Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later (10 page)

“What was that about?” Elizabeth asked him.

“It’s an unwritten rule: Only the director talks to the actors. If a producer or a writer has something to say, he’s got to send Ross a note. If Ross thinks it’s valid, he talks to the actor himself.”

“That seems like a long way around. I mean, Connolly is the writer.”

“Yeah, but that’s the way it is.”

“So what’s going to happen?”

“Bala or somebody will talk to Will. And then it won’t happen again.”

“I don’t know; Connolly is pretty strong.”

“So are Sondheim and Herman and Mamet.…”

“Mamet sends notes?”

“Right.”

This was the real theater, not her little spring break experience. And it could be hard. Even brutal.

“So when is this going to happen? The talking-to?” she asked.

“Pretty soon.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Maybe in the bar across the street. Don’t worry; they’ll find him.”

“Thanks. See ya!” And out she went, straight to the Wicked Teapot, the Irish bar facing the theater, happily enjoying the warmth of about twenty seconds of sunshine before she was back in another dim, chilly place.

Connolly was there. At the bar, in front of an empty martini glass, which rested next to a full one. Quietly, Elizabeth took a seat a couple stools over from him. His head was down, studying the script on his lap, his fingers pushing the pages, fast and angry. If he looked up he would see her in the mirror behind the bottles, but he didn’t, not even when he took great gulps of the second martini.

Now he was making notes, scrawling words over pages. Elizabeth could see from his hand motions that he was making lots of exclamation marks, punctuating the script with dots that hit almost hard enough to break a pen point or at least tear the page. He was obviously furious.

The bartender, a young Irishman who was so incredibly handsome that Elizabeth almost forgot why she was there, asked for her order in that soft, gentle-on-the-ears Irish accent.

“A dirty martini,” she said.

“On the rocks?”

“No, straight up.”

He hesitated for that nanosecond that spoke of more than bartending interest. But gorgeous as he was, he wasn’t Elizabeth’s type. Now Jessica … she’d have gone nuts for him. No matter who he was with, she’d have scooped him up in a minute. She always had a thing for dark hair and blue eyes. Black Irish, she called them.

In fact, the bartender was undeniably the best-looking man Elizabeth had seen in New York. Movie-star material, probably an aspiring actor. It looked like all waiters and waitresses in New York really were out-of-work actors.

Elizabeth remembered a cartoon of a couple sitting in a restaurant in New York: The man wants to call the waiter, who is across the room. He lifts his hand and calls out, “Actor! Actor!”

Elizabeth watched the bartender pour a healthy portion of Stolichnaya vodka and just the tiniest splash of olive juice into a glass of ice and stir, eyes fixed on her all the while, mixing the drink by feel. Even without the alcohol, she was beginning to cheer up, though he was definitely wasting his time on her.

“Olive?” he asked, pouring the chilled liquid into a martini glass and making the single word sound positively loving, flashing a dimple that was almost overkill.

If he wasn’t an actor he should have been, especially the way he was playing this scene. She had to ask.

“Just curious: Are you an actor?”

“How’d you guess? Are you?” he asked, snapping out of romantic lead and right into hungry actor.

“No. I’m a writer.”

If he loved her before, he loved her even more now.

“A playwright?” he asked, pressing his luck.

“No, reporter.”

Elizabeth was beginning to enjoy the afternoon. If only she didn’t have to deal with Connolly, who at his best was hostile, now probably psychopathic.

“What paper?” the bartender/actor asked.

Fortunately, she was spared the Zagat explanation by a customer at the other end of the bar motioning to him just as Connolly, who had caught sight of her in the mirror, was turning to face her.

For Elizabeth, not that much of a martini drinker, two swallows was enough to smooth the outside edge, the rehearsal edge that had been making her crazy nervous every day for the past week. Two more swallows smoothed out all the other edges. She was starting to feel very warm—first toward the bartender, who was filling an order at the other end of the bar, and then down the row of stools to the asshole.

Who was looking right at her.

Elizabeth smiled.

Will looked confused, like he couldn’t place her. But then he had seen her only briefly that once in the dark theater. She’d spent this whole week out of sight, hiding in the back.

“Hi,” she said, and then to jog his memory, she added, “Elizabeth,
Show Survey…”

“Yeah, right, the Zagat thing.… So what do you want?”

Instead of being intimidated, as she had been this whole week, martini-fortified Elizabeth lost the smile and attacked. “What makes you think I want something from you?”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? Hint hint,” she said, holding up her glass. It felt good, not groveling. In fact, it was just what she needed. “You have to forgive me; I didn’t realize you owned this bar.”

Now there was no stopping her. And it was about time. In fact, maybe it was eight months about time.

“You know you’ve been a real pain in the ass,” she said. How nice it would be if she could just fling her whole drink in his face, but then she wouldn’t be able to drink it. To sustain her new personality, she probably needed it.

Will had touched the magic button, and it was all coming out. And maybe it helped that he looked like Todd. Probably just what he needed, too, a little taste of intimidation.

It worked.

“Hey, sorry, I—” he started, but she didn’t give him a chance.

“I was here to give you some publicity. How about being grateful instead of nasty?”

“Please, cool it. I’ve got enough stuff happening. I don’t need more from you,” he said. The portentousness of his demeanor announced that he had regained his writer position.

“Arrogance without portfolio,” Elizabeth said right in his face, and then without waiting for a response, turned back to her martini.

Will didn’t say anything; he just looked at her. The slightest crease of a smile played on his lips.

“That’s not bad,” he said.

Elizabeth didn’t look back, continuing to sip her drink as if she hadn’t heard him.

“Arrogance without portfolio. Mind if I borrow it?”

Elizabeth didn’t answer. The feeling of not catering to someone was decidedly new and surprisingly good, gloriously unElizabeth.

“Lizzie—”

“Don’t ever call me that,” she snapped.

“Elizabeth?”

“What.” She didn’t turn.

“Why don’t we start over?”

“Not interested, thank you.”

“What if I apologize?”

Elizabeth didn’t feel like answering, so she didn’t.

He continued. “I’m sorry. I guess I was pretty much an asshole. Nothing against you. I’m just nervous.…”

Elizabeth still didn’t answer, but now she turned and looked at him, not so much with anger as with curiosity.

“Actually,” he continued, “more like scared. I’ve worked on this play for four years. Every word counts. They’re all mine, but now I’m losing it. Like what happened before. The actor’s good, but he was reading it wrong. I had to tell him. I’m not going to just sit there and watch Ross take it all away from me. I gave up too much for this.”

“What did you give up?”

“Who’s asking? The reporter or the sympathetic listener?”

“I’m working.”

“Then this is off the record.”

“Okay.”

Will was beginning to feel the head start on his martinis; pushing his drink toward Elizabeth, he slid into the seat next to hers.

“You’re not from New York, are you?” she asked.

“Almost nobody is. I’m from Chicago. Not such a second city anymore.”

“I guess.” Elizabeth was doing just what she felt like. And still pissed off is what she felt like. Will had made things really hard for her for no reason and now, with the help of his martinis, he was feeling warmer. And maybe a little needy. Well, she wasn’t.

“Talk about not friendly,” he said.

“Any special reason why I should be friendly to you?”

“Two martinis?”

It was worth the quick smile she allowed but nothing more.

“So, what did you give up?” she asked.

“Not so fast. I need a lead into it.”

“Is it that bad?”

“It’s not good.”

Despite herself, Elizabeth was beginning to feel an interest. And she was getting excited. What could be more New York than sitting in a bar across from the theater in the middle of the day, talking to the playwright?
And
being sort of in charge.

“You feel like telling me,” she said in her reporter voice, “I’m listening.” Or at least it was what she thought from movies sounded like a reporter voice.

“I dropped out of law school in the middle of the term. Fifty thousand dollars down the drain.”

“Student loans?”

“Nope. My father’s fifty thousand.”

“Well, if the play is a success, maybe—”

“And I walked out on my fiancée.”

“Oh…”

“Big oh … One day it just hit me: I didn’t love law or Chicago or maybe even Wendy.”

Elizabeth turned back to her drink, took a big swallow, and let it burn its way down to her chest before she turned back to Will.

“What happened to Wendy?”

“I don’t know. I tried to call her, but she wouldn’t talk to me. I had to think she wasn’t on my side. Why else wouldn’t she talk to me?”

“How about ’cause you walked out on her?”

“I don’t know. I’m not really in touch with anyone else back there, so how would I know?”

“You don’t talk to your family?”

“Especially not my family. We had this huge argument. My father thought I was a fool to give up law for the theater, like all the years of sacrifice he’d made to save money for expensive private schools and law school were a waste. He told me hardly anyone makes it in the theater.

“Then he really lost it and asked what made me think I had the talent? He would have seen it. And he never did. I was heading for failure, and he certainly wasn’t going to be a part of it. I wasn’t to expect any help from him. And as far as he was concerned, I owed him fifty thousand dollars and I shouldn’t bother to come around until I had the money. My mother was in tears.

“I didn’t even argue. I just stormed out. Went back to my apartment, grabbed my play and some clothes, got on the bus that same day, and came to New York.”

“What about Wendy?”

“I left a message where I was going. I never heard from her. I know she was hurt and angry, and I felt terrible, but I didn’t feel the support from her. Maybe I didn’t love her enough. Or maybe she didn’t love me enough. All I know is that staying because of her would have been a mistake.”

“How long had you been with her?”

“About three years. We were planning to get married right after I finished law school. Once it was decided, I guess I never did much thinking about it. Yeah, I thought about whether I wanted law or writing or what, but not about love. Wendy was great. I can’t believe what I did to her.”

“Do you love her?”

From the warmth on his face, a sweet memory passing by, Elizabeth thought he was going to say yes. But then his face hardened and he said instead, “I don’t know.”

He left it at that. Then he said, “It’s been very hard to keep believing I did the right thing, and after a day like today, I really don’t know. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.… Maybe I gave up too much. Did you see what happened in there?”

Elizabeth considered lying, but the martinis took away any concern she might have had. “Yeah, I saw it all.”

“It’s like I committed some heinous crime. Did you see the king’s face?”

“It seems you’re not supposed to talk directly to the actors. You have to send a note to the director and then he tells them. It’s ‘an unwritten law.’”

“Then let them arrest me.”

“Yeah, but what are you really going to do?”

“I’m really going to have another martini.” With that he motioned to the bartender. “Another round. Join me,” he said, smiling at Elizabeth. “I’m buying.”

Elizabeth felt too relaxed to keep up the angry persona. Additionally, she was delighted to see that Will’s eyes were a bright blue—as far from Todd’s dark brown as you could get. The alcohol was making her feel very warm inside her chest. Made her want some kind of connection, a feeling she hadn’t had in a lot of months.