Method Acting

by Adele Buck

  Now he didn’t look confused, he looked appalled. “No home of your own?” he asked as they reached the sidewalk.

  She shrugged. “No.”

  “Whyever not?” As they walked, the occasional mature trees provided intermittent shade, leaves rustling in a slight breeze.

  “I’m an actress. My base is New York, but I go off on location, on tours, on out of town gigs. I can’t afford to keep a place in New York when I’m not always there. Most of what I own fits in two suitcases. Large suitcases, but still.”

  Colin was silent for a moment. “That’s…astonishing. I can’t conceive of not having a place of one’s own.”

  Alicia dug deep for a reserve of patience that was rapidly dwindling. Keeping people at arm’s length meant she didn’t often have to defend her choices, an exercise that brought childhood insecurities roaring back. “A home may be a necessity for you, but it’s a luxury for me. Or worse, it’s a trap.”

  Colin looked around at the quiet residential street with its neat façades and tidy gardens. “Forgive me for saying so, but that sounds rather melodramatic.”

  “Well,” she said, allowing an edge of irritation color her voice. “I am an actress.”

  Chapter 11

  Colin wasn’t sure what he had said to make Alicia close down the way she had. Her jaw was set and her stride seemed overly long as they made their way toward the National Gallery. It irritated him, this unprovoked defensiveness.

  He was relieved when they walked past the East Building. Its focus on contemporary art disturbed him. He wasn’t sure half the pieces in that building were art at all. He was further surprised when Alicia’s swinging walk took them past the West Building as well. His own steps lagged.

  “We’re not going inside?”

  She surprised him yet again when she took his hand as they crossed Seventh Street. “Not yet. Ever been to the Sculpture Garden?”

  Colin suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. What he had seen from the periphery of The National Gallery Sculpture Garden had always made it seem like it was full of annoyingly abstract pieces and twee pop art he didn’t like. As such, he had never felt lured to go inside.

  Steady on. Maybe there’s something here you don’t know about.

  “How is it that you know so much about the museums in D.C.? Haven’t you only been here a short while?” he asked.

  “When we went into production, my daylight hours were mostly free when we didn’t have matinées. And I like to learn and don’t do well without something to occupy my time.”

  A determined look crossed her face as she tugged him to the entrance. As they walked in, he almost groaned. A ladder of quasi-abstract, chair-like shapes stretched toward the sky to his left; a concrete pyramid that looked like it was made out of breeze blocks loomed to the right.

  Just as he had feared. Incomprehensible. His feet dragged.

  She pulled at his hand again, her jaw set in a firm line. “Don’t worry, it will all be over soon, and we can go inside that big block of stone to soothe your soul with some eighteenth century French paintings or something.”

  “You read my mind,” he said, knowing he was being petulant and somehow not being able to stop himself.

  “Come on,” she said, pointing at a jumble of red-painted steel. “Who doesn’t like a Calder?”

  “What is this supposed to be?” he muttered. “Ah.” He read the placard. “Cheval Rouge. Looks more like a stegosaurus on psychotropic drugs than a horse. Sorry. Though I’ll grant that it is red.”

  She released his hand and planted her fists on her hips. “You don’t have to apologize for not liking something, but having an open mind might be useful.”

  Colin shrugged. “It’s not that I have anything against contemporary art. I have a few modern pieces myself. It’s just that I don’t get the point of a great bit of steel business like this. Though I don’t mind his mobiles so much.”

  Alicia rolled her eyes. “Generous of you to say so.” Walking him to the other side of the path, she said, “You can’t say this is unrecognizable.” A cartoonish representation of a house stood there, one visible wall white, one wall yellow, shutters picked out in a bright red to match the jaunty little chimney that stuck out of the roof.

  “No, but I can wonder why it can lay claim to the title of ‘art,’” he said as they circled it, his comment cut off by the realization that the house seemed to be spinning in place as they moved. “What?” He frowned and blinked and they moved a few steps further around the structure and the mystery was solved.

  The little house wasn’t three-dimensional. At least not in the way he had thought it was. It was two walls only and they were concave, not convex, but their orientation appeared to be inverted when you faced the piece head-on, the proportions and angles combining to confound the viewer.

  An optical illusion.

  Alicia bit her lips together, trying to suppress the satisfaction she had felt at being able to fool him. Granted, she had distracted him with the Calder until they had moved to a point where the little house was at its most misleading.

  But he was being so smug, it felt like a major victory to see him confounded.

  “Surprised?”

  “Gobsmacked.” He moved around the sculpture again, rubbing his chin with one hand. She had been pleased when he hadn’t shaved, and now the stubble across his cheeks was dark and rough in contrast to his usual smoothness. His body was like a playground of textures now: harsh stubble, soft hair, smooth skin over hard muscle.

  She realized he had caught her ogling him. He blinked, his eyes uncertain, and she reached out a hand to take his.

  “Come on,” she said, towing him farther into the garden.

  “Really?” he asked. “Didn’t you make your point?”

  She stopped, turning to him. “If I had, you would be curious to go on, not eager to leave. But we can go look at the boring old stuff you’ve seen at least thirty times already if you feel that strongly about it.”

  The muscles of his jaw worked for a moment, his eyes going from uncertain to hard. “Fine. But do you like all these things?” He waved at an aluminum tree stretching bare branches to the hot, blue summer sky.

  “Some of it. Some of it confuses me, some of it I really dislike. Do you like every…” she floundered for an example. “…Van Gogh you’ve ever looked at?” She rubbed her index finger with her thumb, a loose piece of cuticle irritating her.

  “No, but at least with Van Gogh I know it’s art.”

  “How do you know it’s art?”

  He stopped, considered her question. “There’s a history. A provenance. A pedigree.”

  Alicia’s breath caught in her chest. “Everything that now has a pedigree was new once. And just because something is new doesn’t mean it’s inferior.”

  “That’s not what I said. But this…” He waved his free hand at the tree. “It just seems like showy, vulgar display.”

  Alicia dropped his hand, backed away, fought the urge to turn and walk away. But she wanted that last word.

  “And where’s the guy who defended me and my ‘showy, vulgar display’ to Mrs. Thurston Howell III last night?” she asked through gritted teeth, her shoulders tensing painfully. “Or do you only tolerate that sort of thing when you want to fuck it senseless?”

  For a few moments, Colin scrambled to figure out where he had gone wrong.

  Why was she taking this personally? A fierce, hot surge of defensive feeling built in his chest.

  He opened his mouth to speak, then paused. Her tense, unhappy face said she was one second from turning and walking away.

  He bit back his words. It didn’t matter why. It mattered that she did. And he could still see her feet start to shift, her body start to turn…

  “Wait. I’m sorry.” The words squeezed out of his throat.

  She swallowed, and her eyes narrowed, hard and anticipatory. But she stopped.

  The wheels of his mind skidded and stuttered. “I…didn’t mean to insult
you. Clearly, I wasn’t thinking along the same lines. I didn’t make any sort of connection to…I didn’t think you were vulgar last night!”

  Alicia’s eyes slid to the side, one hand clenched, her thumb rubbing over a finger.

  Colin took a hesitant step toward her and her eyes snapped back to him. He stopped, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m truly sorry.”

  She gave him a long look. “You’re apologizing more than once again.”

  “The error seemed to call for it. For all I know I may have said or done two stupid things.” His stomach churned, and his pulse hammered in his ears.

  She nodded.

  “Will you…tell me the other things I possibly should, if not apologize for, then at least be aware of?”

  Her jaw worked. “First of all, nobody likes to have somebody sneer at something they like.”

  “Fair enough. But that doesn’t seem…never mind, please continue,” he said, raising his hands as she looked at him like he was an imbecile. Which he was starting to feel he was.

  “And fine. Maybe you didn’t think I was vulgar last night. But when you started in, being all high and mighty about modern art…”

  Colin sighed. “Is sculpture that important to you?”

  She looked at him as if she was assessing whether she should go on. Then took a deep breath. “It’s not just sculpture. Think about it. I’m an actor. Actors are artists.”

  “Yes…” Aware now that he was in quicksand territory, Colin just looked at her, his tension matching hers, waiting for her to go on.

  “I don’t just work in theater. I work in television. It would be one hell of a treat to have you say, ‘Oh, that Shakespeare was jolly good, Alicia, but what is this rubbish you’re doing now? Telly? I suppose if you must to pay the bills, but it’s not art, now is it?’” Her voice slid into a deeper register, seamlessly dropping her American accent and adopting his own.

  Colin winced at her impression. It was stuffy and pompous and…deeply uncomfortable.

  In fact, it sounded sickeningly like his late paternal grandfather, someone who had always frustrated him. The man had always been sure he was so unerringly right, so unwilling to listen to anyone else’s opinion… Was that him now?

  He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to scrub away the memory. “Is that all?”

  “That’s about it.” The muscles in her jaw worked, and her eyes wouldn’t meet his face.

  “Well I won’t apologize again because you don’t want me to, not because I don’t feel sorry. But do you think I can be forgiven?”

  Alicia finally let herself look at him, her eyes scanning his face. She had been so sure he would be defensive, grandstand, explain, minimize. Even deny.

  He had done none of those things.

  Well, he had started to. But he had realized his mistake. He had listened. He had even asked for forgiveness.

  And what had she done? She’d mocked him. Her imitation of him had been a step too far. It was cruel. It was unfair. It had put words in his mouth, making him sound pretentious and pompous. But he hadn’t protested that either.

  Shame threatened to swallow her whole.

  He had moved a step closer while she was thinking. “Alicia, I like you. You fascinate me. I would like to spend more time with you. And yes, I find you sexy as hell and I do like having you in my bed. But it’s not just that. You’re smart and you’re ambitious and talented. I can’t promise I won’t say the wrong thing—hell, I said the wrong thing within moments of meeting you—but I promise I will listen. I am listening.”

  Her knees felt a little weak, and she realized how she had failed. Her default defensive impulse had wanted him to deny her feelings, to explain away the things that mattered to her, and had had fully expected him to do all of those things.

  It would have made him so easy to walk away from.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He had been starting to take another step forward, but stopped. “Why what?”

  “Why do you like me so much? You hardly know me.” Her own voice sounded harsh in her ears.

  He ran a hand over his mouth, let it drop. “Why did you spend what was probably a small fortune on a dress you may never be able to wear again to go to a glorified science fair with me?”

  The answer stuck in her throat. He took another step forward. Close enough this time to reach out and touch her shoulder with the lightest of fingertips. She didn’t move.

  He went on, his voice low. “You seem to be focused on how we’re different. I think in many ways we’re more alike than you realize.”

  Alicia swallowed, suppressed a skeptical laugh. “How so?”

  “We’ve both defied expectations. Both gone our own ways.” Colin’s eyes were grave.

  Alicia snorted. “Yeah. Defying expectations like a champ, you. Oxford? I’m sure your parents found that to be a huge disappointment.”

  Colin’s eyes didn’t leave hers, but his mouth quirked up. “No. That was expected of me, true. But coming to America? Staying in America? My father calls weekly, wanting to know when I’ll come ‘home.’ But after my mother died, I didn’t feel at home in England.”

  “You were born there.”

  His fingertips skimmed her cheekbone. “You were born in Minnesota. That was home to you?” His large brown eyes were gentle and sincere, no trace of mockery.

  Alicia shook her head, huffed a humorless laugh. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

  His hand cupped her chin. “Okay, then. Care to show me the rest of this garden?”

  Damn. She inhaled slowly, trying to keep from shuddering, looked at him again. If he wasn’t being honest, she had never met a better actor, and that made her nervous.

  “Sure. I think there’s actually something you’d like back here.”

  Colin trailed after Alicia as she continued down the path, feeling weak with relief. He wasn’t really paying attention to where they were going, so he was startled by a replica of the entry to a Paris Métro station standing in front of a glassed-in café. Glancing from the elaborate Art Nouveau railings and overhead sign to the café, he realized why he hadn’t noticed the station-entry-as-art-installation as they approached. The ironwork holding the panes of glass in place for the café echoed the sinuous, organic curves of the Métro piece. The art had literally blended with the outer wall of the restaurant until he was almost on top of it all.

  “This is beautiful,” he said, his voice reverent. The interior of the railing, instead of leading to a staircase down to an underground train, housed a level seating area. The ironwork seemed strange, divorced from its original purpose, but it was still a masterwork of natural shapes, organic tendrils reaching up to support light fixtures and a sign proclaiming “Métropolitain” in distinctive Art Nouveau script.

  “I thought you’d like it.” Alicia’s voice came from behind him, and he turned to look at her. She seemed calmer, but still…off. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

  “Is something still wrong?” He tilted his head, considering her stiff posture, the way she was still fidgeting, one thumb rubbing a finger.

  Alicia’s chin lifted, and Colin turned more fully to her. “What is it?” he asked.

  Her mouth worked. “I’m sorry.”

  Colin looked at her, baffled. “For what?”

  Her eyelids fluttered briefly, blinking, looking somewhere to the right of his hip. “The imitation of you. It wasn’t fair.”

  Ah. The jab of pain he had felt at how she had reached back into his past and showed it as his possible future—or maybe worse, present—poked him again.

  She went on, jamming her hands into her pockets. “It was…I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry."

  Colin frowned. “Are you apologizing twice?”

  Alicia’s jaw clenched, but her eyes finally met his. “Maybe. Did I hurt you?”

  He thought about it. Yes, it had hurt. But the pain had come from the fact that he had recognized a kernel of truth in her impersonation. “Yes. But
you weren’t necessarily wrong in what you saw.”

  “I was wrong to…do that, though. It was cheap.”

  Colin rubbed his chin. “It was effective.”

  Her brows came together. “How? What do you mean?”

  “I heard my late grandfather loud and clear. And you never met the man. So, the Oscar goes to Miss Alicia Johnson. Best performance of a dead man.”

  Alicia bit her lip. “Are you okay?”

  Colin extended a hand. After a slight hesitation, Alicia took her fist out of her pocket and slid her palm into his. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her breathe deeply. “We’re okay, I think.”

  Chapter 12

  Colin didn’t complain or opine as Alicia led him around the rest of the garden. He looked thoughtfully at a Chagall mosaic, laughed when Alicia made up a little story about the giant, circular Oldenberg typewriter eraser being about to roll right out of the garden on a quest to enact literal “cancel culture” in D.C., and blinked without comment at various abstract shapes in metal and stone.

  When he wasn’t aggravating or arousing her, Alicia realized, Colin was quite a restful person to be around.

  “Care to get some lunch?” he asked as they made a circuit of the central fountain.

  “Sure. What were you thinking?” she asked.

  Taking her hand, he pulled her back toward the National Gallery.

  “We’re going to eat seventeenth century Italian painting?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, if it’s Greek sculpture, warn me. I left my dentures in my other shorts.”

  “Smart-arse.”

  “Yeah, but it sounds so cultured the way you say it,” she said, gratified to see his eyes crinkle when they stopped for traffic at the curb.

  “No more comments about the way I speak. You’ll make me self-conscious,” he said as they crossed Seventh Street.