  It was a good thing, Peggy thought, that she was going to the New York Dramatic Academy and not to a more conventional kind of school. Mr. Macaulay, the director of the Academy, approved of his students’ taking part in off-Broadway plays, and made certain concessions to those who were doing so, such as excusing them from school plays. While this eliminated the necessity of learning the lines of two plays at once, and also gave Peggy more free time than the other students, it did not excuse her from her regular school work. She attended classes in History of the Theater, Elizabethan Playwrights, Restoration Drama, Acting for the Camera, Ballet and Modern Dance, and Make-up Techniques. It was a full schedule all by itself. But, of course, it wasn’t all by itself. Classes filled the day from nine in the morning till three in the afternoon, and rehearsals began at six in the evening at the Penthouse Theater and ran on to midnight. On Saturdays, rehearsals and scene painting and construction filled the day from nine to six. This grueling schedule left Peggy only three hours each day to study for her classes at the Academy and to learn her lines for Come Closer, and practically no time except Sundays for such things as hair washing, personal laundry, letter writing and all the other things that usually seem to take no time at all because they are spread through the week. Sometimes she wondered how she would ever do it all. But other times she wondered how she could ever again enjoy a life that was less full, less active, less exciting. She was very busy, and very, very happy. Now it was a few minutes past six on a Saturday evening, and she and Amy were carefully washing the paint from their hands and faces. Peggy leaned across the basin, very close to the mirror, for a minute inspection, found one last little spot of green on the lobe of her ear, and carefully removed it. “I think I’m all clean,” she said. “How about you?” “Just a few more spots,” Amy answered. “Then I’ll inspect you and you inspect me.” “Oh, we don’t need to be that thorough,” Peggy said. “If we hurry, we’ll have plenty of time for baths at home before the boys come to pick us up.” “I would surely like to know what you call plenty of time,” Amy laughed. “The boys are coming for us in two hours, and we have to face the Saturday night line-up at the bathrooms, which can be worse than waiting for tickets at a World Series game!” “No, the worst is over by now,” Peggy said. “I happen to know that Irene, the Beautiful Model, has a date picking her up at six-thirty, which means that she’s climbing out of the tub right now. Greta is staying home tonight, which means she’ll let us have the bath first. Dot is out of town, so that just leaves us, Gaby and Maggie to share the two baths. I think we’ll make it!” “You have it planned like a general!” Amy said. “I salute you.” “Right down to the camouflage!” Peggy laughed in answer. “Mine is the dark blue cocktail dress. What are you wearing to divert the troops?” “A print,” Amy said, with an unusual air of decision for a girl who could never make up her mind about what to wear until the last possible minute. “The only thing I haven’t decided yet,” she added, “is whether to wear my print with the three-quarter sleeves, or yours with the cap sleeves, or Maggie’s sleeveless chiffon. What do you think?” “Why not wear any one of them, and take the other two in a little suitcase?” Peggy teased. “Then you can change during the evening and keep us in a constant state of surprise!” By this time, they had finished washing, had changed from their stagehands’ coveralls, and were dressed to go. They found Greta waiting for them in the little lobby downstairs, and the three set off for the Gramercy Arms. “How did your rehearsal go today, Greta?” Peggy asked. “Fine,” Greta said, but her tone was a little doubtful. “Is something wrong?” Amy asked. “No. Not exactly, that is. The scenes we were working on are shaping up very well, but all of us are still a little worried about Paula. Not about her acting,” she added hurriedly. “We think she’s just wonderful. It’s ... well, it’s something else.” “You’re not still worried about last week, are you?” Peggy asked. “I mean about that scene at Paolo’s? If you are, I’m sure that—” “No, it’s not that,” Greta said. “We’re all convinced that whatever it was that caused that blowup, it won’t happen again. She’s not at all a temperamental person. No, we’re worried about her health. At least I am.” “So am I,” Peggy confessed. “Amy and I were talking about it today. She looks so drawn and pale and ... tense. I’ve tried to speak to her about it, but she just refuses to admit that there’s anything wrong.” “That’s the way she’s been with all of us,” Greta said. “She insists it’s just our imaginations, and that she never felt better. Or she says that it’s a case of character identification, and she’s beginning to look like the part she’s playing. But if that’s true, then she’s the best actress in the history of the theater.” “Which she may well be,” Peggy said loyally. “But even if she is, I don’t think that’s the cause.” “Since there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do about it,” Amy commented, “I think the best thing to do is to leave her alone and not bother her by asking about it. If she wants help, she knows we’re her friends.” “I guess so,” Peggy agreed reluctantly. “Still, I’m worried.” They continued home in a rather troubled silence. Preparing for an evening’s date Peggy’s planned attack on the bathtubs worked out just perfectly, and the two friends had plenty of time to prepare themselves for the evening’s date. The comforting dip in the hot tub and the change to their best party clothes (or, rather, Peggy’s best party clothes, since Amy elected to wear her print dress) served to change their mood as well. By the time that Randy and Mal rang at the door, Peggy and Amy were ready and waiting, in a cheerful mood of anticipation. This was the first time that they had taken a real night off for over a month, and they were all looking forward to an enjoyable evening, free of the worries of the production. After a few minutes devoted to discussion, they decided to go for a drive into Westchester County for dinner and dancing in the country. All agreed that if they were trying to get their minds off the play, the best thing to do was to get out of the city, with its permanent air of show business. It was a clear and starry night that had mixed in it the elements of two seasons—the end of winter and the first hint of spring. The stars were as hard and bright as in winter’s clear skies, but the air was almost soft, and the trees silhouetted against the pale sky, though still bare of leaves, were fuller in the bareness than they had been a week before; the buds on the branch tips were swollen, nearly ready to burst into little green flags. Randy’s car, an old, but still elegant English convertible sedan, purred smoothly through the countryside. Peggy, settled comfortably in the deep leather seat, felt as if she were already a thousand miles away from New York, the theater, and her hard week’s work. Randy drove with skill and confidence, and in far less time than they had thought possible, they were pulling into the driveway of a low stone restaurant with a slate-shingled roof, screened from the road by evergreens and shrubbery. The restaurant overhung a little lake in whose still surface its lights were reflected. Inside, in a low room illuminated only by candles, a small orchestra was playing quiet dance music, and a few couples drifted about the floor. A courteous headwaiter, after checking their names on the list of reservations, led them to a small room containing only about a dozen tables. Their table was at the side of the room, by a picture window overlooking the lake, which could be seen, dark and bright, through the reflections of themselves and the swaying flames of the candles on their table. “A thousand miles away,” Peggy was thinking. “No, a million miles!” as the conversation, as light and pleasant and unimportant as the music, went on. They were talking about the charming restaurant, the countryside, and the pleasures of getting out of the city. “We’ll have to come here in summer,” Randy was saying. “They have little boats on the lake and you make them go with paddlewheels worked with a kind of hand crank. They have fringed canvas awnings on top, and cushioned seats to lean back in. The lake is bigger than it looks, and has lots of pretty coves and inlets, and even a landscaped island up at the far end. It’s a nice place to drift around.” With a little twinge of feeling that she did not care to examine too closely, Peggy found herself wondering whom Randy had rowed around the lake, but she quickly put the thought out of her mind. She had no right to think about things like that, she told herself. Her relationship with Randy was ... well, it was what it was. Peggy had no desire to be serious, except about the theater. And even the theater, she thought, should stay in the background tonight. She and the others had been living nothing but theater lately, and it was good for them to sit in this cozy, candlelit room and talk about things that didn’t matter; things like the coming of spring, rowing on the lake, or what to have for dinner. But keeping actors from talking about the theater is as hopeless as trying to keep the tide from coming in. No matter what they start to talk about, it always ends up on stage. If the conversation is about books, somebody soon mentions a book that was made into a play, and they’re off again in stage talk. If the conversation is even about something as far removed from the theater as, say, sailboat racing, sooner or later somebody will be reminded of a sailor who wrote a play, or was an actor, and ... on stage. Tonight was no exception, and by the time they were on their main course of rare, tender steaks with Idaho potatoes, buttered peas and green salad with Roquefort dressing, the talk had quite naturally drifted onto the inevitable subject. “Are you satisfied with the way the play is developing, Mal?” Randy asked. “Does the cast live up to your hopes?” “It’s going well,” Mal answered, with his usual English reserve. “My worries about making the development lopsided by working out one scene so thoroughly for the audition have proven to be groundless. If anything, I think it was a good experience for us all. We learned, under the most intense conditions, how to work together. We learned to respect each other, too, and that’s probably the most important thing that can happen to a company.” “How about Paula?” Peggy asked. “A wonderful actress,” Mal said with unusual enthusiasm. “I wonder where she learned it all. Even a natural talent like hers isn’t all natural, you know. Somewhere along the line, she had first-rate instruction.” “She said something to me about coming from California and doing some little-theater things there,” Peggy said, “but she was rather vague about it, and I got the feeling that she wouldn’t welcome any questions.” “She’s rather vague about everything,” Randy said, “except her acting ability. That’s as clear as can be.” “I wonder where she played in California,” Mal said. “I have the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere before, and I may have run across her when I was out in Hollywood. I know she looks familiar, at any rate.” “She didn’t say,” Peggy replied. “All she told me was California, and I know it’s a big state. I suppose it might have been in the north, around San Francisco, but somehow I have the impression it was Los Angeles. Maybe that’s just because I only think of Los Angeles when I think of the acting business and California.” “Why are you so anxious to know?” Amy asked Mal. Taken aback a little, Mal hesitated before answering. “I’m not actually anxious to know about her,” he said at last. “For my purposes as a director I already know all I need to—that she’s a splendid actress. It’s just that such secretiveness as hers always inspires a little corresponding curiosity.” “Well, frankly, I am curious,” Peggy said. “But I’m not as curious about her past as I am about her present. What worries me is her health. Haven’t you all noticed how pale she looks, and how thin and drawn she’s getting?” “I have noticed her condition, of course,” Mal said with concern, “and I’ve asked her about it, as you have. She only says that I’m not to worry, and that she’ll be all right for the opening.” “Well, I hope she knows what she’s doing,” Randy said. “I’d hate to have her get ill now, and have to start training a replacement. Besides, where would we get someone as good as....” He looked at Peggy and reddened. “Oh, Randy,” she laughed, “you don’t have to be embarrassed about telling the truth. I know I’m not nearly as good as Paula, and you all know it, too. Though it’s very sweet of you to try to pretend that I am. But I didn’t walk away from the part just because I’m a nice girl and wanted to help Paula. I’m too much of an actress to be entirely unselfish when it comes to a good role! No, I just knew it was meant for her, and it was more than I could handle.” Since, out of honesty, nobody wanted to contradict her, and out of embarrassment, nobody wanted to agree, an awkward little silence fell over the table. It lasted for only a moment, though, until Randy broke it by asking Peggy if she would like to dance. She nodded happily, relieved, and Mal and Amy followed them into the next room where the band was playing. Randy was a wonderful dancer, having performed professionally as a song-and-dance man for some time, and Peggy felt that she herself never danced as well as when she was with him. Once again, the theater and its worries, Paula Andrews and her mysterious trouble, faded into the background as Peggy and Randy drifted slowly and easily about the polished floor. Once again, the conversation turned light and pleasant and far removed from their everyday problems, and the candlelit restaurant seemed to Peggy to be a thousand miles removed from everything real. But when it came time to leave, and when the car was once more purring along the road, the thousand-mile distance shrank to its true proportions of perhaps thirty-five miles. And every mile they drove brought them closer again to the busy, theatrical city, where even Randy’s good-night kiss at the doorstep could not remove from Peggy’s mind a sense of tension and trouble to come. What the trouble might be, she could not say. What the tension’s cause was, she did not know. But surely at the center of it was the pale and sensitive face of Paula Andrews. |
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