Acts of Love (48 page)

Jessica nodded, and they were silent, listening. “Good,” she said after a few minutes. “Now go back and do the scene again, but remember what went before, because it's part of you.”

They went through the first five minutes of the scene. “Did it make any difference?” Angela asked. “It didn't seem any different to me.”

Jessica took a long breath. “It was a little bit different. It will get better with time. If it doesn't, there's not much point in rehearsing. Let me tell you what I'm trying to do. I'm sure you've heard it all before, but I think you need to hear it from me. We're looking for truth. That means that when something surprising happens on stage, you are truly surprised. I know you'll think that's so elementary it doesn't need to be said, but actors forget it all the time. You're all so good you can act almost any emotion, but acting surprised or frightened or furious never convinces an audience as much as
being
surprised or frightened or furious. Once you've convinced them  . . . well, you know this from all the times you've done it in the past: they believe in you and they'll follow you anywhere, into other emotions and other situations, until—at least this is what we hope—they discover something new about what it means to be human. For me, that's the true magic of the theater.”

Edward shook his head. “That's too much to expect. How many actors can actually give audiences a new understanding of being human? A handful in the whole world. You're talking about a formidable talent, a very rare talent.”

“Think of it as something to strive for,” Jessica said coolly, finding Edward's lugubriousness less appealing by the moment. “Now please go back and begin act two again.”

Dearest Jessica, I'm sending you two books that I've enjoyed; I hope you can find some time to read them. I know the feeling that you have too much to do before opening night (will you have previews?), but my homily for the day is this: small breaks for relaxation actually make everything more manageable, just as sips of wine make a meal go more smoothly, and brief separations between lovers intensify their feelings. Give yourself time for yourself. All my love, Luke.

Dear Luke, I'm having a problem with the opening of act two; I can't get the explosive tension it needs. It's better than it was, with Stan frozen with shock in the doorway and Doris behind him, heard (and remembered) by Helen before being seen, but it still isn't enough. Is there anything else I could do? Jessica.

Dearest Jessica, get Helen off that couch. The scene is too static in the moment before Stan comes in. Maybe she's been in the bedroom and comes in still brushing her hair or pulling on a jacket or tying a scarf—something like that—just as Stan opens the door. So they face each other standing, both of them frozen in position for maybe three seconds before Doris says her lines behind Stan (a very good touch, by the way). I hope this helps. With my love, Luke.

“Yes!” Hermione exclaimed as she and Jessica watched Angela and Edward face each other across the makeshift stage. “Terrific! You finally got it.”

“A friend suggested it,” Jessica said.

“Ah. The wonders of a fax machine.”

“And of friendship.”

“Speaking of which, how about dinner tonight? Come over about seven; I'll rent a movie and we won't talk shop at all.”

“It sounds wonderful, but could we do it tomorrow night instead?”

“Sure. Shall I refrain from asking what's happening tonight?”

Jessica smiled. “It's hard to deal with such subtlety. Edward is taking me to Manly for dinner and a visit to something called Oceanworld.”

“How romantic.
Is
this a romance?”

“No. We enjoy being together.”

And that was what she said to Edward that night as they sat on the terrace of the Headlands Restaurant in Manly. They had taken the Jetcat there, bouncing at high speeds across the choppy water of the harbor, and then had gone to Oceanworld, a huge marine tank with a moving walkway beneath the clear bottom, so that they looked up at sharks, octopi, eels and dozens of other creatures from the ocean and the Great Barrier Reef. “What fun,” Jessica said. “It's the best way to pretend you're an eel or a shark. At least you see things from their point of view.”

“Not so long ago you felt like a mermaid,” Edward said. They were walking slowly to the restaurant and he held her free arm, which annoyed her, but she said nothing so that he would not feel rejected. “Are you tired of living on the land?”

“I'm not tired of anything,” she said. “I like new experiences and new feelings. New ways of looking at things.”

He held her chair at the restaurant and propped her cane against the wall. “Are you pleased with our rehearsals?”

“I thought we'd agreed not to talk about work.”

He picked up the menu and scanned it. “Everything here is very good. You might want to try the Moreton Bay bug if you haven't had it.”

“I haven't. The name definitely lacks appeal.”

“It's just a local miniature crayfish, you know, sadly misnamed. There's also the Victorian yabby, a local lobster, quite fine. And the barramundi is an excellent fish, found only here. Also the Tasmanian scallops, grilled. I would recommend any of those. Red wine or white?”

“Red. Edward, what is this sudden interest in food? You've always seemed so indifferent, as if a meal was just something that stood between you and starvation.”

“But I'm with you and that makes everything different. Jessica, I have to say this, how completely different my life is with you.”

“We said we wouldn't talk about that.”

“You said.”

“Well, then, I said it. Isn't that enough?”

His mouth turned down. “I've disappointed you.”

“A little, but not excessively. Come on, Edward; let's keep things light.”

From then on, he let her lead the conversation, and she kept it firmly away from the two of them, until they had finished dessert and were drinking espresso. Then Edward took a deep breath, girding himself. “I asked you earlier if you were happy with rehearsals.”

“And I told you—”

“I know, but we must talk about it.” He took her hand, holding it tightly. “I have great confidence in you, Jessica, more than I have in anyone else at the moment. But right now I need to ask you how you think we're doing, because a lot of people in Sydney are saying that the play is a disaster, and I'm too close to it to know whether they're right or wrong, so I'm asking you to tell me.”

Jessica's anger flared. “You're asking me to reassure you that the play isn't a disaster? What will you do if I say that it is?”

Shocked, he said, “I don't know. I don't expect you to say that.”

“Then why ask it at all?”

“Because I need to hear you say that it's wonderful. I've put all my energies and hopes into this, more than anyone can imagine, and I need reassurance. Is that asking too much?”

She freed her hand. “I'd like to go home, Edward.”

“No, no, we have to finish this. Why do you turn hostile when everything is so good between us? I asked a simple question: Are you happy with rehearsals?”

“We're going in the right direction. We still have two weeks and then previews. What else are people saying about the play? Or about me?”

“You don't want to know all that. I only mentioned it because the four of us are a little worried. Angela thinks the problem is closed rehearsals, but we can't be sure, so I said I'd ask you about it.”

“You're the designated messenger? Does that mean none of you thinks rehearsals are going well?”

“We all did until we started hearing . . .”

“Until you started hearing what? I want to know, Edward.”

“Jessica, this isn't easy for me. But we have to believe that what we're doing is good; we can't go for another two weeks wondering if it might be  . . . might be . . .”

“A disaster. That's what you heard.”

“Yes, among other— But none of it is true. . . .”

“If you really believed that, you wouldn't have brought it up. Go on. I want to know what they're saying.”

“Well, it isn't true, we all know that, but some people are saying that you're floundering, that you don't know how to put a play together and build it, you know, develop tension, and you can't work with a crew or a cast. . . .”

“And you agree? With any or all of it? What about the last? That I don't know how to work with a cast.”

“No, of course not. I told you, we know they're wrong about that. We all think you're the best director we've worked with. Even Angela said that and she's had the most experience of all of us.”

“Then why are we having this discussion?”

“Because it's hard for us to be the subject of rumors.”

“I thought I was the subject.”

“We're involved. And they create an atmosphere, you know, of suspicion and mistrust, of
worry,
and we should be concentrating on the play instead of worrying about what people are saying.”

“I agree.”

“With what?”

“That you should be concentrating on the play. That you shouldn't be worrying about what people are saying. You've given yourself excellent advice.”

“Jessica, you're being willful. You know what I'm saying. We don't want to worry, but we can't help it. The atmosphere, you know—”

“Yes, I heard that. You all agree that I'm the best director you've ever worked with, but you begin to think you're wrong as soon as you hear ignorant people gossip.”

“No, no, that's not what I said.”

“Well, perhaps you'll tell me just what you did say.”

“There's a feeling of insecurity, a
miasma
of insecurity. I should think you'd understand that; you're very sensitive to people's feelings. Angela asked if she could invite some friends—influential friends—to rehearsals, but Hermione wouldn't allow it. Why not? What harm could it do? It might help ticket sales, you know, and some people are wondering if we'll even get to opening night if this miasma lasts and hurts ticket sales. It shouldn't surprise you that we're worried about the future.”

Jessica was silent. Everyone is worried about the future, she thought, but she could not share her own worries with Edward. “This is what we'll do,” she said. “We'll begin publicity and advertising early and if Hermione can arrange it we'll start previews in Melbourne a few days early. That means we'll have early reviews from critics who haven't heard all your dire rumors. I'll have to push up all my schedules, which means I won't have time for anything else until opening night, but that should reassure all of you that I'm giving this play all my attention; that whatever needs to be done will be done. We're going to have a success, Edward. No one has to worry about the future.”

He nodded gloomily. “You're saying you won't have dinner with me again.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” she said, her temper snapping. “Have you listened to me? I'm talking about the play, about the future. Didn't you just tell me that's what you're all worried about? Pay attention, Edward. I am telling you that there is nothing to worry about. Hermione and I have everything under control. Can you understand that? Can you remember it long enough to repeat it to the others in the cast? If not, I'll write you all a letter. Maybe I will, anyway.” She paused. “That's a good idea,” she mused, as if he were not there. “Review our progress, talk about the next few weeks  . . . Something like a CEO reporting to a board of directors. Yes, that's what I'll do. And I'll do it tonight.” She looked up. “I have to go home, Edward. I have work to do.”

Dearest Jessica, what a good idea. What made you think of it? I can think of dozens of difficult situations that might have been avoided if I'd written that kind of letter once or twice during rehearsals. It's amazing how lax we get when we see people every day; after a while we assume they think the way we do. A very dangerous assumption. Anyway, I like your idea and I hope you find it a form of flattery that I'm going to imitate it in the future. By the way, your letter, short as it was, sounded unhappy. Would that have anything to do with your letter to your cast and crew? Or to a social life I don't know about? Or to Moreton Bay bugs? (I've been reading about Australia and it occurred to me that you might have eaten one of them in a moment of madness and are suffering from its lingering effects.) Good friends confide in each other; what else are we here for? With all my love, Luke.

She wondered what she had written in her one-paragraph letter that had given her away. It had been very late when she wrote it, after she had finished the letter to her cast and crew, and she had been exhausted and worried and feeling very much alone. She longed for someone who had nothing to do with this place or these fears. But as soon as she began to write to Luke, she could not bring herself to tell him what was happening. It was one thing to ask for help in staging a scene; it was another to tell him her personal problems. Anyway, there was nothing he could do about them, and nothing she wanted him to do. She had come here to fight her own battles and make her own way, and nothing had changed that. She would handle this alone.

Except for Hermione, she thought with a sudden lifting of the heart. Because of course she was not alone; she had a friend. And a powerful one at that.

“So the bastard told you,” Hermione said, holding a copy of Jessica's letter. They were on the couch in her living room, with appetizers and a bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Dinner can be anytime,” she had said when Jessica arrived. “Cold soup, cold salad, warm bread. But you're not in a hurry, are you? Not rushing back home to do more work?”

“No. Small breaks for relaxation actually make everything more manageable.”