand inside my shirt, sliding it up to cup my breast, then tugs gently on my nipple, making me gasp. He pulls harder, so I’m forced to walk with him as he steps backward into the bedroom.
INT. PATRICK’S APARTMENT, BEDROOM—CONTINUOUS
PATRICK
This is what I want, Claire.
He kisses me gently.
INT. PATRICK’S APARTMENT, BEDROOM—A LITTLE LATER
We’re making love on the bed. Passionately, fiercely—but tenderly, without any hint of violence.
41
“That was unbelievably stupid. Not to mention risky,” Kathryn rages before I’ve even gotten the door to the apartment all the way open.
Frank’s face is gray with fatigue. They’ve clearly waited up for me all night.
“Good morning,” I reply politely. “How did you sleep, Claire? Very well, thank you. Anyway, it was fine, wasn’t it? Which is yet more proof you’ve read this situation all wrong.”
“What—you think a sociopath can’t fake vanilla sex? Haven’t you been listening to a single thing I’ve been telling you?”
“Sociopath? Really? Because nothing he did or said last night—”
“He’s hardly going to confess with your pussy rammed into his mouth,” she snaps.
I’m not letting her get away with that. “Is that a note of jealousy I detect, Dr. Latham?”
“Ladies,” Frank says desperately. “Please.”
Kathryn takes a deep breath. “Right. This has happened now. The question is, how do we salvage something from the situation?”
“What do you suggest?” he asks.
She thinks for a moment. “Next time, you need to persuade him to hurt you,” she says to me. “Tell him how much you want it. That should test his self-control.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—”
“And then I would be jealous. Frankly, I’d enjoy beating the hell out of you myself.”
“When did you get to be so paranoid about people?” I ask her, my voice rising. “So untrusting?”
She sighs ostentatiously. “Oh, Claire. Grow up. You’re not that adolescent fighting with your foster parents anymore. This is real.”
“He isn’t a killer,” I insist. “Don’t you see—you’re the one with the obsession. You’re the one who can’t see further than your own nose. You’re the one who’s trying to twist the facts to fit your stupid pet theory, over and over. All that stuff about the murders being based on poems—it’s so tenuous, it’s laughable. And as for the bullshit about so-called sexual deviance, it’s like you’re living in another century. People experiment sometimes—get over it. Patrick is actually one of the gentlest, most considerate men I’ve ever slept with.”
“Well, I may not have your extensive experience,” she flings back. “But I do happen to have studied serial killers. They have a lifetime’s experience of pretending to be normal. They excel at faking it—it’s what they do, day in, day out. Most of the ones I’ve met are better actors than you’ll ever be.”
“Fuck you,” I say furiously, lunging at her.
Effortlessly, Frank raises an arm, blocking my way. “That may have been too much, Kathryn,” he mutters.
She ignores him, her blue eyes boring into mine, daring me to come at her again.
“I’m going to take a shower now,” I say coldly. “I’d like you both to leave.” I turn and walk into the bathroom without a backward glance.
42
But the next night, when I’m with Patrick again and we’re undressing each other, I find myself pulling the belt from his trousers and offering it to him.
“You can whip me if you want,” I say tentatively.
He takes the belt, flexing it between his hands, testing its suppleness. “And if I don’t want? Is that acceptable too?”
“Of course.”
“Then that’s what I choose.” He tosses the belt to one side.
“Patrick…” I say.
“Yes?”
“Suppose I told you I was never really into all that stuff I talked about? That I was just trying to…I don’t know, shock you or something?”
He smiles. “I’d say, thank you for being honest with me now. Were you trying to shock me?”
“Something like that,” I mumble. “Impress you, maybe.”
“Claire Wright, you’re adorable, did you know that?”
“Do you believe in fate, Patrick?”
“What sort of fate?”
“The sort that says, whatever either of us has done to get to this point doesn’t matter. It was just something that had to happen. We’re here now. And that’s all that counts. Because it was always meant to be.”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “I don’t believe in that kind of fate, no. Only coincidence. Which of course I will be eternally grateful to, for bringing us together.”
* * *
—
Later, we lie entangled on the floor, sharing wine amid the debris of our clothes.
“Claire…There’s something I have to say to you,” he says softly. “Something important…You know the other day, we were talking about Stella?”
Involuntarily, I freeze. Then all those relaxation and centering exercises come into play.
“Yes?” I say, as casually as I can.
He touches my nipple curiously, squeezing it gently, turning it this way and that, as if it were a radio he has to tune to the precise, elusive wavelength he requires. “If Stella’s death has taught me anything, it’s a horror of secrets.”
Oh no.
“Do you have a secret, Patrick?”
I say it to him, but also to the microphone in my bag, just a few feet away.
“Yes,” he says. “Just one. Something I need to confess.”
The way he says it, so solemn and hesitant, tells me this is something big, something that really matters. He even seems nervous. And Patrick is never nervous.
Was Kathryn right after all? Have I got this all wrong?
I wait, as I’ve been taught. Silence is the best interrogator. My heart is thudding in my rib cage. He must be able to feel it through the tips of his fingers.
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says.
43
“Today we’re going to work on two of the most important tools in the actor’s repertoire, sense memory and affective memory. Over the years, affective memory in particular has acquired a certain mystique in our profession. But really it just means reaching into your past, remembering some emotion or event, and making it come alive for you so you can bring its truthfulness to the role you’re playing now. Let me give you an example of why we need to do that.”
Paul chooses Leon, a tall, lanky midwesterner, and asks him to act losing his wallet. We all watch as Leon—who isn’t one of the most talented students in the group—mimes patting his pockets, then looks worried, then becomes more and more frantic until he’s almost pulling out his hair.
“Okay,” Paul says at last. “Now let’s try something else. Leon, when you hung your jacket up earlier, I actually took your wallet out and hid it somewhere in this room. And I’m not going to give it back. You have to find it.”
Leon blinks. “My MetroCard’s in that wallet.”
“I know,” Paul says. “And about eighty dollars. And a picture of your girlfriend. And your credit cards. Better start looking.”
“Shit,” Leon says disbelievingly.
Visibly annoyed, he goes to the tables at the side of the room and starts to rummage through our bags, tipping the contents onto the floor before moving on to the next bag. His neck is a deep, angry red.
Gradually, as he realizes it isn’t going to be anywhere obvious, his searching becomes more methodical. Occasionally he turns and shoots Paul a hostile stare.
“Okay,” Paul says. “That’s enough.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out Leon’s wallet. “Here.”
“What the fuck—” Leon begins.
Paul ignores him. “I don’t need to tell you which of those two performances was more real,” he says to us. “But why? First, of course, it’s because only when the imagination truly believes the situation is genuine that the truth of it gets conveyed to the audience. But it’s more than that. We all sensed, the second time, that Leon had an objective, a concrete purpose, and therefore an emotion that was attached to it. He knew if he didn’t find his wallet, he’d have to walk home. And you could all sense his anger at being manipulated by me, just to make a point in class.”
A few people laugh. “Screw you,” Leon snarls.
There’s a dangerous silence. Paul turns to him. “What did you say?”
Leon’s face is now also very red. “Screw you. And screw your fucking mind games. It’s all just a power trip to you. You have your favorites and you tell them they’re wonderful. Like her.” He stabs a finger at me. “The rest of us might as well not be here.”
“I’d praise you too, if you put an iota of effort in,” Paul says calmly. “But you don’t. It’s just another class to you, isn’t it? Another grade to count toward your degree.”
“I’ll get a better job than yours, anyway,” Leon jeers. “If you’re so hot, how come you aren’t famous? It’s like they say. Those that can’t do, teach.” He grabs his jacket. “Fuck you. I’m out.”
When he’s gone, Paul says: “Good. A class like this doesn’t need deadwood. Josh, why don’t you show us searching for your keys?”
* * *
—
Later, Paul explains how we have to relax, then remember a situation with a strong sensory input.
He starts us with some easy ones. A situation where we ate something really delicious. And a situation where something made us sick.
I close my eyes and remember a breakfast I ate a couple of months back. I’d been out all night, I hadn’t eaten for a whole day, and although I couldn’t really afford it, the smell of frying bacon had drawn me in to a neighborhood diner. I picture myself sitting at the booth, the leather warm under my legs, a thick white mug of steaming coffee in my hand, as the waitress puts down a plate of poached, runny eggs, still damp from the pan, and crisp, brittle bacon…
My mouth’s watering. That’s the goal, Paul’s told us. When your body tells you it’s real, it is.
And then I think about the time I bought some scallops that were being sold off cheap at the end of the day, and forgot to put them in the fridge. How I ate them next day anyway, and knew within seconds I shouldn’t have. Involuntarily, I start to gag.
“Okay,” Paul says at last. “Now let’s add in an emotion. We’ll start with happiness.”
That’s an easy one, of course. I only have to think of last night and a big smile spreads over my face.
Patrick, me too. I feel the same about you.
This is what I’ve been searching for ever since I was a child, I realize. Unconditional love. Complete acceptance.
In a relationship that can’t possibly have any sort of a future. But I’m not going to think about that. I’m not.
Focus on the happiness.
“Good, Claire,” Paul says as he passes me. “That’s very good.”
* * *
—
After class is over, Paul pulls me aside.
�
�What Leon said earlier,” he begins. “There may be some truth to it. I do see talent in you, Claire.”
I start to stammer my thanks, but he holds up his hand.
“But I also see something I’ve seen before in certain students—a tendency to rely on that talent. The really good actors know when to let go of technique. There’s a reason we talk about getting in touch with your feelings—the best actors have something still and calm at their center. A kind of integrity. Not a hollow, shapeshifting core. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nod.
“Affective memory can help with that, if you let it,” he adds. “If you let it take you to where your feelings really are. For some, those are pretty dark places, Claire. But you still have to go there.”
The look he gives me is almost sympathetic.
44
“We need to reset this,” Kathryn Latham says.
We’re all three of us getting sick to death of one another, of being forced to spend so many long hours in one another’s company. Like a play that’s gone on too long, given too many matinees; one of those hackneyed murder mysteries that just keeps on selling out, year after year. I’ve come to like Frank, but I wish he’d stand up to Kathryn more. Kathryn I just don’t get at all. Her desire to catch Patrick out is so overwhelming, so focused, it blots out every other aspect of her personality.