Acts of Love (56 page)

“Jessica!”
Edward turned a frenzied look on her. His eyes slid to the cane propped against the desk. “How?” he asked bluntly.

“We always appreciate expressions of support,” Hermione said drily. Ignoring Edward, she spoke to the others. “This is what we're doing—”

“Hermione, this should come from me,” Jessica said. She stood beside the desk. “Six years ago I left the stage. I'd been in an accident and afterward I looked so different, and felt so different, that I thought I'd never act again. But it's not easy to leave the theater when it's been your whole life for most of your life, so I came back, to direct
Journeys End.”

“And did it brilliantly,” Hermione said. “But Jessica Fontaine belongs on the stage. I knew that only a great actress could replace Angela, and that's why I begged Jessica to do it. And thank God she said she would. Does anyone have any problem with that?”

“I think it's absolutely wonderful,” said Angela. She engulfed Jessica in a hug. “I was worried about Lucinda  . . . not terribly strong, you know  . . . no real sense of self . . . but now  . . . well, Hermione, you do understand how much alike Jessica and I are. It's a very wise choice.”

Hermione nodded modestly.

“What about the cane?” Edward asked.

Nora sucked in her breath; none of them had dared mention it.

Hermione began to answer, but Jessica put out her hand. “We're reblocking the play. Helen will stay in this small area and you'll be moving in and out of her orbit. In other words, you can't assume anymore that she'll come to you with a lead-in to a line or to open the way for some stage business. You'll have to do that yourselves. We're figuring it out now and by the weekend we'll be rehearsing it.”

“Tomorrow,” Edward said. “We need all the time we can get.”

“We're all professionals,” Hermione said. “We'll have the weekend, plus Monday, Monday night and Tuesday morning if we need it. That's a lot of rehearsing for three people who by then will have performed this play for more than two weeks.”

“You're all so good,” Jessica said, and thought briefly that she and Hermione were like a vaudeville team, tossing their routine back and forth. “You've all gotten better and better—I've never seen so much progress in two weeks—and I'm sure we'll be ready for Tuesday night. I hope I come up to your level; you're all very fine.”

“Well, my goodness,” Nora said.
“You're
the one . . . I remember that day you took all our parts . . . Jessica, this is
very
exciting. It will be an honor to work with you.”

“We'll give you our best,” Whitbread murmured, raising Jessica's hand to his lips. “Good actors are always prepared to surmount the unexpected.”

They all looked at Edward.

“Edward, are you prepared to surmount the unexpected?” Hermione asked.

“I don't like risks—this is incredibly foolhardy—but I don't see that we have any options. I can only hope that those of us who have so much to lose will—”

“Not lose it,” Jessica said evenly, wondering what she had ever seen in him. “I think we all have a great deal at stake here. Thank you all for your support. Now the schedule. We'll still rehearse every day during previews, at ten o'clock. On the weekend and Monday we'll start at eight. The new blocking will be ready tomorrow; you'll get diagrams to take home to study before Saturday. If you have questions or problems with my work, or anything that involves direction, and you're uncomfortable coming to me, talk to Hermione. We all want to succeed.”

After that, the cast rehearsed until one o'clock, then scattered for the afternoon. Hermione and Jessica ate a quick lunch at the outdoor cafe on the lower terrace of the Opera House, not talking much, gazing across the water. The day was cool and they did not linger. “Time for your hair,” Hermione said, and led her to Sistie's Salon.

“Nice hair, good texture, good body,” Sistie said as she lifted and let fall strands of Jessica's hair. “Hermione said you wanted blond. Very light, with streaks?”

“Yes,” Jessica said.

With a broad paintbrush, Sistie painted Jessica's hair in small sections that stood up like rays of the sun until she combed them all down, tight to her head. Jessica looked in the mirror at her thin, drawn face, its deep lines even deeper without a frame of softly curling hair. In the bright, unsparing light, she looked stark and ugly. “Wait,” she said, tensing to stand up. “Hermione, I can't—”

“How about a manicure?” Hermione said loudly.

“We could do that,” said Sistie. “You'll be sitting here for twenty minutes anyway, and Amy is free right now.” She picked up Jessica's hands and inspected them. “Definitely a good idea.”

Two hours later, when they left, Hermione was jubilant. “I knew it, I knew it. What do you think? You were very polite to Sistie, but do you really like it? It's very good, Jessie.”

“There isn't much difference, is there?” They reached her car and she looked at herself in the rearview mirror. Far better than in that awful moment when her hair had been plastered to her head, but still . . . “It's a nice color, but I don't really look any different.”

“You look younger. Believe me. Now wait until we get to makeup.”

“I'll look so young I'll be sent back to kindergarten.”

Hermione hesitated as Jessica pulled out of their parking space. “You're not happy about this?”

“I'm okay. It's just going to take some getting used to.”

“You will. I'd guess it will take about fifteen minutes. Do you want to go somewhere for coffee?”

Jessica shook her head. “I'm going home to study until curtain time. I thought I knew this play, but I'm finding all sorts of little things I'd never thought of.”

That night, after the performance, she rushed home and almost tripped over Hope as she hurried to read the letter that would be on the fax machine. But there was no letter; the tray was empty. And it was empty the next two nights as well. He never got my letter, Jessica thought, gazing at the silent machine as if she could will it to life. The housekeeper misplaced it when she was cleaning the library. Or it fell on the floor behind a chair. Or his fax isn't working. Maybe he's out of town.

Or maybe he hasn't written because he doesn't want to. He's decided that he isn't about to come running when I finally get around to asking him. Why should he, after all the times I told him I intended to make my way alone, without clinging to him?

No, she thought. I don't believe that. Not after his last letter. And she picked up the telephone and called him.

There was no answer. Not even a tape recorder on which she could leave a message.
They've all disappeared. Luke and Martin and the housekeeper.

She slammed the telephone down. It served her right, she thought. She'd do it alone after all.

She took Hope outside and limped behind her as she sniffed her way up and down the block. When they went back, the house felt hollow, like a shell. It was as if she had populated it with Luke when she wrote her letter and now that he was not coming it seemed emptier and quieter than ever. But I do have Constance's letters, she thought as she changed into a robe and went to the kitchen for tea. And Hermione. Manipulative, domineering, crafty, scheming, and absolutely wonderful. And she loves me. That's more than most people have; it's all I need.

On Saturday morning, the cast of
Journeys End
began rehearsals for opening night. There had been a party the night before, to say good-bye to Angela and to celebrate a sold-out week of previews, with one powerfully good review by Gregory Varden that had brought lines at the box office. But they could not celebrate success, because no one had seen the play that would open on Tuesday night. With Jessica in the lead, everything would be different and the critics would forget everything they had said and start from scratch, prepared to sneer, not only because she was famous, but also because she was American.

By Saturday afternoon, fear had settled over them like a cloud. Because Jessica was not doing well. She stumbled over lines she knew perfectly well and had been practicing at home all week. She forgot cues; she forgot the new blocking and found herself lurching around the set because she thought she was holding up the others. They could not get through more than two or three lines of dialogue before they had to go back and try them again.

“A disaster,” Edward growled backstage after the first rehearsal. “My whole life is riding on this play; I put my future in her hands and she's destroying it. I can feel it crumble; there won't be anything left.”

Jessica heard him through the thin wall of the women's dressing room, where she was being fitted for alterations to her wardrobe. She looked down and met the eyes of the wardrobe designer, who was pinning her skirt.

“Fuck 'im,” the designer said, making no attempt to lower his voice. “I saw you in
The Crucible
and you were fantastic. There ain't nothin' you can't do. You'll make him look like a horse's ass. Which of course everybody knows he is.” Jessica laughed. “Now that's better,” he said. “You hear him sounding off again, you come to me. There's always the other side, you know. Mustn't lose sight of it.”

“Thank you,” Jessica said gravely. “I think you're very wise. I'm glad you're here.”

The trouble was, she could not get used to standing still on the stage and letting others come to her. All morning, she had instinctively sprung to her feet, or taken a step forward, propelled by the emotions of the dialogue, only to be brought up short, remembering. She felt like a stick of wood, propped like her cane against the desk, or stuck on the couch, or standing between two pieces of furniture.

And she thought the others were always aware of the differences between her and Angela, too polite to say anything, pretending not to notice that she was thin and stooped where Angela was tall and assertive, that she looked older than her years where Angela had looked exactly the right age, that she could not use the blocking she herself had worked out, while Angela had been able to do anything.

Instead, they were being very kind. Nora had said, “Oh, I do like your hair. What a good idea.” Whitbread Castle had said, “Very nice. You look younger, if I may be so bold as to say so.” Edward had been surprised. “I liked the way you looked before.”

Because, in Edward's melancholy world, no one should be good-looking.

“You look grim,” Hermione said. “Relax. It will come.”

“It should still be there. Like bicycle riding: once you know how to do it, you never forget.”

“You're rusty, that's all. Out of practice. Loosen up, Jessie; you're making everybody as nervous as troops going off to war.”

“That's what it's beginning to feel like.”

But when they returned to rehearsal that afternoon, she masked her fear and frustration and concentrated on her lines. She stumbled less over words and phrases, but she had no vitality and the others reacted by walking through their parts as if they were automatons.

“Not great,” Hermione said when they had struggled through all three acts. “But it's only Saturday. We have plenty of time. Are we coming back tonight?”

Jessica shook her head. “Everybody needs a break. Tomorrow at eight.”

“I'll tell them. How about dinner tonight? Do you want to come over and laugh or cry or just talk?”

“No. Thank you, Hermione, I just want to be quiet.” She drove home slowly, no longer hurrying to find a letter waiting for her. She unlocked her door and barely glanced at the empty fax machine. She took Hope's leash and walked outside with her, then came back, automatically looking that way again, though she had told herself not to. Finally, with Hope curled up beside her, she sat on the couch, nibbling leftovers from the refrigerator, drinking coffee, going over every line of the play.

What was wrong with her? It was more than being forced to stay in one place; more than self-consciousness about her looks. She knew her lines, her emotions, her expressions; she knew her moves, the few that she had. But the exhilaration she remembered so clearly—that moment, like a wrinkle in time, when suddenly she would break through a barrier and become her character—was not there. I've lost it, she thought. I'm like a dancer whose body can no longer do the stretches and swooping bends it once did. I had a talent, but I didn't nurture it, and it shriveled and died.

The telephone rang.
Luke. Finally.

“Jessica?” It was Nora. “I hope you don't mind my calling, but I just wanted to tell you that I know how it feels to be doing badly, I mean, you know, not doing as well as you can, and you mustn't worry, because it will get better, really it will, and we're all sure you're going to be absolutely great.”

“Thank you,” Jessica said. “You're very kind.”

When she hung up, she was smiling. The wonderful irony cut through her self-pity and frustration. Nora, she thought, who has done almost nothing in the theater, consoling Jessica Fontaine, encouraging her, telling her she'll be absolutely great.

Well, then, I will be.

She remembered something Constance had written when they were beginning rehearsals for
Mrs. Warren's Profession.
Bringing the box of letters to her lap, she scanned them until she found it, a quote from a director named Alan Schneider.

“There are no secret shortcuts, there are no formulas, there are no rules. There's only yourself and your talent and your taste and your choices.”

The next morning—
Sunday; only two more days
—she arrived at the theater before everyone else. She walked across the dimly lit turntables, coming at last to the place at the desk where she would stay for most of the first act. She stood there for close to an hour, her thoughts floating free: she was part of the stage, part of the set, part of the theater. When the others arrived and Dan turned up the lights she blinked, as if awakening. “We'll go straight through,” she said as they took their places, “but we'll stop whenever anyone has a question or a comment.”