Acting Up

by Adele Buck

  Cath walked toward her apartment, the small cafés and restaurants on Main Street glowing with soft light. Glancing in one large plate glass window, she saw Andrea sitting at a bar. Cath paused on the sidewalk for a moment, bouncing on her toes, considering. Making a sudden decision, she pulled open the door of the restaurant and walked in.

  Boosting her hip onto a stool next to the costume shop manager, Cath dropped her shopping bags to the floor. “Evening, Andrea.”

  Andrea smiled at Cath, long scarlet fingernails lightly drumming the surface of the bar. “Hey there. How’d the first day of rehearsals go?”

  Cath shrugged. “Not great, not terrible. First day. You know how it goes.”

  “Right. I heard the situation between Paul and our leading lady was a bit of a horror show.”

  If you already know, why did you ask me? Cath nearly shook her head. Gossip. The drug of choice of theater people. The bartender appeared before Cath, giving her room to consider how to respond to Andrea’s blunt statement. She ordered a glass of white wine and glanced sideways at the costume shop supervisor who was looking at her, long fingers turning the stem of her martini glass, an expectant expression on her face.

  “Yeah, well, Susan can be a handful.” Cath took her glass from the bartender and sipped.

  Andrea let the statement hang in the air long enough to make Cath uncomfortable before she said, “I guess you’d know. Paul told me you guys know her from way back?”

  “We all went to college together,” Cath said, her eyes roving over the backlit bottles on the glass shelves behind the bar.

  “No friend like an old friend,” Andrea said cryptically, sipping her drink.

  Cath almost laughed at how little the term “friend” would apply to her relationship with Susan. “What exactly are you driving at?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out if I am going to have to recut a bunch of costumes for a new actress,” Andrea said, tipping the dregs of her drink back and signaling for another.

  “You mean do I think Paul’s going to fire her? I doubt it. My life can’t possibly get that easy.” Cath took another drink and set her glass down with precision on the little cardboard coaster in front of her.

  Andrea’s laugh was a cynical bark. “Catherine, get real. Paul would fire her in a heartbeat if you said the word.”

  Cath choked on her wine. Andrea pounded on her back as Cath coughed and dabbed at her mouth with a cocktail napkin. When she was breathing more easily again, she inhaled deeply and looked at Andrea with watering eyes, trying to assess the underlying meaning of her words. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Which single-syllable word didn’t you understand?”

  “Andrea, I think you have the wrong idea. Paul and I have a division of labor and expertise. He only defers to me on practical decisions. Not artistic ones.”

  “Hiring a professional troublemaker by mistake doesn’t count as a practical decision?”

  “He didn’t hire her by mistake,” Cath said darkly.

  Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. The storm had yet to break, and his sinuses were about to explode. Or implode. Either way, it hurt. He kept listening for the sound of the front door opening, of Cath’s footsteps in the hall, continuing up the stairs to her apartment.

  Her tiny studio was mostly over his bedroom. When they first arrived in Churchill, it had been almost cozy, hearing her moving around over him. So many years of working together, of occasionally living alongside one another in crappy little rentals in strange towns. Cath’s habits were as familiar to him as his own. Under normal circumstances, the sounds of her going about her routine were soothing to Paul.

  But now…with his reawakened awareness of her, the idea of her moving about in her own space was the opposite of soothing. To have her a floor above him was teasing. Unbearable.

  Scrubbing his hand across his face, Paul got up and moved to the tiny kitchen, briefly debating the merits of tea or coffee. Filling the kettle, he put it on to boil, grabbing a box of herbal tea bags from a high cupboard.

  The memory of Cath laughing until she almost cried at a line from a Buffy rerun entered his brain. Tea is soothing; I wish to be tense.

  Paul was sick of tension.

  Tea it was.

  Dammit where was she, anyway?

  Andrea’s deep laugh boomed into the bar. “Honey, I know Paul didn’t hire Susan by mistake. The woman is a two-time Drama Desk nominee. My only question is why you let him.”

  Cath looked at Andrea, stunned. “I don’t know where you get the idea that I have that much—or any—control over Paul’s casting decisions. But I don’t.” With a swift pang of guilt, she suppressed the memory of him granting her veto power over casting Susan. At the time, she had suspected it was merely a diplomatic sop, that he didn’t mean it. But what if he had?

  It was too late now.

  Andrea stirred her martini with a toothpick stacked with olives. Pulling the toothpick out, she pulled an olive off with her teeth, a gradual smile spreading across her face.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Cath broke. “What?”

  Andrea’s large brown eyes swiveled towards Cath. Swirling the remaining olives in her drink, she pushed the glass aside for the moment. “Honey. You and Paul…”

  Cath waited for Andrea to continue, but the other woman merely looked at her, her expression considering. “Me and Paul…What?”

  Andrea paused, considering. “What do you think is the real situation here?”

  Bewildered, Cath said, “I…I don’t know.”

  Nodding, Andrea picked up her drink and took a sip. “You’ve known and worked with Paul for, what—ten years?”

  “Fourteen, counting college.”

  Andrea nodded. “And yet with all that experience with him…all those years together, and you think this is the best you two can do?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m at a loss. Am I supposed to be seeing a solution here?” Cath blinked, bewildered.

  Turning to face Cath fully, Andrea pointed her bare toothpick at Cath’s face. “Look, I don’t have answers. I am not your mystical oracle. I’m just a woman who wants to do her job and go home. I don’t know what’s going on with you and Paul and why Susan—with supreme irony, given the name of the play—is the catalyst. But I will say this: The rest of us are depending on you two. Figure. Your. Shit. Out.”

  Cath took a deep breath and nodded again. She should have realized how fast word would spread about the disastrous rehearsal, seen the obvious repercussions it would have with the rest of the production staff, the nervousness it was bound to generate. She was so used to her relationship with Paul being easy that she had failed to think about the fish bowl that they lived in, the constant observation of the rest of the cast and crew who were relying on them, looking to them for stability. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and nearly groaned in frustration.

  Paul was almost dozing over his script when he heard the front door close. Head jerking up, he rose from the table and almost ran to the door of his apartment. Flinging it open, he saw Cath in the building’s grubby foyer. She looked startled and preoccupied.

  “Um. Hi.” Cath fidgeted with a bunch of shopping bags dangling from her fingers. Her cheeks flushed pink as she looked from him to her hands.

  “Hi. You okay?” Paul felt like an idiot, standing in the doorway to his apartment like some sort of crazy stalker. Was he a crazy stalker for listening for Cath to come home? No. He was just her best friend. He was worried about her.

  Wasn’t that what a crazy stalker would say?

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Just did some shopping. Had a drink with Andrea.” Cath hefted the bags. “Going to go to sleep now. Night, Paul.” Cath turned to climb the stairs and Paul followed her progress until she was out of sight.

  Thunder boomed in the distance.

  Chapter 6

  Cath considered her reflection in the mirror, the morning sunlight all too bright in her tiny bathroom. Her face showed ample evidence of th
e restless night she had spent. Of course, hers probably paled in comparison to Paul’s night. The storm must have done a number on his sensitive sinuses. Maybe that’s why he looked so crazed last night when she came home.

  Unless he’d had company to distract him.

  Ugh.

  Grabbing concealer, she carefully dotted it onto the dark shadows under her eyes, smoothing with her fingertips until it blended. She still looked tired and washed out. Sighing, she pulled a tube of mascara out of her makeup bag and swiped the wand over her eyelashes. Better.

  A little bit. She’d have to remember not to rub her eyes.

  Leaving the bathroom Cath entered the room that made up the rest of her apartment. She heaved the Murphy bed up into its alcove with a grunt and tugged the little coffee table away from the love seat, then sat and opened her laptop. With an impatient finger, she rapidly deleted junk from her inbox. Junk, junk, junk. And then she paused.

  An e-mail from the musical theater director Michael Balducci, with the intriguing subject line, “Who wants to run a national tour?” Scanning the contents, Cath sat back, pressing her fingertips to her lips. Michael wasn’t yet offering her a job, but he was making the prospect sound alluring. A nine-month tour of a new musical. A huge challenge for Cath, who didn’t usually work in musical theater with its added complexities of dancers and musicians. A rock musical, though. A small band instead of an orchestra. Cast of eight. More complicated than a straight play, less involved than a traditional musical.

  Is it possible that I could lure you away from whatever dreary domestic drama or experimental existential extravaganza Paul has lined up next? Come talk to me, see how the other half sings and dances. Cath rolled her eyes, amused. Musical theater people: always believing anything can be improved by a dance break.

  Glancing at the time, Cath realized it was time to leave for the theater. She could think about this later. Closing her laptop, she shoved her things into her shoulder bag and rushed out of her apartment, locking up and dashing down the stairs.

  Cath didn’t go running this morning. Paul paced around his bedroom, listening to the sounds of her movements overhead. His mind scrambled and skidded over the little he knew of the last twenty-four hours. She had gone shopping. Had a drink with Andrea.

  Just one? Was Susan upsetting her enough that she had decided that the oblivion of a bottle sounded like a good idea? Did Cath have a hangover this morning?

  Paul felt his fists clench at the idea that someone would upset Cath so much that she would go off and drink. And whose fault is it if Susan is upsetting Cath? His teeth joined his fists in a clench-off, thinking that if he hadn’t cast Susan in this damned play, he might have saved Cath a world of stress. Cath had been right, after all. Alicia Johnson was a talented and hard-working actress. She would have been a fine choice. If only he hadn’t been so arrogantly sure of himself.

  Quick footsteps sounded overhead and Paul heard Cath’s door shut. Grabbing his messenger bag, he timed the exit from his apartment to intercept her as she ran down the stairs. Her face looked pale and drawn and Paul fought the urge to fold her into his arms and ask her what was wrong.

  “Morning,” he said as he locked his apartment. Be cool.

  She paused at the foot of the stairs, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “Oh. I thought you had already left.” Great. She didn’t want to be around him at all. Well, given how stressful yesterday had been, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be around himself either. He hadn’t exactly covered himself in glory on day one of real rehearsals. The old saying, “Begin as you mean to go on” wasn’t going to apply here unless he counted today as a fresh start.

  Forcing a grin, he opened the front door of the building and said, “Nope. You’re stuck with me. Play your cards right, and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I look that bad, huh?”

  What? Paul stood on the porch, looking back at her in disbelief. Cath looked like she always did—if anything, her huge, luminous eyes were even more vivid than usual. “Bad? What are you talking about?”

  Grimacing, Cath pushed her hair off her forehead, ruffling her fingers through the long strands in a distracting motion, then pointed up at her apartment window. “I have a mirror in that shoebox, Paul. I slept like crap, I feel like crap, I look like crap. The bags under my eyes are marked ‘American’ and ‘Tourister.’”

  Without thinking, Paul wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her in to him. She stiffened and he almost released her with an apology, but then she relaxed, her head coming to rest against his shoulder. He squeezed and let his cheek rest briefly on the dark softness of her hair, inhaling the cut-grass scent of her shampoo.

  “You two are a-DOR-able,” a sardonic voice called from the street. Paul stiffened.

  Fucking Susan.

  Cath’s momentary relaxation was ruined by an unwelcome surge of adrenaline that made all her muscles turn to stone.

  Fucking Susan Vernon.

  Straightening up, she looked out into the street. Susan was sporting another one of her summer dresses, the light material looking cool and ethereal, the pale gold color giving her golden-tan skin a luminous glow. Her big, amber eyes were brimming with amusement and Cath felt dread pool in her stomach.

  “Susan.” Paul’s voice was flat and his arm dropped from Cath’s shoulders. His expression didn’t give anything away.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” Susan fluttered her fingers at them and continued down the sidewalk, her skirt swishing. Cath watched as Paul followed Susan’s progress down the street, considered her own practical jeans and tee shirt, and groaned inside at the comparison.

  Paul turned toward her and Cath waved a hand. “No, it’s fine.” What do I even mean by that? What is wrong with me? “Let’s just get some coffee and get to rehearsal.”

  Paul’s blue eyes narrowed and Cath stifled an impulse to run. Her cheek was warm.

  Her cheek was warm because Paul’s hand was cupping it.

  Cath panicked, pinned by his intense gaze, and something unreadable passed behind his eyes. His hand fell away. He turned toward the street, shifting the strap of his messenger bag.

  “Sorry.”

  Don’t be sorry. Do it again.

  Cath’s eyes dropped to the shiny paint of the porch. “It’s okay,” she said, forcing the words out. “Let’s get some coffee, get to rehearsal.”

  “Right.” Paul bit out the single syllable as if he was angry. Who that anger was directed at, Cath didn’t know.

  Paul jogged down the stairs of the apartment house, teeth gritted with frustration. It was bad enough that Cath froze up around him, making it plain that she was uncomfortable with any attempt he might make to push their friendship into more intimate territory. Susan’s observation and coy commentary only made everything that much worse.

  The sidewalk was littered with branches and other debris from the storm the night before. Paul kicked at a stick and then nearly kicked himself for good measure when the wood bounced off Cath’s ankle instead of into the street, causing her to wince and hiss.

  “Cath, I’m so sorry.” Frustration with the general situation immediately transformed into rage at himself. How could I be so careless?

  Rubbing at her ankle with one hand, Cath waved the other as he bent toward her. “No, really. It just smarts. It will be fine in a second.”

  Straightening, he felt his mouth tightening. He couldn’t do anything right, it seemed. Cath, balancing on her uninjured leg, shook the hurting ankle a few times and began to walk again toward the coffee shop. Paul trailed after, feeling useless and petulant, not seeing a way out of the current spiral of frustration and anger that held him in place like a straightjacket.

  Cath looked over her shoulder at him, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “You don’t need to walk three paces behind me just because you can’t kick properly.”

  The tight band of emotion in his chest loosened at her words. This was more like them again, joking, teasing. Stretch
ing his legs to catch up with her, he said, “I’ll have you know I was declared a soccer MVP when I was in high school.”

  “Oh really?” Cath’s sidelong gaze was assessing, waiting for a punchline.

  She knew him too well.

  “Yes. By all our opposing teams.”

  Cath laughed outright at that, the sound continuing to loosen the tightness in him. Yes, let’s get back to normal. Back to us.

  “Truth. I was very valuable to the opposition.”

  “What position did you play?”

  “Well, I started at defense, but then I was responsible for too many own goals.”

  Cath’s eyebrows crimped in puzzlement. “‘Own goals?’ What’s that for speakers of English?”

  “Scoring accidental goals for the opposing team.”

  Cath laughed again. “So they moved you elsewhere on the field, away from that dangerous goal, huh?” Cath stopped in front of the coffee shop, hand on the door latch.

  “Yup. As far away from the goal as possible.” Paul walked two fingers away from his body. “All the way to the bench. That was where I honed my directorial skills—watching people do a thing I couldn’t.”

  Cath had been about to open the door of the coffee shop, but she stopped and looked at Paul. “Seriously? You wanted to be an actor?”

  Paul responded with a sardonic bark of laughter and hands scissoring in front of his face. “No. No, I absolutely did not.”

  Cath tugged the coffee shop door open, the rich smell washing over her. She closed her eyes and inhaled, smiling, feeling her shoulders relax. An inadvertent “mmm” hummed in her throat. Opening her eyes again, she turned back to Paul. His face was stiff, eyes almost glassy. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Paul said, but his voice had a hitch in it.