He laughed. “I like the way you think. Like a man, not a girl. Here’s the deaclass="underline" We give you an advance of one grand. I’ll have my secretary cut you a check today. Once the show makes money, you’ll get four and a half percent of the take, minus the advance. Got it?”
He held out his hand and Hazel shook it. One thousand dollars. An unimaginable amount, considering she’d thought the ten dollars a day she’d made on tour was a decent wage. Even better, she’d be able to stay on at the Chelsea.
All those words she’d typed and retyped over the past five years since her return from the war had finally paid off, in spades. She thought of the thousands of pages of dialogue that she’d reworked and then tossed aside in her effort to find just the right phrase, the right joke, the right mood. This play was a culmination of serious study and hard work, but still, after all that, she’d simply been in the right place at the right time. At the Chelsea Hotel.
Right off, she sent Lavinia an enormous bouquet of flowers to thank her for the referral, and told the folks at NBC that she had booked another job. The hardest part was telling Ruth, who considered her decision to stay at the Chelsea Hotel and not return home a personal betrayal. Ruth had said she was crazy to break away from acting, called the play a dangerous distraction, and warned that Hazel would regret not taking her advice. Hazel had stood firm, though, the memory of her mother’s hand on her cheek still fresh.
The day of the reading, Hazel knocked on the stage door of the Biltmore and was ushered inside to the house, where plasterwork in creams and light blues rose to an enormous dome. A long table had been set up in the center of the stage; a bare bulb atop a pole stood sentry near the wings. A group of actors had been assembled for the workshop, and Hazel knew from experience that they all hoped to get the roles they’d been temporarily assigned. They clapped politely as she was introduced, and she took the empty seat next to Mr. Canby.
The director, a short man with a nasal voice, named William Williams, stood to offer a welcome speech. “This is a remarkable play by a woman about war. I want the audience to feel the bullets, the fear, to smell the sweat. Make it big, don’t be afraid, my soldiers. Let us begin.”
Not the words Hazel would have used to describe her play, but she stayed mum. Let the professionals do their jobs. She’d given herself a pep talk before walking into the theater, telling herself that she had as much right to be here as anyone, and to take a seat at the table with confidence. But no one had really noticed her, even now.
“Act one, scene one,” read the stage manager.
Hazel cringed as the actress playing the female lead burst into high-pitched crocodile tears only a few lines into her first scene, when she was supposed to be pretending to be a man. The actor playing opposite her shouted to the rafters and gesticulated wildly as they hid from the search mob storming the hotel. Not the most effective choice. Thank goodness this was just a workshop.
Hazel raised her eyebrows at Mr. Canby, but he just nodded and leaned back in his chair, staring at the lighting grid in the rafters.
The revisions she’d done to the play held up, at least. Once she convinced the director to take it down a notch, she was certain it would work. She looked out at the empty seats. So many people to attract, to convince to buy a ticket. To entertain. This was her big chance, and she’d have to make sure she held the reins tightly so Mr. Williams didn’t run off in the wrong direction. But that’s what rehearsal was for.
They took a break after the second act. Hazel tried to explain her take on the play to Mr. Canby, but he just laughed and told her that the playwright always thought he knew best. But in this case, they would have to trust in the director, who, as Hazel would do well to remember, was the most experienced and successful artist in the room. Hazel knew then that her only hope was to appeal to Mr. Williams.
She discovered their illustrious director off in the wings whispering with the lead actress. They both jumped when she approached.
Mr. Williams shook her hand, squeezing hard. “Miss Ripley, we were just remarking on what a terrific work you’ve come up with, on the first try. Bravo.”
“Thank you, I am quite honored to be here, of course. But I was wondering, as we delve into the final act, what if you asked the actors to lower the tone a bit? I think the play will work even better. After all, the subject matter is serious.”
“Now, don’t you worry, little lady. I have it well in hand. You know, I’ve directed twenty-five shows on the Great White Way.”
“Twenty-six,” added the actress with a sly smile. Brandy Sainsbury was her name. Hazel had run into her on previous auditions, where she had a tendency to tap-dance in the waiting room, ostensibly to calm her own nerves, but more likely because she knew it would irritate and fluster her competition.
“Right. Well, just a thought.”
Hazel returned to the table. She’d never been in this position before, one of authority, and was unsure. Should she assert herself now, making her preferences and demands known right off? Or was it better to wait until they had an actual cast and were in rehearsal? It was less immediate pressure if she chose to wait, but was that just a cop-out?
By the time she’d convinced herself to speak up, they’d launched back into the play. Too late.
Emboldened by Mr. Williams, the actors went all out, offering up over-the-top line readings and, a couple of times, silly voices. She’d have to add in slamming doors and tripping on rugs, now that her play had turned into an English farce.
Finally, the stage manager intoned, “Curtain.”
Hazel tried to catch Mr. Canby before he left, but he said he had a lunch to get to at Sardi’s and he’d see her tomorrow at the auditions. She asked if he had any notes about the play, any suggested changes, and to her surprise he made a good one, switching around two scenes in the second act. Easy to execute, and an improvement. Maybe today’s reading hadn’t been for naught.
She walked back to the hotel, where a half dozen men with cameras slung around their necks had gathered just outside, smoking and talking among themselves. A strange sight, more suited to the fancy hotels uptown like the Plaza or the Waldorf. She made her way through and headed for the elevator.
Mr. Bard stopped her.
“You have a guest, Miss Ripley.”
Hazel wasn’t expecting anyone. She looked about the lobby, but all the chairs were empty.
“I didn’t think she should wait down here, so I sent her straight to your room with an extra key.” He looked positively giddy, like a schoolboy who’d aced a test.
She imagined her mother showing up, demanding that she return home. “Who is it?”
“She said I was to not tell you, to let it be a surprise. Don’t you love surprises?” He clapped his hands together. “Up you go. She arrived a few hours ago. Do let me know if she requires anything. We can send up anything you need.”
What on earth was he talking about?
Hazel braced herself and headed up. Her door was unlocked, and at least seven suitcases were strewn across the Oriental rug, several opened and the contents bursting forth, as if they’d been dropped from a great height. She recognized one of the dresses from the tent in Naples.
“There you are!” Maxine popped her head out from the bedroom, her shoulders bare. “Just changing, I’ll be with you in a bit.”
Maxine Mead had arrived.
Hazel didn’t have to wait long before Maxine rushed into her arms, wearing only a silk slip and smelling like lemons. Memories flooded back, of sand and mud, of uncertainty, and deep belly laughs at the silliest things. And of the boy in the cell, petrified and alone.
“Are you surprised?” asked Maxine.
Hazel stared at her friend, amazed. “I am. I didn’t even know you were in town.”