  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 for Come 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!” |
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