“What are they?”
“For Constantia’s comfort, I would ask that the lighting levels be taken down substantially. She’s simply not accustomed to performing under such hot, bright lights.”
“Very well.”
“I’d also request that we install a row of footlights.”
“Footlights?”
“An odd requirement, I realize, but she feels much happier with footlights.”
“They tend to dazzle the actors,” said Calloway. “It becomes difficult to see the audience.”
“Nevertheless… I have to stipulate their installation.”
“OK.”
“Thirdly—I would ask that all scenes involving kissing, embracing or otherwise touching Constantia be re-directed to remove every instance of physical contact whatsoever.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“For God’s sake why?”
“My wife needs no business to dramatize the working of the heart, Terence.”
That curious intonation on the word “heart.” Working of the heart.
Calloway caught Constantia’s eye for the merest of moments. It was like being blessed.
“Shall we introduce our new Viola to the company?” Lichfield suggested.
“Why not?”
The trio went into the theatre.
The re-arranging of the blocking and the business to exclude any physical contact was simple. And though the rest of the cast were initially wary of their new colleague, her unaffected manner and her natural grace soon had them at her feet. Besides, her presence meant that the show would go on.
At six, Calloway called a break, announcing that they’d begin the Dress at eight, and telling them to go out and enjoy themselves for an hour or so. The company went their ways, buzzing with a new-found enthusiasm for the production. What had looked like a shambles half a day earlier now seemed to be shaping up quite well. There were a thousand things to be sniped at, of course: technical shortcomings, costumes that fitted badly, directorial foibles. All par for the course. In fact, the actors were happier than they’d been in a good while. Even Ed Cunningham was not above passing a compliment or two.
Lichfield found Tallulah in the Green Room, tidying.
“Tonight…”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must not be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” Tallulah replied. “What a thought. As if—”
“There may be some pain, which I regret. For you, indeed for all of us.”
“I understand.”
“Of course you do. You love the theatre as I love it: you know the paradox of this profession. To play life… ah, Tallulah, to play life… what a curious thing it is. Sometimes I wonder, you know, how long I can keep up the illusion.”
“It’s a wonderful performance,” she said.
“Do you think so? Do you really think so?” He was encouraged by her favorable review. It was so galling, to have to pretend all the time; to fake the flesh, the breath, the look of life. Grateful for Tallulah’s opinion, he reached for her.
“Would you like to die, Tallulah?”
“Does it hurt?”
“Scarcely at all.”
“It would make me very happy.”
“And so it should.”
His mouth covered her mouth, and she was dead in less than a minute, conceding happily to his inquiring tongue. He laid her out on the threadbare couch and locked the door of the Green Room with her own key. She’d cool easily in the chill of the room, and be up and about again by the time the audience arrived.
At six-fifteen Diane Duvall got out of a taxi at the front of the Elysium. It was well dark, a windy November night, but she felt fine; nothing could depress tonight. Not the dark, not the cold.
Unseen, she made her way past the posters that bore her face and name, and through the empty auditorium to her dressing-room. There, smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes, she found the object of her affection.
“Terry.”
She posed in the doorway for a moment, letting the fact of her reappearance sink in. He went quite white at the sight of her, so she pouted a little. It wasn’t easy to pout. There was a stiffness in the muscles of her face but she carried off the effect to her satisfaction.
Calloway was lost for words. Diane looked ill, no two ways about it, and if she’d left the hospital to take up her part in the Dress Rehearsal he was going to have to convince her otherwise. She was wearing no make-up, and her ash-blonde hair needed a wash.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, as she closed the door behind her.
“Unfinished business,” she said.
“Listen… I’ve got something to tell you…”
God, this was going to be messy. “We’ve found a replacement, in the show.” She looked at him blankly. He hurried on, tripping over his own words, “We thought you were out of commission, I mean, not permanently, but, you know, for the opening at least…”
“Don’t worry,” she said.
His jaw dropped a little.
“Don’t worry?”
“What’s it to me?”
“You said you came back to finish—”
He stopped. She was unbuttoning the top of her dress. She’s not serious, he thought, she can’t be serious. Sex? Now?
“I’ve done a lot of thinking in the last few hours,” she said as she shimmied the crumpled dress over her hips, let it fall, and stepped out of it. She was wearing a white bra, which she tried, unsuccessfully, to unhook. “I’ve decided I don’t care about the theatre. Help me, will you?”
She turned round and presented her back to him. Automatically he unhooked the bra, not really analyzing whether he wanted this or not. It seemed to be a fait accompli. She’d come back to finish what they’d been interrupted doing, simple as that. And despite the bizarre noises she was making in the back of her throat, and the glassy look in her eyes, she was still an attractive woman. She turned again, and Calloway stared at the fullness of her breasts, paler than he’d remembered them, but lovely. His trousers were becoming uncomfortably tight, and her performance was only worsening his situation, the way she was grinding her hips like the rawest of Soho strippers, running her hands between her legs.
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ve made up my mind. All I really want…”
She put her hands, so recently at her groin, on his face. They were icy cold.
“All I really want is you. I can’t have sex and the stage… There comes a time in everyone’s life when decisions have to be made.”
She licked her lips. There was no film of moisture left on her mouth when her tongue had passed over it.
“The accident made me think, made me analyze what it is I really care about. And frankly—” She was unbuckling his belt. ”—I don’t give a shit—”
Now the zip.
”—about this, or any other fucking play.”
His trousers fell down.
”—I’ll show you what I care about.”
She reached into his briefs, and clasped him. Her cold hand somehow made the touch sexier. He laughed, closing his eyes as she pulled his briefs down to the middle of his thigh and knelt at his feet.
She was as expert as ever, her throat open like a drain. Her mouth was somewhat drier than usual, her tongue scouring him, but the sensations drove him wild. It was so good, he scarcely noticed the ease with which she devoured him, taking him deeper than she’d ever managed previously, using every trick she knew to goad him higher and higher. Slow and deep, then picking up speed until he almost came, then slowing again until the need passed. He was completely at her mercy.
He opened his eyes to watch her at work. She was skewering herself upon him, face in rapture.