"I didn't know you were in there."
We kept our voices low so the audience wouldn't hear.
"You've got a sold out show,” he said, “and about half are actually paying customers."
"Must be nice for the actresses to perform for a full house."
"I bet they're loving it."
I returned to my listening, and didn't really look at him, but from the corner of my eye I saw him hesitate before sitting down next to me. It became hard to concentrate on the play with him sitting so close. I imagined a conversation with him in my mind. In my mind, I asked him how he could break off our flirtation and succumb to Kelly's lower animal nature. And he told me he hated himself for it. He told me his attraction to her made him feel weak and dirty, and I was the one he really wanted to feel weak and dirty with. And then Peter said, "There's something I've been wanting to ask you."
"Yes?"
"Are you pleased with the production?"
"Yes."
"I hope you don't regret allowing me to direct your play."
"Of course not. You've done a wonderful job."
"Thanks. I'm glad you feel that way."
Neither of us spoke for a moment. The play was coming to its climax.
Melanie: "I wish..."
Julia: "Be careful."
Melanie: "I wish..."
Julia: "Be careful!"
Melanie: "I wish you had never been born."
Julia: "Uh huh."
Melanie: "And your misery never had the chance to be felt!"
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"Sure."
"Why did you do it?"
"Your play?"
"Kelly."
He paused before answering. "She's a very seductive woman."
"I thought you felt something for me."
"I do."
"But that doesn't mean anything?"
"I don't know. Does it?"
Did it all boil down to the fact that I didn't sleep with him that night? And he was a healthy red-blooded boy, so what could I expect? "I know I'm not perfect."
"I don't expect you to be."
"I don't get it."
"Get what?"
The actresses were nearing the end of the play.
Julia: "Ladies and gentlemen. Our prime suspect has finally confessed. "
"You don't even seem to be guilty.”
"Why should I be guilty?" he asked.
"I'm not saying you necessarily should be. I just thought maybe you would be."
Melanie: "I wished you dead and you died."
"This guilt thing," Peter said, "people like us need to stop inflicting it on ourselves, don't you think?"
Julia: "As if your guilt could solve anything."
"Yes," I agreed. "It's important to have a good time while we're here."
"If we can," Peter said.
Melanie: "I am responsible for your death!"
It crossed my mind to say that if it was just about the sex, we could get together that night with a copy of the Kama Sutra and try every position in the book. Unlikely I could come through on that, though. "I'm sorry things worked out like this," I said. "With us, I mean. Not the play."
"Me too," he said.
I was trying to puzzle out why we weren't together if we were both sorry we weren't together, and I would've asked that very question if my ears hadn't strained to hear Melanie's final desperate plea.
Melanie: "Wait, you can't go."
Julia: "I'm sorry."
Melanie: "I won't let you!"
Julia: "Not your choice."
Melanie: "Please don't go!"
In my mind's eye, I could see Kelly leaving the stage. Melanie sitting on the bed. The lights coming down.
The audience started to clap. Peter excused himself to go prop open the door. As I headed out, the actors were still getting a nice round of applause.
We did get one review. Someone from the Village Voice came during the third week of the run. I braced myself for a comment about the evil younger sister's evil thoughts. She said I truly captured the way two sisters relate to each other. And she praised the direction. And she called the two actresses' performances a "tour de force." I was glad for Annie since this was her first review. But it appeared too late in the run to do any practical good.
By the last weekend of performances, I decided to let my parents come. My mother cried a lot and gave me a hug after it was over. My father said it was very touching. I didn't want them
to give me any critical evaluation, and I was glad they didn't try. I wondered if the play made them perceive me differently, but since that would've violated any pretense that it was all made up and had nothing to do whatsoever with my own personal experiences, I kept my mouth shut.
Even though I did a big mailing to agents, none ever showed up. Not even the guy who had once sort of been my agent, even though I left him three messages. I figured he was now my official ex-agent.
Two or three more producers did come. From the feedback Peter got, I understood they thought the play was pretty good. No one wanted to move it. The subject matter was "too depressing." "Hard to sell." "Would need a big name to get it going."
"So how do we get a big name?" I asked. We were all at Rosie O'Grady's on the last night of the show.
"It's rough. If you want a name, and you send it to their agent, the agent will probably send it back unread."
"Even if it's a good vehicle?"
"The last thing an agent wants is for their client to get involved with a theater project. There's no money in it."
"But isn't there some prestige involved that can be good for their career?"
"You could only begin to get their attention by telling them we have a big producer involved. Not Peter Heller with his fifty-seat house."
"So why doesn't one of these big producers take the play to a big name since they're the ones who have the power to do that?"
"You know, Jennifer," he said, with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, "we tried our goddamned best. But when all is said and done, you can't force anyone to produce a play."
That seemed to be the end of it. For my play. For me. But not for Kelly.
Rocco did put her in his next production on Broadway. She got her New York Times rave review. That led to her part on the sitcom Baby Makes Three, which led to I Told You So with Brad Pitt, which led to Body Beautiful and her surprising nomination (as a total newcomer to the Hollywood scene) for an Academy Award—up against Winona Ryder, Cameron Diaz, Julianne Moore and Catherine Zeta-Jones.
After the show closed, we all said we'd stay in touch. Then we all went our separate ways. I didn't have any way of knowing what did or didn't develop between Kelly and Peter. I didn't want to know.
Actually, I was dying to know. It just seemed safer to stay in the dark.
Chapter 13
About two years after my play closed, I tuned in when Kelly was being interviewed by David Letterman. She was publicizing her movie Body Beautiful, and she mentioned how much she missed acting in the theater because that was really her first love, blah blah blah. They always say that. Of course she didn't mention me or my play. Not that I expected she would. But it would've been fun if she had.
Not that my entire life came to a complete standstill because Kelly became a movie star and I remained a regular person. Okay, maybe I felt on some level like it did. But I continued to exist. I continued to write. I continued to send out my plays. And I did have a few small productions here and there. Not at any place anyone would've heard of. But enough to keep me from giving up.
I didn't give up on becoming a full-fledged sexual person, either. I went out with a few guys. But as far as the sex was concerned, it wasn't very good and there wasn't much of it. Part of my problem was, I couldn't find anyone who really interested me as much as Peter and Kelly.
It was soon after I saw Body Beautiful that I decided I had to do something about myself. So I bought a few books on female sexuality. (Thank god for anon
ymous online ordering.) And I attempted, once again, the challenge of masturbating.
One of the books talked a lot about the importance of having a positive voice inside your head. So I turned my lights down, got into bed naked, and prepared myself for Diana. I knew she'd be there waiting to taunt me. And I was right. But this time, when she started in, I replaced her with Kelly's voice. And Kelly was much more encouraging. "Don't feel guilty," she told me. "There's nothing wrong with enjoying yourself. Everyone else is. Why shouldn't you? Nothing bad is going to happen. Go ahead. Do it."
And I did.
I was surprised how easy it was to quiet Diana. It made me think about how I was getting used to her absence. My memory of her was becoming more vague. Which was a relief. But it was distressing, too. I didn't want to lose her completely. So I took out a copy of Til Death Do Us Part and started to read. It was the first time I'd looked at that play since the production. I was sure it would bring Diana back to me. But it was Kelly I saw saying the lines, Kelly's voice I heard. Diana was receding into the past, and there was nothing I could do about it.
It was about three years after my production of Til Death Do Us Part that Kelly was back in New York doing Betrayal on Broadway. I had a play of my own going up on 42nd Street way over near Eleventh Avenue in a small theater called the Matrix.
It had been a pleasant surprise when Jack, the resident director at the theater, called me about a script I'd sent in for a contest they were holding (no money prize, only glory) and told me he loved my play and wanted to produce it.
We met for coffee at the Kraft, a Greek coffee shop on Tenth Avenue. If I had any fantasies about falling in love with my director again, it wouldn't be this time. Jack was a very sweet man in his late 50s who stuttered and dressed a bit like a homeless person. He did once direct Julie Andrews on Broadway and some episodes of Gilligan's Island. (No job security in this business, that's for sure.)
We had a nice conversation about our mutual addiction to the soap opera All My Children. His live-in girlfriend had a small recurring part on the show as a nanny. Then he launched into a speech about how much he loved my play. His enthusiasm seduced me, and I couldn't say no.
My play Copy Cat was a three-character romantic comedy about two women and a guy who work in an advertising agency. It was a love triangle and completely invented.
Okay. Actually, it was loosely based on a romantic triangle I had the chance to observe in the law office where I worked because all our desks were in one big room and everyone knew everyone else's business.
Okay. I was one of the people involved in the love triangle.
Okay. It didn't have anything to do with anyone at my job at the law office. It was all about Peter and Kelly and me.
The ninety-nine-seat Matrix Theater had been around forever, and it smelled like it. Years of leaking pipes, mildew, cigarette smoke, lack of ventilation, and dust accumulation made it a bit hard to breathe. And they could've budgeted some money towards buying duct tape to repair the torn vinyl seats. But it was a few blocks from my apartment, so at least it was easy to get there.
Rehearsals were going well. We'd survived the lead actor quitting (I didn't know why he did and never would). And we were still looking for someone to do props (for no pay). And we were having some arguments over the set (Salvation Army shoddy). But unless I was willing to shell out to pay for office furniture myself, I was stuck with it. Otherwise, I was looking forward to opening night a few days away. I walked home, happy to stretch my legs and get some real air to breathe after sitting in the stuffy theater all afternoon.
In Manhattan, it's fairly common to run into old acquaintances on the street. Sooner or later you're just bound to cross paths with everyone you once knew. Especially if it's someone you've had a fight with. Or someone you've avoided because the relationship came to an unpleasant resolution. Or unpleasant lack of resolution. Sometimes you walk by this person and pretend you don't see them. You wonder if they saw you too and are pretending they didn't, and what they think about the fact that maybe you saw them and are pretending not to see them, too. But when Peter and I saw each other on the corner of Ninth Avenue and 42th Street we did not pretend not to see each other.
"Hello!"
"Hi!"
"How have you been!"
"Good! How have you been?"
"Fine!"
"Great."
We were surrounded by zillions of cars and people, but we forged ahead with one of those stupid conversations where you're being friendly, but not friendly enough that you would actually say "Let's go have a cup of coffee" and find out anything of any depth and it's like you're both going to say goodbye any second, but then you keep saying more things about yourself, some of them potentially important even, but it's all in a rushed, throw-away tone.
"Still writing plays?"
"Yes, of course. How's the directing going?"
"Great. I was living up in Connecticut for a year. Did a couple seasons at Hartford Rep."
"Annie told me. I saw her once at Barnes and Noble."
"Oh, yeah. I saw her at a Starbucks downtown. Man, you leave for a year, come back, and these Starbucks have sprouted every few blocks."
"Yeah. It's crazy." And Oh God, we're both thinking, why do we have to have this stupid conversation—we should've just pretended not to see each other and walked on. "So," I asked, raising my voice above the sound of a huge mack truck, "are you involved in a production right now?"
"I have one coming up," he said, nodding like he knew that question was next. "At the Blue Light."
"That's a good theater. They have a lot of LA movie star connections there, don't they?"
"It keeps them well financed, yeah. It's nice not to be the producer on a show, and you can just concentrate on the directing."
"I bet. You should send me a flier."
"I will. Still at the same address?"
"Yep."
"I don't suppose you've done any more acting," he teased me.
"Oh, God, no."
He looked towards the intersection and I thought he was going to say that he had to catch the light. But then he said, "So do you have any productions in the works?"
I hesitated slightly. I wanted to resist telling him. Because if he got the bright idea of coming to Copy Cat (not that he would bother, but what if he did?) it would be incredibly embarrassing for him to see that I had written about him.
"Oh, well, a small one. It's opening next week."
Stupid vanity! I had to tell him, just so he wouldn't think I had nothing going on.
"Great. I'll try to come see it."
"No! You shouldn't bother. The production is really not good."
"I'm sure you're just being modest. Why don't you send me a flier?" he asked.
"Really, we've been having lots of problems."
"I know all about those kind of problems. Don't worry about it—you know I love your work. What's it about?"
"Oh, you know, the play—it just isn't worth coming to, Peter, really. When I have something good, I'll invite you, I promise, but it's a horrible production. Don't waste your time."
"Okay. Well. Good luck with it. And let me know when you have something going up that you'd like me to see."
"I will. And good luck to you too." And then, I wasn't going to ask, but it just came out. "By the way. Do you ever still speak to Kelly?"
Just then a scruffy looking teenage boy came up to us asking for spare change but we both shook our heads and thank god he walked on.
"I did see Kelly a couple times over the years, but it's hard to stay in touch."
"Yeah."
"You know how it goes. After her career took off..."
"Right," I said, wondering if she'd dumped him unceremoniously and how much he'd suffered.
"I'm thinking of seeing her in Betrayal," he said.
"So am I. But tickets are so expensive."
"It's crazy, isn't it?"
He put his hand on my elbow, and I thought he w
anted to touch me, for touching sake, and maybe he was about to say something along the lines of: I never really wanted her; it was you all along, Jennifer. Then I realized he was trying to move me over because a woman with a baby stroller was trying to get by.
"Pretty amazing what's happening with her," I said, stepping aside.
"Yes. Pretty amazing. And we knew her when."
"We knew her when."
"Well. Anyway. It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you too. Send me your flier."
"I will. Take care, Jennifer."
"Take care."
I felt like I did see something sad behind his eyes. Like he did want to say more. But he didn't say more. And I didn't say more. And we both went our separate ways.
And that's when I found myself heading to the Helen Hayes Theater a few blocks away to see about buying tickets to Betrayal starring Kelly Cavanna.
I wasn't going to buy a ticket. I just wanted to scope it out. See what they were charging. See the posters of her out front.
When I reached the theater, there was a life-size picture of Kelly behind the glass. She was in a white dress and smiling just like a movie star. There was no line to buy tickets, so I walked up to the guy in the little cage-like box office in the lobby and asked him what kind of seats were available in the next few weeks. Not because I was going to buy one, but just because I felt bad for him sitting there with nothing to do, and I was curious to see how well ticket sales were going. An orchestra seat cost seventy-five dollars, which seemed outrageous. No play was worth that. He told me he could probably find me a single in the orchestra any night I wanted to go. So I asked him to check for Tuesday of the following week (just to see) and he told me that for that performance, he had an excellent seat in the third row near the center. Wow, I thought. Close enough to catch her spit. So I took it.
Copy Cat had three characters. The fake me. The fake Peter. And the fake Kelly. The audience was full. We were doing our first "preview," which meant we hadn't officially opened yet. The people in the seats were mostly "papered," meaning the tickets were given away free to organizations like The Village Nursing Home, the Gay Men's Health Clinic, NYU Student Services. The hope was that they might start to spread around some positive word of mouth so that actual paying people might eventually come.
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