by JP Delaney
But it’s enough. We’re allies now. And maybe even friends.
72
I’m jogging around Morningside Park next afternoon, thinking about that morning’s rehearsal, when I have a familiar feeling. It’s a feeling every actor has when they’re on stage: the sense of being watched.
Which is weird, because out here, there must be a dozen pairs of eyes on me at any time, and I don’t usually feel like that. I shake my head and carry on.
As I do another circuit, I get the same feeling again. And in exactly the same part of the park. Involuntarily, the hairs lift on the back of my neck.
I stop and look up. High above me, on the steps leading down from the Harlem side, stands a figure.
Frank Durban.
At least, I’m pretty sure it’s him. He’s too far away to make him out clearly—it’s more the way he’s standing, the way he always stands: his big body braced against the balustrade, one shoulder turned in as if it aches.
For a long moment I don’t move. Then I sprint toward him, dodging recklessly through the trees, jumping over a dog leash that threatens to entangle my feet. There are four flights of steps, zigzagging up the steep incline, and I power up them, my legs and lungs burning—
There’s no one there. I stop, panting, and look around.
Maybe I imagined it.
* * *
—
All the way back to the apartment I keep turning around suddenly. But no one drops to one knee to do up a shoelace, or ducks into a doorway, or any of the other things you see in movies.
By the time I get home I’ve convinced myself I did imagine it. After all, why would Frank be interested in me now? Given he’s on sick leave, and Kathryn’s vanished, and Patrick is suing the NYPD—
I stop, brought up sharp by the thought that’s just crashed into my head.
What if none of that’s true?
I only have Patrick’s word for it that he’s suing anyone. Frank’s sick leave could be a cover story to explain his absence on the operation. And Kathryn…She may have vanished, but she’s out there somewhere. I can feel it. Manipulating me. Playing her games.
With a sudden lurch of nausea, I realize what’s really happened here. I’ve walked right back into their trap. Sending that desperate email to Patrick from Greenridge. I can just imagine Kathryn reading it, tapping her lips thoughtfully with her pen.
KATHRYN
It seems the operation may not be dead after all.
FRANK
You’re not suggesting we continue to use Fogler? No way Claire will trust him now.
KATHRYN
Why not? It’s clear from this she’s still obsessed with him. What if he swans into Greenridge as her knight in shining armor?
FRANK
It’ll never work. She’s paranoid at the best of times.
KATHRYN
So we need something to distract her with. Something so tempting, she’ll take any risks to achieve it. What does Claire Wright want more than anything else in the world?
FRANK
You’re the shrink.
KATHRYN
An audience, Frank.
The play.
Just why did Patrick suddenly get a burning desire to write his play? Out of love for me? Or was it simply the biggest, shiniest lure Kathryn could think of?
A brilliant, provocative role, written especially for me. And a unique, almost unbelievable opportunity: the chance to play it on a New York stage, alongside a professional cast.
Unbelievable…But like a fool I’d allowed myself to believe it.
I unlock the apartment door and step inside. “Patrick?”
There’s no reply. But the quality of the silence seems different now. It may only be in my own head, but it feels like this place is listening to me.
I go into the bathroom and crouch by the washstand, feeling up the back of the porcelain like a cop frisking a suspect’s legs. Looking for wires.
Nothing.
Feverishly I check the laundry cupboard. I pull out all the neatly folded towels, tossing them on the floor, but there’s nothing there, either. No junction box squatting like some malevolent spider, connected by its web to a multitude of evil babies all around the apartment.
But, I realize, they wouldn’t have made the mistake of putting wires anywhere I’d looked before.
I unscrew the light fittings one by one. Nothing. Nothing in the kitchen that I can find, either. Or in the master bedroom. Or the hall.
I glance at my phone where it lies on the coffee table. Of course. These days they can listen to you through the microphone on your smartphone. It’s as easy as downloading an app, and you never even know they’re doing it.
73
By the time Patrick returns I’ve tidied up. The towels and sheets are back in the cupboard, neatly folded, the light fittings are reassembled, and I’m on the couch, learning lines.
“Hey,” he says, coming over to kiss me. “How was today’s rehearsal?”
“Pretty good,” I say lightly. “Aidan talked about some possible inspirations. We watched some old footage of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.”
“The one that provoked a riot?”
I nod. “And we talked about whether or not art has a duty to self-censor. Things like, is it okay to show a suicide on stage if you might encourage someone in the audience to copy it.” In most of these discussions, Laurence and Nyasha ended up on opposite sides, Nyasha being of the view that we all have to take responsibility for our actions, Laurence arguing we can’t be held accountable for what other people do.
“It sounds very like one of my first-year seminars,” Patrick says with a sigh. I watch as he goes to the kitchen area and starts taking ingredients out of cupboards.
“A lot of directors start like that. We’ll move on to trust games next.”
“Trust games,” he repeats, glancing over at me with a smile. “You and I played some of those, as I recall.”
“So we did. All suggested by Kathryn, I suppose?”
He nods.
“I saw Frank Durban today,” I add casually.
“Frank? Where?” Patrick looks startled.
“Morningside Park. He was watching me run.”
Patrick frowns. “That doesn’t seem very likely.”
“Well, I definitely saw him.”
“How close was he?”
“Close enough,” I answer, watching him carefully. If they’ve spoken about this, Frank would have played it down.
FRANK
She wasn’t near enough to get a good look. Just tell her she must have been mistaken.
“How strange,” Patrick says, turning back to the fridge. “I guess the operation must be preying on his mind. What with the lawsuit and everything.” He takes some tarragon out and starts chopping.
“Yes, how’s that going?” I reply, equally casual.
“Like anything to do with the law, slow.” He pauses, knife in hand. “Incidentally, Claire, my lawyer wants Dr. Felix to write a report on your mental health. Will that be okay?”
“Of course.”
“It’s obviously important to emphasize how much distress the NYPD caused you. But we should probably try to downplay any suggestion of paranoia.”
“Oh, very clever,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Your lawyer,” I explain. “It’s very clever of him to think of that.”
“Well, that is what I pay him for.” Patrick’s frowning. “Is everything all right, Claire?”
“I know you’re still working for the police,” I say bluntly.
“What?” He looks genuinely baffled.
“The play. You wrote it as bait. To hook me in.”
Just for an instant, he looks wary.
<
br /> “It was Kathryn’s idea, wasn’t it?” I persist. “She thought I’d do anything for a role like that. And I have to admit, she was right.” Scooping up my phone, I say, “Hear that, Kathryn? You were right.”
“Claire,” Patrick says, concerned, putting down his knife and coming over. “Claire. What’s going on? You said before that you missed our games. Is that what this is—a game? Are you inventing something that isn’t there, just to have more drama in your life? Or is it possible you genuinely believe this nonsense? Because frankly, you’re scaring me.” He takes a breath. “Yes, I wrote the play as bait—in one sense, anyway. I wrote it because I wanted you. Back here, with me. It was the only thing I could think of that would impress you. That’s all.”
Oh, Patrick, Patrick, I think. Even your beautiful name is slippery. Patrick the hat trick. Tricky Patricky. While I am Claire, lighter than air.
“Prove you’re not working with them,” I say.
“Dammit, Claire. How can I possibly prove a negative?” His face is tense with anger.
“I don’t know,” I say. “And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? How do we ever trust each other again, when we both know how good we are at lying?”
74
In rehearsal, we move on to bonding games. The Wall Game, where you run at the wall blindfolded and rely on your fellow actors to catch you. Eye Contact, where you pair off and stare into each other’s eyes with a look that has to flip among friendship, lust, and loathing.
Staring into Laurence’s eyes, I think how incredible it is that he has no idea what I really think of him now.
And the Clay Game, in which one actor plays a statue and another has to sculpt them—moving their limbs, adjusting their expression—to display a particular emotion that the statue hasn’t been told. Sculpting Nyasha to fit the word languid, I marvel at the way I can change the whole balance of her body with a simple push on her shoulder. She’s like some finely made machine, everything in perfect counterbalance.
With Laurence, asked to model him into the word pride, all I can think of is to adjust his shoulders so he stands up straighter and lift his chin to make him more imposing. I see Nyasha smile at how absurd he looks.
Laurence grins back at her, and I realize he thought she was flirting. I feel a stab of anger. Not because of him, but because of her.
That’s all I need, I think. A girl-crush on my costar. As if things aren’t complicated enough.
* * *
—
At last we come to the text, and exploring our characters. One of the things that first drew me to the part was Apollonie’s mysteriousness, the way the play never quite tells us what she’s thinking. But that doesn’t work in rehearsal. I have to know what she’s thinking, or I can’t make her convincing.
But equally, she might be lying to herself. Those are always the most interesting characters: the ones who deceive themselves. Because sooner or later, the deception always falls apart.
“I tell myself I want to believe in his goodness, while all the time I’m really being attracted by his darkness,” I tell Aidan. “I’m like a moth being drawn to his flame, convincing myself it won’t burn me because the alternative—pulling away—would be so disappointing.”
He nods. “That works for me.”
Later, when I tell Patrick this, he says, “Are we talking about the play, still? Or us?”
“The play is us. So to act it truthfully, I have to act the truth about us. And really, that’s the sexiest thing of all, isn’t it? Knowing the truth about someone.” I hesitate. “And that’s why, if you’re still working for the police, you have to tell me.”
“Claire,” he says wearily, taking my hand. “This is my fault. I’ve pushed you into performing too soon. While you’re still fragile. It’s not too late to drop out. You have an understudy, after all. You could step aside and let her take over.”
“I’m not fragile,” I retort. “I’m the very opposite of fragile. And I’m certainly not stepping aside.”
* * *
—
At my weekly session with Dr. Felix, he brings it up.
“Patrick called me. He’s worried about you.”
I shrug. “I know.”
“He thinks your suspicion of him is a sign you’re becoming unwell again.”
“So he says.”
“What do you think, Claire?”
“I think it’s like that old T-shirt slogan, It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you. I’m just trying to decide if they are. Out to get me, I mean. If it turns out they’re not, I’ll be fine.”
He waits for me to expand on that. When I don’t, he tries a different tack. “You have a significant professional challenge on the horizon, I understand.”
“The play? Sure do.”
“It’s just possible you came off Dr. Banner’s drug regime a little sooner than was strictly advisable. Of course, I had no idea at the time you’d be putting yourself under so much pressure…Perhaps we should think about reinstating some of those meds. At a much lower dosage, of course.”
The question flashes into my mind, unbidden. Is Dr. Felix in on it too?
I shake my head. “I need all my wits about me right now. And I certainly can’t risk getting pimples.”
“Very well,” he says uneasily. “In that case, why don’t we go through your anxieties one by one, and see if we can unpick them?”
75
That evening, I tell Patrick I’m sorry.
“I just got a bit carried away with the idea you might be lying to me. But having talked to Dr. Felix, I realize I was overreacting.”
“So we’re good? You don’t feel that way anymore?”
“No.”
“Well, thank God, Claire. For a while there, you had me really worried.”
* * *
—
Patrick is visibly more relaxed now that I’ve cleared the air. We go to bed early and start to make love. I don’t actually say I’m going to make it up to you, but I do all the things I know he likes. That all men like, actually: Patrick’s tastes are nothing if not conventional. I kiss him all over, pleasuring him for a while, then push him down and climb on top of him. But then I stop.
“Patrick,” I say quietly, “there’s something I have to tell you.”
“What?” he says, smiling up at me.
“I’m tired of keeping it a secret,” I tell him. “I killed her. I killed Stella.”
76
For an endless moment he stares at me, stunned. “What is this?” he says at last, his voice hoarse with shock. “What are you saying, Claire?”
“I needed the money. I was broke. Jess was going to throw me out of her apartment and I had to pay for my acting classes…We’d argued, Stella and I, about how she was trying to blackmail you. And then, later that night, I decided she should be paying me a whole lot more than four hundred dollars, if that was what she was doing.”
INT. LEXINGTON HOTEL, CORRIDOR—NIGHT
Stella opens the door to her suite, a glass in her hand. She’s swaying.
STELLA
Oh, it’s you. The girl who couldn’t pick up my husband. What do you want?
ME
We shouldn’t do this out here.
INT. LEXINGTON HOTEL, TERRACE SUITE—NIGHT
ME
…You used me to try to blackmail your husband. And if he hadn’t been such an honorable guy, you’d have succeeded. Either way, that’s making me an accessory to a crime. I want another two thousand dollars.
STELLA
Or?
ME
Or I’ll tell him exactly what you did.
STELLA
You little fool. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself mixed up with. You’d better get out of here before I call the manager.
ME
Get away from that phone.
She turns—and sees I’ve pulled Jess’s gun on her.
STELLA
What the—
ME
Turn around and face the wall. Wait—pass me that overnight bag first.
“I didn’t mean to kill her,” I conclude. “That part was an accident. She grabbed the gun when I took the bag from her and I had to hit her with something to make her let go. But once she was dead, there was no way I was going to leave without her money.” I look at him. “Patrick, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. But I’m not sorry it happened, because then I met you. Can you forgive me?”
He’s still staring at me incredulously. Neither of us moves, a frozen tableau. Then I glance at my phone, on the nightstand by the bed.
I see the realization dawn in his eyes.
“Oh Christ,” he says disbelievingly. “You just said that to see if I was telling the truth, didn’t you? To see if the cops broke in and hauled you away. Well, they’re not going to, Claire. There are no cops. Because I have nothing to do with them anymore.”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like this—”
“Stop it,” he says. “Stop this now.” His expression is fierce. “You’ve gone too far.”
“I had to know,” I say in a small voice. “I had to know for sure. Please understand, Patrick. It was the only way I could think of to prove once and for all that you’re not still working for them—”