She clenched her fists, convinced people were watching her. What had she done? But she was inside the Plymouth and would not lose her nerve. This was her opportunity to act in a Broadway house. She raised her chin and lowered her shoulders. What would it be like to belong here, even in the audience? She walked through the crowd in the lobby, the high-pile carpet springy under her shoes, and tried to appear at ease until the bell rang, signaling the show’s recommencement.
Eleanor followed two older ladies back into the theater. The second bell was already ringing by the time she was up the stairs, thinking the balcony might be less conspicuous. To her dismay, it was full; only Don could sell out the balcony a year into a show’s run. She looked left and right for an empty seat, hoping she didn’t appear too obvious. If she ended up in the wrong seat, someone would ask to see her ticket, and she’d be thrown out. She would not be able to stand the shame.
She felt a hand on her elbow and jumped. “I’m just looking for my seat!”
She stared into the smirking face of Don Mannheim. He wore suit pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up. The bruise on his finger had healed.
“Eleanor O’Hanlon.”
That he remembered her name affected her more than she would ever admit. “Yes.”
He offered her an awkward nod that she already recognized.
“Sit with me? I’m assuming you have no ticket.”
“No—I do!” she said, but when she tried to think of more support, she had none. “Why are you in the balcony?”
“I like to save the good seats for the paying customers,” he said. “Kind of you to do the same.”
“I swear I’ve never done this before.”
“Shocking.” He gave her a look. “I’d snuck into forty shows before I’d seen New York a year. I can see so much more from up here,” he said, looking down the railing at the rest of the theater. “If the cast is lazy, if someone isn’t in their place. Down there you only see the principal players, not the whole picture.”
He led her to seats near the side of the balcony, in the back. The entire stage was visible below them, all the way to the backdrop. Eleanor adjusted her purse in her lap, but not quick enough; Don’s eyes landed on her trembling hands.
She told him it was her first Broadway show.
To her surprise, he grinned with real pleasure. The mocking gleam she had grown used to seeing in the eye of every girl in her apartment was nowhere to be found. “You’re in for a treat. Of course I would have recommended something else for your first time—there’s a lot wrong with this one. My Fair Lady is a true masterpiece. I’m sorry you missed Guys and Dolls.”
He spoke faster, his controlled tone gone. She felt a flip in her stomach. Don was a fan, like her. What if they could become friends?
Eleanor leaned in. “I love My Fair Lady.”
“Better than my work?”
Eleanor looked up at him, surprised. His voice was tentative, maybe even nervous. Was he looking for a compliment? “Your musicals are the reason I want to sing. I’ve devoured all of them. When I first heard Fifth Avenue, it was like I was meeting myself. I must sound terribly silly. But all your characters, what they sing about . . . the loneliness, the isolation. It’s beautiful.”
Don looked away from her with a twist of discomfort. Eleanor had begun to notice he moved this way often, as if the spotlight of a person’s gaze burned him.
“People never talk about that sort of thing,” she said. “Sustained isolation. Perhaps lonesomeness, missing someone or loving the wrong person or whatnot. But that feeling so many of your characters have, of being separate from the world . . . I’d never heard that before.”
“I’m hardly the first.”
“But you must know you write differently,” she said. “People have told you.”
The lights dimmed and the spot shone on the curtain.
“People say things,” he said. “But I find the masses often love things for the wrong reasons.”
She had so much to say, saved up from years of loving his material, but the orchestra began to play.
Maggie had the eleven o’clock number. Even Eleanor had to admit she had stage presence—her body was free and loose, the sparkle in her eyes visible from the balcony. But she was so performative, like an animated wax figure. She winked like a ham, shuffled her hips, even added cutesy girlishness to her voice. The audience ate it up, according to the applause and laughter, but Eleanor found her cold. There was no truth. Her performance was all about the moment—no depth, no humanity. Her song was dazzling, but once she left the stage, it evaporated into steam.
When the lights went up after the bows, Eleanor waited for a prompt so she could unleash her opinions.
“What did you think of your first show?” Don asked.
“It was wonderful,” she said. “The entire production . . . magic.”
He waited for her to finish, eyes on the stage. He was hanging on her words in a way that she had not expected. “But?”
“But nothing.”
“You have something to say,” he said. “What is it?”
“It’s not your work,” she said. “It’s Maggie. Maybe I’m jealous.”
“How could you not be? This is Broadway, and you’re not up there.”
She regarded the stage below. Even empty, it thrummed with significance. “True,” she said. “You made sure of that. But . . . Well, she’s very talented.”
“Yes.”
“But she’s a mask.” The words, unleashed, came quickly. “She doesn’t understand what she’s singing. There’s no truth there. Your words, your lyrics . . . they should live in her body. Why did you choose her? She was fake.”
Don looked toward her. At first she thought she had offended him, but then he spoke. “Harry liked something about her, and I trust him. The audience adored her.”
“But they won’t think about her tomorrow.”
He stared at the stage, unblinking. Eleanor wanted to say more to fill the silence but felt galvanized by her admission. If this was her last chance with Don, she was going to remain controlled.
“If you understand all this, why didn’t you do it in the audition?”
“I was nervous.”
“I don’t need to tell you that working under pressure is part of the job.”
“Let me try again.” She was conscious of where she was, of whom she was speaking to—what if this was her chance? Didn’t artists fight for an opportunity and figure the rest out later? She grasped his arm. “I can do it.”
“No. Your voice is gorgeous, but this part is wrong for you.”
“Then let me try something else.”
Don stood up.
Eleanor, sensing the end of the conversation, jumped to her feet.
“You’re so brilliant, you are supposed to see everything,” she said. “But you can’t see me. I’m not some girl who wants to be on Broadway for the fame or glamour. I understand this. I understand you. There’s something vulnerable in your musicals, all of them, and you need an actress who can sense that as much as she can sing the music. If you hire me, you won’t get an actress, you’ll get a girl who loves the theater as much as you do. I’ll give it everything. Give me another chance and you’ll see I’m not some pretty thing that blows away the second a man offers her a ring. This is my life, and if you don’t give it to me I’ll find another way.”
Her words hung between them, and he looked her up and down, examining her face with an intense gaze that didn’t quite meet her eyes. She felt ill. He was uncomfortable. Eleanor didn’t blame him. But when he was quiet too long, she couldn’t resist saying more.
“I promise to surprise you.”
He reached out and took her chin in his hand, turning her face up to his. He was handsome in an ordinary way—long, unkempt brows, a large jaw, pale eyes. Yet not ordinary; not
hing about him was ordinary. The fact of who he was infused his features with significance. He met her gaze this time, but she encountered a strange concentration there. Like he was looking at her eyes, not into them. She couldn’t breathe. Finally, he released her.
“Eleanor, you already have surprised me.”
Chapter Six
It was a good thing Eleanor was supposed to meet Tommy that night, because she was far too keyed up to head home. She smeared on lipstick and met him at a pub near Times Square.
“Say,” he said. “Why do you look so down?”
“I’m never going to be on Broadway,” she said. “How can that be?”
“I hate to say it, honey, but I think that’s the case for most girls.”
Tommy squeezed her hand. She finished her beer, then excused herself for the ladies’. When she wobbled, grasping the back of her chair, Tommy was looking at her funny.
“Oh—I suppose I’m tight.”
Ten minutes later a plate of mashed potatoes and boiled meat sat in front of her. She ate obediently, like a child, the weight of the last few weeks heavy on her. She felt coddled; her misery was insignificant in the context of New Yorkers. She liked that Tommy took it seriously.
“Can you walk me home?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said, but fumbled with the bill. “I wanted to ask . . . would you like to come to my parents’ for Sunday dinner?”
“Why?”
He stared. “To meet them?”
Her face warmed. “I’m sorry. I meant . . . I didn’t know you felt that way.”
Tommy looked pained. “My mom makes great lamb,” he said. “Don’t worry. It’s a full house on Sundays with all my brothers and their wives and kids. No one will even notice you.”
She smiled, stomach fluttering. “All right then.”
* * *
Mr. Rabinowitz was already absorbed by a hemline when Eleanor arrived the next day. She hung up her purse and greeted him, flipping the sign at the door to open.
As usual it was a busy few hours. She took four shirts and a jacket from Mr. Hunter, a dress from Mrs. Gold, and a whole stack of clothes from the Fannings’ maid. Eleanor stood at the register and handed out tickets, hanging the clothes on the rack, then turning back when the bell rang for a new customer. Around two, Mr. Rabinowitz left for a late lunch at home. He wouldn’t be back for hours, as he liked his long nap. As soon as he was gone, Eleanor went to the back of the store. People sometimes picked up their clothes during lunch, but now that rush was over, too, and the store would be slow.
Mrs. Jefferson had dropped off her garments that morning. Eleanor had gotten a glimpse as she numbered them but had been looking forward to exploring more all morning. She rehung them on the rack so they draped across the other clothes, the better to be touched and appreciated. Mrs. Jefferson bought all her clothes at Bergdorf’s and Saks. This time she’d dropped off a wool houndstooth jacket, a black sheath—both Chanel—and a cashmere cardigan with pearl buttons that grew warm under Eleanor’s fingertips. After she concealed herself behind the racks, Eleanor unbuttoned her blouse and skirt. Mrs. Jefferson was one size bigger, which was perfect because she could slip everything on without fear of tearing a seam. She smoothed the dress over her hips. The silk lining poured cool over her skin. The darts on the waist lay perfectly, as if Coco herself had ensured her garments flattered each woman who wore them, with or without alterations. The dress looked ridiculous with Eleanor’s worn-out saddle shoes, but that couldn’t be helped. Sling-backs never came through the store. She turned this way and that, imagining herself as a woman who wore these clothes. They felt right on her. She extended her hand as if a man had asked for it, then turned away, rejecting him.
The bell behind her jingled.
Eleanor whipped around to face the door. It took her a moment to recognize him out of context, but then she lost her breath.
“Miss O’Hanlon.” Don Mannheim looked stiff but amused.
Eleanor pretended to unlock the register to give herself something to do with her hands. Their last interaction came to mind, her impetuousness seeming ruder in retrospect. “How can I help you, Mr. Mannheim?”
He leaned against the desk. “New outfit?”
“Mr. Rabinowitz likes me to dress nicely.”
He chuckled. She never would have thought him capable of such levity. For a moment of privacy, she shuffled through the inventory book. First sneaking into the show, now this. He must think her a thief.
His eyes strayed from her and looked toward the clean garments waiting for their owners. “Quite a mix of wealth at this corner,” he said. He pointed at her jacket. “That’s pure wool, isn’t it? But that, hanging up over there, that’s a blend.”
She followed his eyes as he pointed out the different articles.
“That color doesn’t look right on cheap fabrics,” he said. “So, I’m guessing it’s silk? But that shirt”—he pointed at another—“has been washed so many times it’s the wrong blue. My guess is it used to be more like a lapis.” He speared her with a look. “And anyone who’s opened a magazine knows that jacket’s a Chanel.”
She ran a palm over the houndstooth. “How do you know all that?”
“A lifetime of wanting better things,” he said. “And a career in the theater. I know what fabric looks like from far away.”
The clothes felt hot against her skin, as if she were allergic. The brightness in his eyes was still there; a swooping hope came through her, that maybe he was flirting with her. She blushed even thinking it. What a foolish idea.
Don tapped his knuckles on the desk. “Eleanor, can you cut out early?” He looked uncomfortable, and his boyish expression came back, like he wanted to go home. “I’d like to discuss something with you.”
“You came here to find me?”
“Your friend Patrick mentioned where you worked.”
“Pat!”
“His was the number on your résumé.” He gave her an odd look, then asked, “Who is he? A boyfriend?”
Was he curious? “Oh, goodness. No. My, did you mention your name? He would have fainted.”
Don picked up a pen and tapped it on the counter. “Lock up. Tell your boss you’re sick. Unless you don’t want to come?”
She grabbed a pen and ripped out some blank receipt paper.
“Give me a moment to . . .” She looked down. “Change?”
“I’ll wait outside.”
When she emerged, Don had a cab waiting. Though she braced for it, he did not comment on her old skirt or Peter Pan collar. She felt even younger than she was.
“Seventy-Fourth and Central Park West, please.”
Eleanor looked out the window so she could avoid looking at Don. He was a large man, and she was conscious of his form next to her on the leather seats. Her heart was pounding, and she kept her hands clasped in her lap. In a moment of weakness, she inhaled, trying to smell him. She caught soap, light spiciness like cologne, but nothing human.
“Have you been to the park yet?”
“Pardon?”
“The park. Been yet?”
“Oh—no.” She was so flustered, it took her a moment to remember she’d been there with Tommy. By the time she remembered, it was too late to correct herself.
“It’s quite lovely. I enjoy walking there in the mornings.”
Eleanor opened her mouth, thinking that it was an invitation, before she caught herself.
“I’m sure.”
“Clears the head.”
“And I’m sure your head must need a lot of clearing.” She turned to the window. Why did she speak like an absolute ninny?
“Yes. Too much rattling around.”
Finding she did not trust herself to contribute further, she slumped against the seat and dedicated her next minutes to worrying that she had upset him. They climbed Broadway, t
hrough Columbus Circle onto Central Park West. The car turned left onto Seventy-Fourth and stopped outside an enormous apartment building.
Eleanor opened her door and stood staring.
“It’s a castle.”
“No,” he said, “just home.”
* * *
Eleanor expected Don Mannheim’s apartment to be sparse, everything in service to his work. In a way, that was true; the apartment was meticulous. Don opened a door into a sunken living room with a leather couch and ornate rug. The walls were hung with art that even Eleanor knew was expensive. Without ever having been in a professionally decorated place before, Eleanor knew that this was one.
Through a door, she saw his bedroom, and a plain white comforter. She turned away and faced the bookshelf that made up the wall closest to her, fighting for something to say.
“Do you read a lot?” Sweeping her eyes over the shelf, she found what she was looking for: a Tony Award, the little circle tilted to the side. She wondered where he kept the others.
“No time.” He passed the kitchen and dining room and walked through a door without looking to see if Eleanor followed.
It was his music studio. In the original design this must have been the master bedroom; a bathroom was attached. This was the only room that looked used. There were papers everywhere covered in musical notation, drawings of a stage floor, lyrics.
The moment could not have felt more intimate if he’d brought her into his bedroom. Eleanor stopped at the threshold. This was where the musicals had been written; this was the piano, his piano. She wished she had a camera. He did not keep the place neat: a box of tissues on the piano bench, a pair of slippers cast off on the floor, dirty dishes scattered about.
“I thought pianists were supposed to be fussy about things touching their pianos.”
“I’m not so fastidious,” he said, patting the Steinway. Behind the piano, his shoulders dropped. That uncomfortable look he’d sported for most of the afternoon went away, and he relaxed. “Thank you for coming, Eleanor. I suppose you’d be interested in learning about my next project?”
A Tender Thing Page 7