“So you can have another bad fall? I would think the thing to do is stay away from horses. But that’s not the point, Tanya. I didn’t really have a bad fall. I’m in better shape now than I was before he left. I was going to leave him sooner or later, he just happened to get around to it first. ‘You can’t fire me, I quit,’ that sort of thing.”
“Then what’s the hassle?”
“I don’t feel like getting involved with anybody for the time being. That’s all.”
“Well, that’s cool.” She picked up a woven shoulder bag, modeled it, put it back on its hook. “But just girl to girl, what do you do about sex?”
“About sex,” she drawled, “I has me cuppa tay.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, it’s a joke. An Englishman is in the west of Ireland, and he likes it there but there’s nothing to do for sex, so he asks an Irishman what they do about sex, and the Irishman says about sex we have our tea. I can’t do accents at all and it’s not that good a joke in the first place but I happened to think of it.”
“Oh, I get it.”
“It’s not very funny.”
“But besides tea, Linda, what do you do?”
For the slightest moment she wondered what the point of this was, wondered if there was a motive to Tanya’s interest. Paranoia, she told herself. Not everyone in the world wanted her fair white body. And Tanya was an unlikely lesbian; Bill kept her busy enough in his room across the hall. All the two of them seemed to do was screw and watch television, and they hadn’t been watching much television lately.
“I don’t do anything,” she said.
“I don’t mean to pry.”
“No, that’s all right.”
“But don’t you... I don’t know, doesn’t it get to you? I mean you’ve lived with guys, you get used to it”
“I’ve lived without them and I’ve gotten used to that, too.”
“I suppose so. I couldn’t go without it myself. I just get so I can’t even talk to people. I start biting my nails, I get ginchy, the whole trip. I mean a couple of days and I just about break out in hives. I guess people are different that way.”
“I guess they are.”
“For me it wouldn’t be healthy. And as far as getting involved. I mean there are enough guys in this town and the last thing they want is getting involved. Unless you’re afraid of falling in love yourself and getting hurt.”
“No.”
“The point is, you could take care of your needs without getting involved.”
“Well, I have all the time in the world, Tanya.”
“Well, sure.”
“It’s not as if I had a deadline.”
“Who said it was? You know, I think I’d like one of the Greek bags. That’s where they’re from, Greece? For two bucks I might as well. You think it’s right for me?”
“I think it’s very good. Try the blue one right behind you, it might be a better color for you. Yes, I think it’s better.”
“You know, you’re right. Yeah, I think I’ll take it, Linda.”
When Warren walked into the Raparound he saw Peter and Gretchen at a corner table. Robin was crouched beneath the table playing with Peter’s shoelaces and squealing joyously. Warren glanced their way quickly, then walked on by toward the other side of the room. He looked for someone to sit with but there was no one around whom he knew well enough to join. He was just pulling out a chair at an empty table when Peter hailed him.
He pretended not to hear. When Peter called his name a second time he closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, then spun around and made a show of recognition. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” Peter said. “Have a seat.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone.”
“Well, sit here until they come. I suppose you’ve heard about Gypsy. You’re lucky you’re out of this one.”
“So I understand.”
“Sit down and have some coffee.”
He hesitated, then pulled out the chair Peter was indicating. As he did so Gretchen pushed back her own chair and stood. Her coffee cup was still half full.
“I really have to run,” she told Peter. “I was going to get Robin into the tub an hour ago. Are you coming or do you want to stay here?”
Peter stared.
She retrieved Robin from beneath the table, hoisted her onto her shoulder. “Whichever you want,” she said to Peter. “I’ll be at the apartment.”
Peter watched her walk quickly to the door and out. He put money on the table and gaped at Warren. He said, “I just don’t get it.”
“Go with her.”
“I don’t—”
“Some other time. Go on.”
Warren turned and went to the table he had originally selected. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee, unfolded his newspaper and glanced idly through it. The new Hillbreth play had opened the night before and Clive Barnes seemed to have liked it, although it was hard to be sure. It was also evidently hard to be sure what the play was about, or at least it had been hard for Barnes. He scanned the cast. Three of the seven listed performers were ones he’d worked with at one time or another.
He felt a momentary twinge of envy and smiled at it. No matter how thoroughly one knew one did not wish to play Broadway, there were inevitable moments when one forgot. He had decided long ago that he did not want all that. Nor was it sour grapes. He could have had, if not steady employment, at least the Broadway equi thereof. He was a solid character actor with a wide range. Producers and directors knew him and liked to use him. Other actors found him good company on and off the stage.
He had worked one Broadway show. The vehicle was a good play, the first (and, as it turned out, the last) work of a promising young playwright. Warren’s own part was small, but that sort of thing had never concerned him.
What did concern him was what had happened to the play. After endless rehearsals and out-of-town tryouts, it opened at the Martin Beck and closed after three performances. The critics, the handful of important ones, did not like it. What they didn’t like nobody saw.
He decided it was ridiculous. He and a great many other talented people had spent an untoward amount of time — not to mention a ton of Other People’s Money — polishing a play to the point where they could bring it to New York, perform it three times, and then consign it to theatrical limbo for eternity. It did not make sense, nor did it make much more sense to land in a hit show and be doomed to play the same role night after night until you couldn’t keep from walking through the play one night out of three. There were two pitfalls for an actor on Broadway — failure and success.
He had returned to New Hope vowing never to be tempted away from it. God knew it had its disadvantages. Tony Bartholomew was one of them all by himself. The money was not good, although it was not much worse than Broadway and the steady work more than compensated. The performances were never perfect. Something was always a little off, and often virtually everything was a little off. If the New Hope Repertory Company was not in any sense amateur, neither was it utterly professional. In any event, it was handicapped by the need to get a new play on the boards every week or two. Things could never be perfectly polished under those circumstances.
On the other hand, there was the excitement of a new play always in the wings. One could not go stale in a role. The most loathsome play never took more than a few weeks of your life. One was sustained by the knowledge that it would be part of the past before too long. Nor could any play fail as plays failed on Broadway. Good or bad, critically praised or damned, they played out their run and drew about the same size house regardless.
There were still occasional moments when he would forget that he did not really want fame. He would see an old friend on the Cavett show and would have to remind himself that he did not want to be on the Cavett show, that it was sacrifice enough on his part to watch it. He played enough ego games and played them well enough. He needed no additional ones.