Each of the other actors had a similar problem of dual personality, and they all had great difficulty not only in interpreting each role, but in deciding how any two or more characters were to speak to each other. Part of the point of the play, cleverly conceived and written by Randy, was that each character brought out one special aspect of each other character, so that Peggy had to act quite differently, almost minute by minute, depending on whom she was speaking to.
Their first efforts in this reading were often so wrong as to be hilarious. The scene included Peggy, Greta, the “businessman type” who was an affable, charming man named Alan Douglas, and the comedian, a roly-poly actor named Gil Mulligan. Their attempts at finding a suitable kind of relationship for this scene were not very successful, and they were so intent on establishing character that they often paid very little attention to their lines, and garbled the words. To make matters worse, Mulligan had a knack of taking each “fluff,” which is what actors call a mistake, and carrying it on one step farther toward madness. When Mal finally arrived to see how the group was doing, they were all doubled up in helpless laughter.
When they had caught their breath, Amy tried to explain to Mal. “The characters are so shifting,” she said, “that everybody’s confused about how they’re supposed to act to whom. Or am I confusing it more? Anyway, they’ve all been fluffing lines like mad.”
“Of course,” Mal said matter-of-factly. “Wrong approach, and all of you should have known it. It’s far too early in the game to try to define your characters. You have more than enough work to do in just getting your lines down cold. What I want you to do for a while is just to go over the lines and learn your cues. Read your parts straight. After you’re easy in what you’re doing, we’ll work at establishing character and shifting viewpoint and response. Besides—and pardon me if I sound like a tyrannical director—I’d rather you wouldn’t play around with character development when I’m not here. Now, have you read the scene through yet?”
“Nearly,” Peggy answered, “if you can call what we’ve been doing a reading. I don’t think any of us benefited much by it, though.”
“All right,” Mal answered. “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you start it again from the top? I think we have time to go through it at least one time, just to get the feel of it. Then you can all go off by yourselves to learn your own sides.”
This time, with no worrying about character, the scene went smoothly. Almost mechanically, Peggy thought. At first she could not understand the point of having them all just sit around and read the words of the scene to each other without any attempt at acting, but gradually she began to appreciate the value of the method. As each one read in turn, she discovered that every actor had his own personal style or rhythm of reading, a rhythm which, by the end of the scene, she was beginning to catch and anticipate. By the time they were done, she thought that she could tell fairly accurately in advance how each would read his next line. Now that they weren’t trying to make themselves fit the parts, they fell easily into their own natural patterns of speech.
Things went much more quickly in this fashion, and they were able to run through the scene twice before it was time to call a halt. The second time around was much smoother, Peggy noticed, and as they worked, the pattern of the scene and the interplay of the characters began to emerge. When it was done, all the actors agreed that they now had a much clearer idea of what they were doing, and would be better able to go home and study their lines.
As they were on their way out, Peggy fell into step alongside Mal. “I noticed that you didn’t say a word about how we should read,” she said, “and I also noticed that the individual reading styles of the people were pretty clear this time. Is that what you were after?”
“Exactly,” Mal said. “You’re catching on to the tricks pretty quickly, Peggy. You see, a director has to work with actors, as well as with a play. I can’t force anyone to fit precisely into my own preconceived notions of a character, because if I tried, the performance would be stiff and unnatural. What I have to do first is get to understand the actors as they are, and then start building from there. That’s why a Broadway play has a much better chance than an off-Broadway venture. When you’re working with stars, you have known quantities—and qualities—and you cast people who already correspond to your own vision of the part. But when you have to work with unknown actors, you must remember that they’re unknown to the director as well as to the audience. Because of this, my first job is to get to know them as they are, and to get the feel of each one’s natural way of reading a line. Then I can build on that.”
“My, there sure are a lot of hidden problems in directing a play,” Amy said. “I used to think of a director as a kind of wild-animal tamer, standing in the middle of a ring of snarling actors with a whip and a chair, and making them jump through hoops, but it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?”
Mal laughed. “The wild-animal trainer’s life isn’t so simple, either,” he said with a mischievous grin. “After all, they have to understand the psychology of lions and tigers, and that must be nearly as difficult as understanding actors!”
Rehearsals had been going on for over a week now, and Peggy was feeling strangely depressed.
The actors were learning their lines, all right, and cues were not being missed too often, but somehow, the play showed no sign of coming together as a whole. What seemed worse to her, the first attempts at characterization were bad—shockingly bad—and did not correspond in the least to her ideas about the play.
Unfortunately, neither Mal nor Randy, nor any of the cast did a thing to cheer her up or make her feel that she might be wrong. Now it was nearly midnight, and Peggy’s depression was deepened by a sheer physical tiredness that was the result of working all day at the New York Dramatic Academy and all night in the rehearsal studios at the Penthouse Theater.
Peggy, Amy, and Greta, in mutual silent gloom, put on their coats and prepared to go home to the Gramercy Arms. In the hallway, they saw Randy and Mal, equally silent and equally gloomy, looking at each other through a cloud of pipe smoke.
“Is it that bad?” Peggy said.
“It’s not good,” Randy said hollowly.
“I’m sure you’re overstating,” Greta said, in an attempt to cheer them up. “I’ve seen rehearsals go a lot worse than this for a long time, then suddenly pull into brilliant shape overnight. After all, it’s less than two weeks, and it’s not as if this were a simple drawing-room comedy. It’s a good play, and a complicated one, and it’s not the easiest thing in the world to do....”
“It may be impossible to do,” Randy said. “But cheer up, girls. We weren’t concerned about your acting. We’ve got other problems.”
“Not problems. Just problem,” Mal put in.
“What’s wrong?” Peggy asked. “Can you tell us, and is there anything we can do?”
“You’re going to have to know sooner or later,” Randy answered, “so we might as well tell you now. Come on in for a cup of coffee and we’ll tell you all about it.”
Nothing more was said until the three girls were seated in Mal’s comfortable living room upstairs. Then, while Mal was in the kitchen getting the coffee ready, Randy told Peggy and the other girls what was on his mind.
“It’s the age-old theater problem,” he sighed. “To put it in one word, it’s money. I’m afraid we badly misjudged our budget forCome Closer, and unless we can find a way to raise some more cash in a hurry, we may have to close up shop.”
“But how can that be?” Amy said. “You were so sure that you had enough, and it’s not as if this were a high-cost production with a lot of costumes and expensive sets and all that—”
“No, that’s not it,” Randy said. “We figured the scenery and costumes and lighting right down to the nickel. What threw us is the salary expense, and a bad guess about the amount of rehearsal time we would need.”
“My fault,” Mal said, as he came in from the kitchen, bearing a tray of cups and saucers, sugar, cream, cookies and an enormous pot of coffee.
“Why do you say it’s your fault, Mal?” Peggy asked.
“I figured the rehearsal time into the budget, and I figured wrong. I didn’t take into account just how difficult the play is to do, and I should have known that we would need to go into extra weeks. Actually, I think we’ll need at least three and maybe four more weeks of rehearsal than I had first called for, and that’s a big hunk of salary money that wasn’t figured in.”
“We have twelve actors, all working for minimum scale wages,” Randy explained. “During the contracted rehearsal period, as you know, they get paid half of scale. We put aside enough money to pay for that, plus full scale for two weeks after opening. Unfortunately, when we go into extra rehearsal weeks, we have to pay full scale for those, just as if the play were open. What it means is that we’ll be short by about a month’s full salary money, and although it doesn’t seem as if you’re getting paid much, when you add it all up, it comes out to be quite a sum.”
“Three thousand, seven hundred dollars, to be exact,” Mal said.
A moment of silence followed, while the girls took in this disturbing new fact. They covered their distress by the routine of pouring coffee and passing cream, sugar, and cookies.
“What about the original group of backers?” Peggy asked. “They already have a good-sized investment to protect. Won’t they put up the extra money just to keep from losing what they’ve already put in before the play even opens?”
“I’ve already approached them,” Randy said, “and they all agree that it makes sense to put up more money. Unfortunately, none of them has any more to put in. I’m afraid that the only thing left to do is to find more money from other people.”
“I should think it would be easier now than it was before,” Greta observed. “After all, when you started, all you had was a script to show. Now you have a cast and some scenery and—”
“And that’s all,” Mal interrupted.
“I don’t understand,” Amy said. “Why doesn’t that make it easier?”
“Because at this stage,” Mal explained, “a prospective backer would want an audition—at least a home reading of the play, if not a stage performance of a couple of scenes. And we’re not ready for that. You know yourselves how the readings sound. That’s why we need more rehearsal time and therefore more money. A backer’s audition at this stage of the game would be a pure disaster.”
“Couldn’t we change the rehearsal schedule?” Peggy asked. “I mean, if we all started working just on one particular scene, couldn’t we get it in good enough shape to be heard in about a week’s time?”
“We probably could,” Mal answered, “but there are a few problems in working that way. For one thing, we take a chance on throwing the whole development of the play out of balance by perfecting one scene before we’ve worked on the rest. My own method is to work slowly on all parts at once, bringing them into focus at roughly the same time. The second problem, a smaller one, is that by doing this at all, we let the cast know that we’re in financial trouble. I’d rather avoid that, if we could.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Peggy said. “I’ve gotten to know them pretty well in this last week or so, and I don’t think there’s one of them who would panic about money or refuse to go into the extra rehearsal time and the auditioning. They’re a good group. Don’t you think so?” She appealed to Greta and Amy.
“Absolutely,” Greta said firmly.
“I’m sure of it,” Amy agreed.
“Well, then! That ought to settle it!” Peggy said. “Now all you have to do is find someone to audition for, and give us a week to get ready for him!”
“I’ve got him,” Randy said quietly.
“You’ve what?” Peggy gasped.
“I’ve got him. I’ve got the man to audition for.”
“But ... but,” she sputtered. “How? And why were you so gloomy if you have a good prospective backer?”
“I was gloomy because I hate to have to raise more money, not because I didn’t think we could do it,” Randy explained. “And as for the backer—if he turns out to be a backer and not just a prospect—I’ve had him from the beginning. He’s a wealthy and important man, and although he’s crazy enough to like to invest in plays, he’s cautious enough never to put up a nickel unless he’s seen an audition he likes. I showed him the play quite a few months ago and he said he liked it and was very interested, but he wouldn’t put up any cash until I could show him a cast and have them read. In a way, I guess he’s right. He claims that in off-Broadway shows even more than on Broadway, the actors make the play. You can have the best play in the world but a bad group of amateurs can ruin it, and there’s always a chance of getting a group of amateurs when you put on a play downtown. At any rate, he’s half-sold already, so I guess we have a good chance of selling him all the way,” Randy finished.
“Who is he?” Peggy asked.
Randy hesitated. “He’s ... well, he’s a rich man who’s interested in the theater,” he said awkwardly.
“We know that much,” Peggy replied, “but which rich man? What’s his name?”
“Well—” Randy said, “it may sound peculiar, but I’d rather not say just yet. You see, I can tell you this much about him, he’s a very important sort of a man—a public figure, you might say—and I know how he hates publicity of any sort. I spoke to him earlier this evening to see if he’d be willing to come down for an audition, and he agreed, providing we told nobody about it. It’s not that he’d mind having it known that he’s invested in a play, after he decides to do it. But if it were to get out that he was coming down here for a private audition, the Penthouse Theater would be crawling with newspaper reporters and photographers. Not only would he be bothered, but the publicity would almost force him to invest, whether he wanted to or not.”
“Boy!” Peggy said in wonder. “He must be really important!”
“He is,” Randy said. “I wouldn’t be this secretive if he weren’t. You’ll just have to go along with the game until next week. Then you’ll find out who he is when he shows up.”
“You can trust us,” Amy said. “We wouldn’t breathe a word of it. And besides, we don’t know any reporters!”
“I do,” Greta said. “And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t want to know any secret. If it ever got out, I wouldn’t want to be among the suspected leaks.”
“That’s just why I’m not telling anybody,” Randy agreed. “That way, if anybody finds out he’s coming down here, it will have to be from one of his associates, not from one of us.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Amy agreed ruefully. “But I can hardly wait to find out what this is all about!”
“What scene are we going to do, Mal?” Peggy asked.
“I think the best one,” he replied, “would be Act Two, Scene Three. The second-act curtain is really powerful, and besides, it’s Paula Andrews’ best scene. Not only that, but it brings most of the main characters together at a time of crisis, when they can be understood without having seen the rest of the play.”
“Most of the characters except me,” Peggy said. “Couldn’t you have chosen something where I’m on stage?”
“Sorry, Peggy,” Mal said, “but this one really makes the most sense.”
“I suppose it does,” she agreed, “but I just hate to be so useless at an important time like this.”
“Maybe you’ll be useless,” Mal answered, “but I’m going to see to it that you won’t be idle. Since we don’t want anything to slip up, and since Paula hasn’t been looking well lately, I want you to understudy her part for this audition. Amy will understudy you, Greta. Some of the other actors who aren’t on in that scene will back up other parts. Nobody’s going to be left out of the preparation, even if everyone isn’t actually used. In that way, the whole cast can get a chance to see how I go about developing a complete scene, and maybe that will keep us from throwing the development of the play off balance, which is what I’m worried about.”
“It might even help,” Randy said hopefully.
“It might,” Mal said, looking completely unconvinced.
“Before you sink into that swamp of gloom again,” Peggy said with a laugh, “I think that we’d better get going. Do you realize that it’s almost one in the morning, and tomorrow I have a nine-o’clock class in TV acting techniques? If I don’t get some sleep I’m going to be the only out-of-focus actress in the picture!”
Quickly finishing their coffee, the girls put on their coats once more and said good night to Randy and Mal. Mal, always thoughtful, insisted on coming downstairs and seeing them into a taxi, so they wouldn’t have to make their way home alone at that late hour.
“There’s only one thing now that worries me,” Peggy said to Amy and Greta as they were being driven to the Gramercy Arms.
“What’s that?” Amy asked.
“The rest of the cast,” she answered. “We promised a lot of cooperation from them, and the fact is that we hardly know them at all. I just hope we were right!”
Peggy had not been wrong. Far from grumbling about the extra weeks of rehearsal, most of the actors were happy about being assured of the additional pay. Of course there was the inevitable disappointment that comes from the postponement of an opening night, but this did not seem really to upset anyone. Most of the actors agreed that the extended rehearsal time was needed, and everyone felt a relaxation of some of the pressure under which they had been working.
Of course, the main question in the air was the identity of the secret investor, but Randy maintained a stubborn silence on this score.
Peggy attended all of Paula’s rehearsals as well as separate readings of Paula’s role for Mal. She wrapped herself so thoroughly in Paula’s part that she nearly forgot her own, which was not difficult, since rehearsals of all other scenes had been stopped.
Even her lunch hours at the Academy were spent studying Paula’s lines.
It was not an easy part at all. If the other characters had seemed difficult because of their double or triple points of view, the leading role was almost impossible. It had no point of view at all, and every point of view imaginable!
Studying lines
Paula was to play the part of the daughter of a pair of embittered millionaire eccentrics who had withdrawn from society and had never allowed their only child any contact with the world. She had been educated by her mother and father and had grown to the age of twenty-three without ever leaving their enormous estate. She had never seen any adults except her parents and a few servants. Before the action of the play, both of her parents have died within a few months of each other, and the girl is suddenly left alone to cope with the problems of existence in a world for which she is completely unprepared. Dazed both by the loss of her parents and the new business of having to deal with people, she decides to come to the rest home which is the scene of the play, to slowly get used to her new position.
The principal difficulty of the role, Peggy saw, was quite the reverse of the difficulty of the other parts. Instead of having been two or three different people, this girl has never actually been anybody. As a result, she reacts to each of the actors according to their characters at the moment. And since each of them assumes many different roles, depending on whom he is talking to, the girl is in complete confusion.
Listening to Paula read, Peggy was filled with admiration. Somehow, in the short time in which the rest of them had been trying to grasp their roles, Paula seemed to have mastered hers. Each time she slipped into a new manner of speech and action, she gave the impression of doing so with a mixture of eagerness and fear. As the pace quickened and the characters and manners changed more rapidly, the balance between eagerness and fear changed until, as the scene rose to its climax, eagerness was replaced by hysteria, fear by terror. At the curtain, Paula sobbed wildly as the characters around her shifted as swiftly as the pieces in a kaleidoscope.
The whole group, including the usually taciturn Mal, broke into applause for Paula, who managed to smile through the play-tears that she seemed unable to control.
“We’ll have a fifteen-minute break,” Mal called. “Then, if Paula can stand it, we’ll run through it again!”
As the actors stood up and stretched before drifting off to different parts of the room to talk in groups of twos and threes, Peggy went to Paula Andrews, still sitting in her straight chair.
“You were wonderful!” she said. “I feel like a fool understudying you!”
“Don’t be silly, Peggy,” Paula replied. “It’s not me. It’s the play. Randy has written a marvelous role in Alison; it almost plays itself. If you have to do it, I know you’ll do every bit as well.”
“I certainly won’t,” Peggy said, “but what worries me is that I may have to try if you don’t take care of yourself. Paula,” she said in a softer tone, “is there anything the matter? You haven’t been looking at all well lately, and I’m worried about you. Is something wrong that I might be able to help you with? If there is, I wish you’d tell me. You know that I want to be your friend.”
Smiling wanly, Paula took Peggy’s hand. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong. I guess I’ve just been working too hard—at—at the department store, you know—and then at night with these rehearsals. And the part is so demanding, and I’m so wrapped up in it—” She stopped abruptly, as if on the verge of tears, but not acting tears this time. Then she once more managed to smile. “Thank you, Peggy, but you don’t have to worry. I’ll be perfectly all right.”
Peggy said nothing more. She had done all she could by offering to help, and if Paula wouldn’t admit anything was wrong, there was nothing further she could say. But Paula’s manner had convinced her that something was very wrong indeed, something far more than a simple case of overwork.
However, when Mal called the cast together again for a second reading of the scene, all of Paula’s tiredness seemed suddenly to vanish. She drew strength from some inner reserves and played with the same conviction and brilliance as before. Even more, perhaps, Peggy thought.
Caught in the pace and rhythm of her reading, the rest of the cast took hold and played up to her, shifting in and out of character with all the timed precision of a complex machine. Once again the action built to the climax, the tears, the curtain, and the applause. And once again Paula, unable to stop the crying, went as limp and washed-out as a rag doll.
“That’s all for tonight,” Mal called. “But before you go, Randy has a bit of a surprise for you.”
“As you know,” Randy began when the actors had formed a circle about him, “tomorrow night is the audition performance. Our possible backer is grateful for all the work you’ve done on this scene for him, and to show his gratitude, he’s buying us all a good dinner first. So instead of coming here, come to Paolo’s Restaurant on East 48th Street, to the private dining room upstairs. See you there about six o’clock.”
Delighted with this gesture, the cast gathered their coats and hats and prepared to leave. Peggy hesitated, looking at Paula, who was no longer crying, but who still sat exhausted where she had finished the scene.
“Peggy,” Randy said, “will you take Paula home, please? She looks really exhausted, and I don’t want her walking, so take a cab, and I’ll pay for it.”
“That’s a good idea,” Peggy agreed. “I’ve been worried about her, too. Maybe I can get her to tell me if something’s bothering her. I tried once, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe in the taxi, though....”
Paula gladly accepted the lift but, though still friendly and warm, was no more inclined to talk about her troubles, if any, than before. The address she gave proved to be in a fine block of remodeled town houses on East 36th Street, just a half block off Park Avenue—not at all the sort of place where Peggy expected a department-store salesgirl to live.
Without inviting Peggy in, she thanked her for the ride, waved good-by, and let herself in through a green-lacquered door with polished brass fittings.
Puzzled and worried, Peggy leaned back in the taxi seat and gave the driver the address of the Gramercy Arms.
Peggy had been in the crowded, brightly lighted, vaulted cellars of Paolo’s before, on dates with Randy, but this was the first time she had ever been in the private dining room. In fact, until now, she had not even suspected that such a room existed. She could not have been more astonished, then, to find that the restaurant occupied the entire four-story building instead of just the basement.
A tiny automatic elevator, that had barely room enough for four passengers squeezed together, carried Peggy and Amy to the top floor. Although they were scarcely five minutes late, the rest of the cast had already preceded them and were wandering about talking gaily and eating appetizers from the long, beautifully decorated table that filled one end of the room. Peggy spotted Paula, eating hungrily and, between bites, talking with animation to Greta and Alan Douglas. She looked much better than she had the night before, and Peggy felt a sense of relief. Maybe she had been making too much of just a normal case of tiredness.
Randy and Mal came hurrying over to take the girls’ coats and to lead them into the room, which they showed off as if they owned it.
“This is just the lounge,” Randy said, waving his hand to indicate the laden table, the fine paneling, the handsome chandeliers. “Wait till you see the dining room!”
Leading Amy and Peggy to the other side of the little entry hall that separated the two rooms, Randy opened the door of the dining room to let them get an advance look. The room was dominated by the biggest circular table that any of them had ever seen—with ample room for place settings for fourteen. The center of the huge table was filled with a low floral centerpiece, punctuated by dozens of tall, thin candles.
The heavily beamed ceiling sloped sharply upward from a row of six dormer windows facing a courtyard. On the high wall opposite was an enormous fireplace whose blaze was reflected in the bright crystal and silver on the table.
Dazzled by the setting, the girls allowed themselves to be led back to the lounge to help themselves to appetizers. Giant cheeses of all shapes alternated with towering bowls of apples and oranges in the center of the table, while at the foot of these mountains were platters of smoked fish, caviar, sliced cheeses, spiced Italian ham sliced so thin as to be almost transparent, orderly rows of crackers, baskets of sliced bread and rolls, bunches of grapes, bowls of black and green olives, slivers of smoked turkey and brilliant platters of sliced tomatoes. And surrounding it all were the actors, airing their manners like the traditional strolling players invited to a baronial feast, behaving grandly as if they ate this way every day in the week!
Laughing at the sight, Peggy happily helped herself to some of the more exotic foods, wisely conserving her appetite. After all, if these were just the appetizers, whatever would dinner be like?
An hour and a half later, contentedly sighing as the waiter poured a second cup of coffee, Peggy was glad that she had saved a little appetite. Otherwise she might never even have tasted it all! Dinner, from the delicate clear soup, to the lobster Newburg, the tiny green peas with pearl onions, the crackling thin julienne potatoes, the crisp, herb-tinged salad, and the sweet-sour key lime pie, had been a sheer delight.
Now, while everyone was resting over coffee and quiet conversation, Randy stood up to speak. He tapped gently on his glass with a spoon, and the crystal rang like a clear, thin bell. The cast members turned their attention to him.
“I think that you would like to know now whom to thank for this wonderful dinner,” he said. “I’m allowed to tell you all at this point, because we’re going straight from here to his house for the reading. It seems that the gentleman has several other appointments, and can’t allow himself time to come down to the theater, but he does want to hear the reading, so we’re bringing the theater to him, from eight to nine-thirty. Now, not to keep you in suspense any longer, I’ll tell you his name: Sir Brian Alwyne, Special British Representative to the United Nations!”
A murmur of surprise went up around the table as the actors turned to each other to comment on this distinguished man’s interest in their play, and to speculate on the experience of acting in his home. But, looking from face to face, Peggy noted, with surprise, Paula’s peculiar expression. She had gone pale and white as the table linen, and her face was drawn. One hand, held to her mouth, was trembling. Suddenly she stood up, bunching the tablecloth in a tight grip.
“No!” she cried. “No! I won’t! I won’t act in his house!”
A shocked silence gripped the room as everyone turned to stare at her.
“But, Paula, I don’t understand....” Mal began. “What does it matter if it’s in his house instead of in the theater? I think you’re being—”
“No!” she said again tensely. “You don’t understand. Of course you don’t. But”—she paused and looked about her in bewilderment—“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, then turned and ran from the room.
Paula turned and ran from the room.
Before Mal and Randy could recover their senses sufficiently to run after her, she had grabbed her coat from the startled cloakroom attendant and run down the stairs. They could hear her heels clattering more than a floor below.
Randy started after her, but Mal restrained him.
“No use, old chap,” he said. “I don’t know what’s got into her, but whatever it is, she’s not going to act tonight. And as far as I’m concerned,” he added grimly, “I don’t care if she never acts again. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s temperament. Forget it. Peggy will do the role, and she’ll do it well.”
Jittery though they all were after this startling experience, the audition went off with surprising smoothness. Sir Brian, a handsome gentleman with beautiful manners, received them cordially, allowed them to rearrange his drawing room, and made them feel thoroughly at home.
Peggy, though feeling too dazed at Paula’s behavior to be really aware of what she was doing, somehow turned in a fine performance. But even as she was acting to the climax of the scene she was aware that she was not so much playing the character of Alison as she was playing Paula’s version of Alison.
At the scene’s end, Sir Brian and Lady Alwyne applauded enthusiastically, complimented Peggy especially, and thanked the company for their trouble in preparing the scene and coming uptown to act it.
“It was most good of you,” Sir Brian exclaimed to Randy. “And I must compliment you on having found a company that does justice to your splendid play. And by the way,” he added in a quieter voice, “my check for five thousand dollars will be in the mail tomorrow.”
“Five thousand?” Randy asked, startled. “But that’s really more than we need, sir.”
“Nonsense,” Sir Brian said firmly. “There’s no such thing as too much money. You can use the extra for a little more advertising than you had planned, or for an extra bit of scenery or something. Now, I don’t like to hurry you along, but you really must excuse me if....”
Thanking him profusely, Randy rounded up the cast, let them know the good news, and hurried them out. Only the cold bite of the night wind off the East River convinced him that the whole evening had not been some sort of fantastic dream, engendered by an overheated imagination.
“The whole evening!” he said to Peggy, who was walking arm-in-arm with him a few paces behind Mal and Amy. “Everything about it seems completely unlikely!”
“I know,” she agreed. “That fantastic spread at Paolo’s ... the peculiar business with Paula ... Sir Brian and Lady Alwyne, looking like a movie Lord and Lady sent in from Central Casting ... and then a check for five thousand dollars! It’s almost too much to believe!”
“What do you think about Paula?” Randy asked. “Have you any idea what could have been behind that outburst of temperament?”
“I don’t know,” Peggy said, “but I don’t think that temperament is the word to describe it. You know yourself that she’s not a prima donna type. She’s always cooperative, works hard at rehearsals, takes every direction that Mal gives her.... No. I know she’s not a temperamental person. This is something else; something we haven’t any idea about. But whatever it is, I think she’s in some kind of trouble, and I want to help her if I can.”
“Mal says he doesn’t want to have her in the show any more,” Randy said. “He told me he thinks you can do a good job in the part. If you just forget about Paula, you can have the role.”
“Randy!” Peggy said in a shocked voice. “Paula’s my friend, and I want to help her, not steal parts from her! And besides, I couldn’t possibly do Alison as well as she does. You saw for yourself tonight that I wasn’t creating a role. I was imitating a role. Paula’s a far better and more finished actress than I’ll be for many years, if ever, and I think that we owe it to your play to get her back, if she’ll come.”
“And if Mal will have her,” Randy added.
“And if she’s all right,” Peggy mused. “Randy, I’m really worried about her. Let me go talk to her right now for a half hour or so, and I’ll join you three for coffee after. When I’ve spoken to her, I’ll have a better idea, I know, about whether or not we can count on her. Leave it to me, will you, Randy?”
Randy walked along in silence for a moment before replying. “All right,” he said. “I’m perfectly willing to trust your judgment, and I know that Mal will give every consideration to what you say. I guess it is a good idea for someone to go see her now. Whatever’s wrong with her, she’s gone through a bad evening and can use a friend.”
After catching up with Amy and Mal and explaining what Peggy wanted to do, they arranged to meet at Dodo’s Coffeehouse downtown. Randy hailed a cab and helped Peggy in. “I think you’re right about Paula,” he said before closing the door. “And I’m glad you want to help her. Good luck!”
At 36th Street, Peggy dismissed the cab, sure that she would find Paula at home. She pushed the button marked “ANDREWS” and waited a moment until the little speaker crackled and Paula’s voice, sounding tired and far away, answered, “Who is it?”
“It’s Peggy Lane. May I come up to see you?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then, “All right. Third floor rear.” A buzzer sounded in the green door, and Peggy let herself in.
Going up in the little elevator, Peggy wondered again how Paula could afford to live in such an elegant place. She had some idea of the rents in these well-maintained remodeled buildings, and also some idea of what a salesgirl in a department store earned. “Well, it’s none of my business,” she told herself. “Maybe someone left her an income or something. Or maybe her parents pay the rent for her. But that’s not what I’m here to find out.”
Paula, looking more pale, drawn, and tired than Peggy had ever seen her before, opened the door and motioned Peggy in. The apartment, obviously rented furnished, was comfortable enough, but almost without personality, like a hotel room. It consisted of one bedroom-sitting room, a compact kitchenette and a bath. The only sign that anyone lived in it was a small collection of books, no more than a dozen, on a shelf.
“Sit down, Peggy,” Paula said formally. Then, as if she were asking about some event that didn’t concern her at all, but asking only out of politeness, she said, “And how did the audition go? Were you good? And did Sir Brian invest in the play?”
“It went very well,” Peggy said gloomily, “considering that it was me and not you. Sir Brian is putting five thousand dollars into the production.”
“Then I guess I’m fired,” Paula said, in the same lifeless tone.
“You don’t have to be,” Peggy said. “If you can only explain—or just convince Mal and Randy in some way that it won’t happen again—I know they want you back!”
“That’s nice of you, Peggy,” Paula said, “but I can’t explain. And there’s no point in my trying to. No, the part is yours.”
“But I don’t want it!” Peggy said earnestly. “I’d never have been able to play that scene if I hadn’t seen you do it so often! All I was doing was a fair imitation. You’ve got to come back and do the part!”
“Peggy,” Paula said with sudden intensity, “it’s not a question of my wanting to come back and do the part or not. It’s a question of being accepted back. Of course I want to do it! But Mal and Randy have to make the decision that they’re willing to let me come back after the terrible way I acted this evening.”
“If you could just tell them why—” Peggy began.
“I can’t. Honestly, I can’t,” Paula interrupted. “I would if I could, but if they’re going to take me back, it can’t depend on an explanation. They’ll just have to do it on faith—and on my promise that nothing like this will happen again. That’s the only assurance I can give them.”
“Are you so sure it won’t?” Peggy asked. “I mean, it was such an emotional outburst, you hardly seemed to know what you were saying. How can you be positive that you won’t fly off again like that? I don’t mean to be hard on you, but they have to know.”
“All I can say, Peggy,” Paula answered, “is that as long as the rehearsals are as private as they have been, and as long as Sir Brian doesn’t come around the theater till opening night, I’ll be all right.”
“And after opening night?” Peggy pursued.
“Oh, once we open, I don’t care who comes!” Paula said. “In fact, all I want is to have the whole world come to see us!”
“Well,” Peggy said after a moment’s reflection, “I’m convinced that you’ll be all right, and I’ll do what I can to convince the boys. But I won’t mention what you said about Sir Brian not coming around. It’ll just sound peculiar, and I’m sure he won’t come anyhow, he’s so busy. We’ll be lucky if he even comes to a performance.”
“Thanks, Peggy,” Paula said warmly. “Thank you so much for your faith in me. You’re a wonderful friend. And I know you’ll convince the boys! I’ll call you in the morning to find out, all right?”
“Fine. Meanwhile you’d better get a good night’s sleep. You look as if you need some rest. We’ve all been worried about your health. I’ll see you tomorrow at the theater, I’m sure!”
The whole visit with Paula had taken only fifteen minutes, and Peggy arrived at Dodo’s Coffeehouse only a minute after the others, who had taken a bus. She sat down and looked in silence at the three expectant faces that confronted her.
“You look like baby birds,” she laughed, “waiting for a worm!”
“How’s Paula?” Amy asked. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s all right,” Peggy replied, “and I think she’ll be all right for the rest of the play, too, if you’ll have her back, Mal. The only thing that troubles me is that she can’t—or won’t—explain what happened to her tonight. She wants to be in the play, but she says that if you want her, you’ll just have to take her back on faith.”
“Is that all?” Mal asked.
“That and her promise that it won’t happen again,” Peggy answered. “I know it sounds pretty unreasonable, but, Mal, I really believe she knows what she’s saying, and that she’ll be okay. I don’t know what’s wrong, but as I told Randy, I’m sure she’s in some kind of trouble, and if she is, we shouldn’t make it worse. I think we ought to try to help her in whatever way we can. Maybe if we trust her, and show her that we do by taking her back, she’ll get to trust us, and tell us what’s wrong. Anyway, I think that we should take the chance.”
“How about you, Amy?” Mal asked.
“I agree with Peggy,” she said.
“Randy?”
“I’m for taking her back. If not on her own word, then on Peggy’s. And besides, I think everybody ought to have a second chance.”
“All right,” Mal said. “I don’t want to hold out against the rest of you. She’s back. Peggy, do you want to be the one to tell her?”
“She’s going to call me in the morning to find out,” Peggy answered.