about age, and with good reason. Then there was the production to think of. Backstage romances had a way of causing more trouble than they were worth (just look at her and Nick, starting out besotted with each other in “Barefoot in the Park” and look at them now).
The cab halted and a uniformed doorman opened the door. Upstairs in the foyer of the penthouse apartment, Walter met them, drink in hand, his beard bristling and his eyes glittering with energy.
“Jess!” he cried, turning away to call out to the crowd. “Here she is, everyone—our Eva in the making, the benchmark performance!”
He left Sinclair with Jess’s coat in his hands and drew her quickly after into the thick of the mob, introducing her to strangers, many of them bohemian friends of members of the company. Some of the dramatically turned out women, with stark makeup and outrageous clothes, looked more like performers than Jess did. And not just the women; the men too.
She glanced covertly at a handsome poet with a dramatic tattoo and hair shaven to a fine fuzz all over his scalp. He was deep in discussion with someone with an impressive, ram-like nose down which he gazed with heavy-lidded eyes like a Byronic laudanum addict of the nineteenth century.
The room was large and high-ceilinged, paneled and plastered with old-fashioned opulence. It was already crowded to bursting, hot and noisy. The waitstaff had to eel their way through the crowd, performing unnoticed prodigies of balance to avoid tipping drinks and finger food down the guests’ collars.
Jess had done more than one stint working for a caterer before her first theatrical successes had made that unnecessary. Now she felt for these hired servants, at the same time hoping fervently that she would never be reduced to that kind of work again.
Walter, who had been waylaid by their host Joshua Whitely—a heavy, round-faced man wearing a rather endearing expression of dazed delight—caught her eye and beckoned to her. Jess foresaw entrapment in one of those awkward situations where she would be introduced to someone she should flatter and charm so that he (it was usually a he) would write a check for a new computer, or additional lights, or a replacement for the worn stage curtain, or whatever was at the top of the theater’s current wish list.
She was an actress, not a saleswoman; she couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for the effort. She let some people step in front of her so Walter wouldn’t see her slip out through the French doors and onto the terrace.
Cold air only lightly flavored with cigarette smoke refreshed her. Several people stood by the wrought-iron railing at one end of the terrace, arguing about unions and ticket prices. They were mere silhouettes against the brilliantly lit buildings of the mid-Manhattan skyline, which glowed under a few washed-out stars.
Glad to stop smiling for a moment, Jess walked to the other end of the terrace and relaxed against the iron railing. It was too cold to stay out long without her coat, but she was grateful for a moment of relief. From here the conversation inside sounded like the insane babble of an asylum in revolt.
So much hope, so much excitement—and so much of it riding on her Eva. She should get herself home as soon as possible, make hot cocoa, and curl up in front of the television. If she stayed around here somebody might offer her something stronger than wine, and she might be tempted to accept.
Emotional extremes were part of the performer’s job, and at its best acting was a thrilling job like no other. According to a person’s nerves and nature, there could be a heavy price to pay for taking the roller-coaster ride. She didn’t condemn colleagues who indulged in recreational substances to relieve the stress, but she steered clear, herself.
So, go home.
But home was empty. Nobody here but us chickens. She began to find something attractive in the idea of slipping away for a nightcap with Sinclair, who for the
The cab halted and a uniformed doorman opened the door. Upstairs in the foyer of the penthouse apartment, Walter met them, drink in hand, his beard bristling and his eyes glittering with energy.
“Jess!” he cried, turning away to call out to the crowd. “Here she is, everyone—our Eva in the making, the benchmark performance!”
He left Sinclair with Jess’s coat in his hands and drew her quickly after into the thick of the mob, introducing her to strangers, many of them bohemian friends of members of the company. Some of the dramatically turned out women, with stark makeup and outrageous clothes, looked more like performers than Jess did. And not just the women; the men too.
She glanced covertly at a handsome poet with a dramatic tattoo and hair shaven to a fine fuzz all over his scalp. He was deep in discussion with someone with an impressive, ram-like nose down which he gazed with heavy-lidded eyes like a Byronic laudanum addict of the nineteenth century.
The room was large and high-ceilinged, paneled and plastered with old-fashioned opulence. It was already crowded to bursting, hot and noisy. The waitstaff had to eel their way through the crowd, performing unnoticed prodigies of balance to avoid tipping drinks and finger food down the guests’ collars.
Jess had done more than one stint working for a caterer before her first theatrical successes had made that unnecessary. Now she felt for these hired servants, at the same time hoping fervently that she would never be reduced to that kind of work again.
Walter, who had been waylaid by their host Joshua Whitely—a heavy, round-faced man wearing a rather endearing expression of dazed delight—caught her eye and beckoned to her. Jess foresaw entrapment in one of those awkward situations where she would be introduced to someone she should flatter and charm so that he (it was usually a he) would write a check for a new computer, or additional lights, or a replacement for the worn stage curtain, or whatever was at the top of the theater’s current wish list.
She was an actress, not a saleswoman; she couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for the effort. She let some people step in front of her so Walter wouldn’t see her slip out through the French doors and onto the terrace.
Cold air only lightly flavored with cigarette smoke refreshed her. Several people stood by the wrought-iron railing at one end of the terrace, arguing about unions and ticket prices. They were mere silhouettes against the brilliantly lit buildings of the mid-Manhattan skyline, which glowed under a few washed-out stars.
Glad to stop smiling for a moment, Jess walked to the other end of the terrace and relaxed against the iron railing. It was too cold to stay out long without her coat, but she was grateful for a moment of relief. From here the conversation inside sounded like the insane babble of an asylum in revolt.
So much hope, so much excitement—and so much of it riding on her Eva. She should get herself home as soon as possible, make hot cocoa, and curl up in front of the television. If she stayed around here somebody might offer her something stronger than wine, and she might be tempted to accept.
Emotional extremes were part of the performer’s job, and at its best acting was a thrilling job like no other. According to a person’s nerves and nature, there could be a heavy price to pay for taking the roller-coaster ride. She didn’t condemn colleagues who indulged in recreational substances to relieve the stress, but she steered clear, herself.
So, go home.
But home was empty. Nobody here but us chickens. She began to find something attractive in the idea of slipping away for a nightcap with Sinclair, who for the
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