Screen Play (17 page)

“What if I see him again?” she asked me from the back of a taxi near Times Square. “What should I say?”

“New York’s a big city. I doubt you will. But if you do, just tell him whatever comes to mind. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

~
Eighteen
~

Over the next four weeks of winter in New York, Avril, the rest of the cast, and I performed to packed houses almost thirty times. Every night felt a little different, but the audience reaction was always the same. They gasped at Arthur Mouldain’s sinister suspense, laughed at the play’s subtle humor, cried at its unrelenting sadness, and cheered for its persevering spirit. They gave each performance a standing ovation when one woman’s bravery overcame tremendous adversity.

As the days turned into weeks, the cast polished their spot-on performances, adding twists, refining gestures, teasing new subtleties out of Mouldain’s brilliant script.
Apartment 19
was music, each actor onstage a musician.

We performed the show over and over again, until one Tuesday night in February when the walls came crashing down.

The opening scene rolled just fine. “People love the
bam
of it,” Avril always said, meaning the opening sound effects, street noise, and the hustle of recreating 1950s Manhattan.

Even Scene 2, where Audrey and Roxy meet for the first time, started out well, the two of us volleying our lines back and forth, faster than those first weeks. We were playing off each other, catching the audience’s responses with the sensitivity of a butterfly’s wing.

In theater, you get used to the rhythm of the performance, even if each night is a little different. That’s how I knew things were wrong even before they all fell apart. The cadence broke down in Roxy’s pattern of speech, her intensity fell. Roxy didn’t sound like Roxy anymore. She sounded like Avril. Onstage, standing in front of a packed house, Avril began to speak her lines directly to the audience, at a time when she usually projected them directly to me. Then suddenly, they weren’t even Roxy’s lines anymore.

“I can’t believe you would do this to me, Audrey. You played a game with me when I trusted you. I loved you, but you were just lying to me!”

I glanced into the wings where Tabby was standing, and we locked eyes. Trying to remain in character, I looked to the front of the stage to see what was going on, but the stage lights were too bright. I couldn’t find Avril. I only knew we weren’t in
Apartment 19
anymore.

I left the stage chair Audrey was suppose to be sitting in and walked to the front of the stage in character, a confident saunter. Meanwhile, Avril continued speaking in a monologue she wrote as she went along.

“Does she know? Does your wife even know about us? About all our dinners, and our walks in Central Park? Does she know you said you loved me? Does she know?”’

As I approached the front of the stage I could make out Avril clearly, blue eye shadow streaming down her cheeks. I scanned the first few rows of the audience, unable to see any farther, but I saw him. Angry, red-faced Jon, sitting cross-armed in his seat on the aisle, and next to him, his lovely, and very humiliated, wife. Avril pointed directly at him so there was no mistaking whom she was talking to, no longer projecting any visage of Roxy Dupree.

“
I believed you
,” she cried, her microphone headset dangling from her ear, shaken off in the emotion of her soliloquy.

Even without amplification, everyone in the audience heard Avril’s cry. Her emotions as raw and inflamed as a friction burn. Members of the audience looked on in shock. Some stood, wondering if this were all some elaborate new Ben Hughes twist to the show. The room was in turmoil. The houselights remained down, but I could clearly make out the expression on the woman’s face as she got up from her seat and ran quickly up the center aisle and out of the theater, her husband, Jon from LoveSetMatch.com, following close behind.

Avril stood at the front of the stage, blue makeup running from her eyes, her body heaving and drained of emotion. She sobbed, and I put my arm around her shoulders, turned her away from seven hundred confused faces, and walked her off the stage. Her body shuddered under my arm, her breath sawing in and out like a dull blade cutting a tree. I caught Tabby’s expression as we exited stage left. She was ticked off. We’d blown it. We were done for the night, and maybe for good.

Backstage, I held Avril tight.

“Things will be okay,” I told her.

Harriet joined us, throwing a coat from wardrobe around Avril’s shoulders since her arms looked goose-bumped from the chill. More of the cast soon gathered, and Ben joined our huddle, all of us just holding on to one another, no one knowing exactly what to do next.

“Harper, is Avril all right?” Ben asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. She looked like her body was in a state of shock.

“I’m going to make an announcement to the audience,” Ben said. “The show’s over for tonight. If they want, they can have their money back.”

Ben walked out to center stage and introduced himself. The audience, many still standing, quieted down to listen.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention for a moment, I have an announcement,” Ben said, without benefit of a microphone.

“Tonight’s show is canceled, but we will try to add another performance to the schedule.”

Half the audience returned to their feet in protest. Loud objections, boos, and even a few catcalls boomed toward the stage. Ben raised his hands to quiet the crowd.

“On behalf of the entire cast, I want to apologize for the cancelation of tonight’s performance …”

The audience, most of whom could no longer hear him over the noise, groaned with disappointment. Avril reacted to their dissatisfied shouts and excused herself to the bathroom. When she fled down the hallway, I found myself drawn back onstage, joining Ben where he struggled to calm the audience.

Some in the crowd cheered when I stepped back onstage and took Ben’s arm to lend moral support. When he seemed at a loss for words, I cued George and Perry at the soundboard to switch my microphone back on.

“It’s rare that I have a chance to come out and speak to you not as Audrey Bradford, but as myself, Harper Gray. This is an excellent time to tell you all how wonderful it’s been for us to perform for you over the last few weeks. We have only twelve more performances, and then this production will close for good.”

The crowd began booing again, only this time it was because they were used to Broadway shows that ran forever, and for years unto infinity.

“My dearest friends in the whole world are here tonight. Ben Hughes, our favorite director, and the man responsible for bringing Mouldain’s classic play back to Broadway where it belongs.”

The audience clapped, recognizing Ben’s accomplishment. Some of the standing audience returned to their seats, the tension in the room calming.

“My very best friend, Avril LaCorria, who you met earlier as Roxy Dupree.”

They applauded again, perhaps realizing it hadn’t been Avril’s best night.

“And all of you who give us far more during every performance than we could ever possibly give back in return.”

I saw a couple of men and women in the back of the room stand up and applaud. A few others followed, but this time they were standing in a show of support, not out of frustration or disappointment.

I sensed someone else at my side. Avril, dabbing mascara from her puffy pink eyes, was putting her earpiece back in position.

“I want to apologize,” she said, and the crowd, which had become festive and forgiving, hushed to listen to her words. “I don’t know if this is allowed,” she continued, turning to Ben for approval. “But would it be possible just to start the whole thing over again and try it one more time?”

The room exploded with thunderous applause. All the actors poured out from the wings and met in a group on center stage, hugging like it was closing night. The audience was on their feet and cheering. Avril was still crying, but I had a hopeful feeling that the worst might be behind her.

For the next two hours, the cast of
Apartment
19 gave New York the best show of our lives. We blew them out of their seats. Avril became unleashed, acting with enough raw emotion and drama that the crowd jumped, hooted, and cheered.

After the show, all of us greeted the audience in the lobby, signing autographs and sharing well wishes until well past midnight.

The following day, it wasn’t a review that ran in the papers, but a full column in the gossip page about the incident that set things off with an “unidentified man and woman” and ended with “the most enjoyable night I’ve ever spent in the theater.” New York was buzzing once again about
Apartment 19
and starting the countdown until we would all say good-bye to Arthur Mouldain’s masterpiece forever.

Scalpers sold tickets for one thousand dollars a pair, and before it was all over, we’d shake hands with the mayor of New York, Hollywood actors, cabbies and street cleaners, shopkeepers, bartenders, Wall Street bankers, and even a U.S. senator.

Sydney called my cell phone one morning as I sat at Vibe drinking coffee.

“Harper,” Sydney said, “when the play finishes next week, I want you to think about coming back out to Los Angeles. It’s time we reintroduce you to Hollywood.”

When Sydney invited me to California, my first thought wasn’t about the next chapter of my career, but rather about a phone number stashed away on my computer for safekeeping. I hadn’t called Luke yet. We’d spent the last four weeks talking through the instant messaging service, compliments of LoveSetMatch.com. My morning routine usually centered on drinking coffee at Vibe while typing away on the MacBook in conversation with Luke. We passed emails back and forth, but I often wondered what it would be like to hear his voice.

“I’d love to come back to LA, Sydney.”

“Good. You can plan on staying at my bungalow. I’ll set up a few meetings with the people who’ve asked. I’ll be in touch.”

Before I left Vibe, I opened the lid of my MacBook and double-clicked on the Notepad icon. It opened, a yellow square on the screen, and in the upper-left corner was Luke’s name and cell number. I sent a text message to his cell phone.

isn’t it time we talked?

Back at the apartment, I knocked on Avril’s door, opening it a crack to peek inside. Avril was wrapped in her fluffy strawberry bedspread, looking listless and dull-eyed.

“Do you want to come out to the kitchen? I’ll make you lunch.”

Avril’s bedroom was decorated like a teenager’s with touches of pink and fuzzy throw pillows. I stepped inside and sat on the edge of her bed.

“Tell me what’s going on.”

“I want to change this room,” she said. “It’s too childish.”

“Change is good. I’m all for change,” I said, still holding her hand, waiting in the silence until she felt like talking again. I held her hand, wondering if she’d allow me to straighten up her room. Her vanity was uncharacteristically jumbled, a playbill from the show obscuring her makeup and perfume, things she normally put away. Her laundry basket overflowing with inside-out shirts and jeans, and one of her closet doors was open.

“I didn’t see it coming, Harper. I didn’t even think it was possible for me to get burned like that.”

“Jon’s behavior was totally wrong. How could you or anybody know?”

I helped Avril sit up in bed, arranging her pillows against her sturdy white headboard. Her lips were chapped, so I took out a bottle of water from my leather satchel and held it up for her to drink.

“I’m not talking about him, I’m talking about me. How shallow am I? The idea that someone could use me that way had never even crossed my mind.”

“I don’t think that’s the right lesson to take away from this …”

“Life is hard, that’s the lesson. I’ve been dancing on a high wire all my life, and never dreamed I could fall. I was naive, seriously.”

“Scoot over.”

I joined Avril on top of the blankets, leaning my back against the headboard. I kicked off my shoes, resting the soles of my feet on the comforter. “So where do you go from here?”

Avril leaned the weight of her head on my shoulder. “I’m lost, Harper. I don’t know what to do.”

“Your confidence will come back. Meanwhile, I’m here for you, Avril. I’ll always be here for you. You can stay in bed as long as you like. I’m going to make you lunch.”

Avril drank the bottle of water but didn’t eat the grilled cheese sandwich, only a few of the grapes I’d brought her in a cereal bowl. An hour later, she’d fallen asleep.