Abby shook her head, and noticed that the girl was holding a thick manila envelope against her chest.
“It’s…it’s a play I wrote, and he said he’d take a look at it. I’m at the Actors Studio. I’m an actress, but I’ve been working on the play for two years. I think I need some help with it, and he offered. My name is Daphne Blake.” Something about what she said struck a chord of memory. Abby had come to the theater with an envelope just like it three years ago, when Ivan first convinced her to try her hand at writing a play instead of her novel, and then promised to produce it. Abby heard an alarm bell go off in her head, and sensed danger. “Are you a set designer?” the girl asked with interest.
“No, I’m a playwright too. We all pitch in with odd jobs here, painting sets, working the box office before performances, cleaning up the theater. Do you want to leave the envelope with me? I’ll give it to him when he gets back,” Abby said quietly, trying not to seem nervous or suspicious. There was no reason for her to worry, and Ivan had every right to read other people’s plays. Although he only did his own very avant-garde plays, which never got good reviews, or even attracted the notice of the press. Ivan was particularly irate that every play he had produced and directed was ignored. Even the critics who covered Off Off Broadway said nothing about his work. It was the greatest insult of all. He had a small coterie of supporters who gave him just enough money to get by and believed in his work. But he had used none of the funds to produce one of Abby’s plays.
“Do you mind if I wait?” the girl asked Abby, continuing to clutch the envelope to her bosom, as though someone would try to steal it from her. Abby used to feel that way about her work too. More so about her unfinished novel than the very experimental work that Ivan wanted her to write. Some of it still felt forced and unnatural to her. But she trusted him.
“Not at all, but he might be a while, maybe a long while,” Abby said to the girl. “I think he was going to do some errands too.” It was a little bit annoying to have her standing there, waiting for the messiah to come, or the oracle to speak. Abby felt that way about him too. His particular style of writing was ethereal and strange. But he was so knowledgeable about everything involving experimental theater that Abby considered him one of the unsung heroes of his time. And apparently this girl thought so too. She sat down in the second row of the theater and prepared to wait while Abby continued painting scenery with a shaking hand. She was painting a large devil for them to use in the second act, and she had red paint splashed all over her, which looked like drops of blood in her hair.
The girl sat for two hours without making a sound, reading a book she’d brought with her, and Abby almost forgot she was there, but not quite. And then Ivan sauntered in, and smiled up at Abby onstage as he approached.
“How’s it coming?” he asked, referring to the devil she was painting. “Terrifying, I hope.” He beamed at her, as their eyes met, and she felt her knees turn to rubber as they always did when he looked at her. He mesmerized her, and she would have done anything for him. And they both jumped when the girl spoke in a soft voice from the second row in the dimly lit theater. Abby had turned the house lights down, and had kept only the spotlights bright on the stage so she could see her work, and had forgotten she was there. Ivan wheeled at the sound of the voice and was startled when he noticed her gazing adoringly at him, which Abby saw and didn’t like. The hint of something ominous was in the air.
“What are you doing here?” He was obviously surprised.
“You said I could drop my play off and you’d read it,” she reminded him.
“Yes, I did,” he said as though he’d forgotten and smiled at her. Morgan always compared him to Rasputin when he focused on women. Sasha thought he was just a creep. But Abby saw something in him that they didn’t, and the young girl talking to him did too. “I’ll read it on Sunday and Monday when the theater is dark, and let you know what I think.” And then he was struck by an idea. “Would you like to go for a cup of coffee and tell me about it for a few minutes?” he offered. “As long as you waited for me, you can explain what you tried to accomplish, so I don’t miss any of your intent.” Abby knew as well as he did that the play shouldn’t need an interpretation from the playwright, it should speak for itself. But she didn’t say anything as she continued painting the scenery, and pretended not to listen.
The girl instantly accepted his offer, and they left the theater a few minutes later, deep in conversation about her play, as she explained its message to him. And for a minute, Abby felt sick. She had heard it all before. He had said it all to her in the past three years. And she had seen him flirt with other young girls, actresses they auditioned, or young directors seeking work. She never took it seriously, or felt threatened by it, but this time, for some unknown reason, she did. The girl looked so innocent but determined, and he was so intense when he talked to her.
He came back an hour later, without the girl, and explained the meeting to Abby, so she wouldn’t worry. He didn’t want her to be upset.
“Her father has a shitload of money, and is willing to back any play someone will put on for her. I’m sure she can’t write to save her life, but we can use the money, and if her rich daddy is willing to help us out, I’ll read damn near anything, to keep our theater on its feet. It can’t hurt.” At least it explained why he was willing to talk to her, and appeared so interested in her play. “Sometimes you have to prostitute yourself a little, for the common good. Not like your parents, for the masses, which is selling out in its lowest form, but angels come into our lives sometimes, and her father may give us just the kind of backing we need.”
Abby sighed as she listened to him, wanting to believe that what he said about the reason for reading the play was true. She wasn’t entirely certain of it, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And he loved the devil she had painted that afternoon, although most of the red paint was on her shirt and in her hair. He asked her then if she would come to his place that night, after he had dinner with a friend who was having woman troubles he wanted to talk about. “Would midnight be too late?” he asked, caressing her neck, and letting his hand drift to her breast, as she melted at his touch.
“No, it’s fine.” She would be half asleep by then, but the prospect of curling up in his arms, sated by their lovemaking, was too tempting to resist. He was an artful lover who understood women’s bodies well, and the sex they shared was like a drug, and would make her forget everything else, the long delay waiting for him to produce her play, and even the little rich girl who had waited in the theater for him all afternoon. “I’ll come over at midnight,” she said in a soft voice as he kissed her.
And then she remembered that some of her roommates were thinking of dropping by Max’s restaurant on Saturday night and wondered if he wanted to join them after the performance. He never said that he didn’t like her roommates, but she sensed it easily. And it was mutual. He avoided them whenever possible, and when she extended the invitation to him for Saturday, he looked vague.
“The performance will take too much out of me. I won’t be up to a lot of people and a noisy restaurant. But thanks anyway. Another time?” She nodded, and didn’t insist. She knew he gave a lot to the plays they put on. “You go with them, though, if you want to. I’ll just go home and go to bed.” The invitation had been casual for anyone with no plans. But their Sunday-night dinners at the loft were a weekly tradition, and everyone came.
“Do you want to have dinner at the apartment on Sunday night?” she asked him timidly. He was awkward with her friends and almost never participated in their regular Sunday-night family-style meals. He always had an excuse to miss them.