Melody barely heard him. There was a drumming of blood in her ears, a wild excitement rushing through her that went above and beyond the normal butterflies of the audition process. It would have been overwhelming if Melody, young as she was, didn’t already have a great deal of stage experience. It helped, of course, that she’d trained at a British stage school. American actors didn’t train much at drama school for stage work; the ones who wanted to work in film, which meant almost all of them, focused intently on that, and when they were cast in Broadway plays very few of the most famous names had any idea how to dominate a stage, to project their voices in a shout or a whisper, to use their bodies in proportion to the proscenium. Melody did.
And she’d already been through a ton of auditions. For Wuthering Heights, there had been a gruelling three rounds of call-backs; her nerves had been in pieces by the last set of them, but not a flicker of nerves had shown on her face. She’d taken every single little last bit of fear and panic, used her desperation to get the part, her knowledge that this was the big break that could catapult her out of being a complete unknown onto the cover of Sunday magazines; she’d wrapped that all up in a big ball and dived into it and come out as Cathy Earnshaw.
Watching James put one hand on the stage, vault up easily without even using the stairs, jump to his feet next to her and smile shyly, she thought, with a rush of exhilaration:
I can do that again. Thank God this is a big emotional scene. I can take everything I’m feeling and use it and be Beatrice—
This scene started just after Beatrice’s beloved cousin had collapsed on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, her wedding to the man she loved; she had been humiliated, falsely accused of cheating on her fiancé in a cruel plot. And Beatrice was about to tell Benedick, who loved her, that he would have to take her side, take revenge on her cousin’s accusers, if he ever wanted to be with Beatrice.
Tears were already forming in her eyes. She dropped to her knees, her head falling into her hands. James took a couple of steps back, turned away, gathering himself, turned back and caught sight of her for the first time as Benedick: coming quickly over, he stopped next to her and said, his voice full of concern:
‘Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
‘Yea,’ Melody said into her hands, but her voice carried clearly right up to the gallery. ‘And I will weep a while longer.’
‘I will not desire that,’ James said, kneeling beside her.
Melody lifted her head, letting her face be seen both by hi m and by Cate and Martin. Tears were pouring down it. She had always been able to cry easily; it was an incredibly useful knack for an actor. ‘You have no reason,’ she said bitterly. ‘I do it freely.’
‘Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged,’ James said.
With a fluid, shocking gesture, Melody jumped to her feet, her fists clenched by her sides. ‘Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!’ she spat out.
James took one of her hands, looking down at it: she wouldn’t clasp his, leaving hers squeezed into a fist.
‘Is there any way to show such friendship?’ he asked tentatively, still on his knees.
She looked down at him, meeting his eyes. It was like a stab, as if he had driven his hand right into her chest and taken hold of her heart – which was his, had always been his. His hair fell over his face, and he shook it back, staring up at her, waiting for her answer. He was James, and he was Benedick, and she loved them both.
‘A very even way, but no such friend,’ she said more gently, and she opened her fist, letting her fingers wrap around his.
‘M ay a man do it?’ James came to his feet, still holding her hand; she threw it back at him as she turned away, and said, wrapping her arms around her chest:
‘It is a man’s office, but not yours.’
It was Melody, not Beatrice, who waited for the next words, because Melody knew what they would be, and she thought it would break her heart to hear him say them. He didn’t move. He stood there, looking at her back, and said with great tenderness:
‘I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is n ot that strange?’
Beatrice threw his words back at him, because Beatrice too was broken-hearted, but for her cousin. Melody tapped into that, used the dialogue to follow to reject him until he stormed up to her, grabbed her, turned her round, shook her till her hair fell over her shoulders, and made her admit:
‘I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest...’
They were on a roll. You always knew when it was really good, when the energy was flowing between you perfectly, like a ball you were tossing back and forth in one of those drama school warm-up exercises; but even though you were almost completely absorbed with the scene, with each other, the awareness of that audience watching you avidly was always like a great light shining on you, warming you, that you ignored at your peril. If you were tapping into it, you knew, because you felt the warmth and the illumination feeding you, growing your performance like a flower in a greenhouse.
And Melody did: she realised in a rush how much she had missed the stage, how happy she was to be back here. By the time she reached the famous lines, she was hot with conflicting emotions, love and hate wrestling inside her for dominance, hate winning as she spat out:
‘O h t hat I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they come to take hands; and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour. Oh God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace!’
It was good. It was very good indeed. She could tell by the quality of silence as she delivered the lines, as they hung in the air of the auditorium, as Benedick’s eyes widened in horror as he realised that Beatrice was utterly serious. She convinced him; he agreed to challenge her cousin’s fiancé to a duel.
‘I will kiss your hand,’ he said, ‘and so I leave you.’ He suited the action to the word, and as their eyes met over their linked hands, the tension between them was palpable. James’s voice dropped, deep and sensual, sending a shiver down Melody’s back: she stared at him, unable to let him go; she was clinging to him, in love with him, as she had always been, as Beatrice had always been.
James raised their hands, pulling her close to him.
‘By this hand,’ he said softly, ‘Claudio shall render me a dear accoun t. As you hea r of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cou sin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.’
It was the last line, the end of the scene, but they couldn’t let go. Slowly, James lowered his head, and Melody stayed very still as he kissed her, a sweet promise Benedick made to Beatrice, their hands still clasped between them. Her eyes fluttered closed. He stepped back, extending his arm to its full length, their fingers stretching out, pulling apart, the tips touching till the very last moment; then he turned and ran offstage, leaving her standing there, looking after him. Crying again.
No one applauded. You never did at auditions; that only happened in films, cheesy ones where the director and producers would jump to their feet, clapping madly, and then there’d be a cut and she’d be in front of an audience, a huge bouquet in her arms, flowers raining down on her.
But the silence, intense and profound, was as good as applause. Melody stood in the centre of the stage, the lights on her, knowing how good she had been.
I should get this part. I should be Beatrice.
And there’s no way Cate can deny that James and I really do have great chemistry.
‘Well! That was very nice,’ Martin said, standing up. ‘Um. Very nice. Great work too, James.’
‘Thanks.’ James came back onstage, his hands now in the pockets of his jeans, his gaze on Melody. He nodded at her. ‘You were brilliant.’
‘Well, I think we’ve seen all we need to see!’ Martin went on, and Melody’s heart leapt; but of course he’s not going to tell me I have the part! That only happens in films too. He’s going to say he’ll let my agent know in due course—
/>
‘We’ll let your agent know in due course,’ he continued. ‘Thanks so much for coming in.’
She gathered up her bag, slung on her coat, and went down the side steps, walking down the aisle, smiling a goodbye at Martin and Cate; you got out quickly after an audition, that was protocol. You gave the people you’d read for time to digest your performance, and, ideally, leave them wanting more.
And to prepare themselves for the next actress – though you hope you don’t bump into her as you go out—
Melody had wanted to exit through the auditorium, not just to give her the chance to say goodbye to the director and producer, but also to avoid precisely that, the chance of bumping into the next candidate. She wanted so badly to get this part, to play Beatrice to James’s Benedick – to rehearse with him, to kiss him every night onstage, to get him to fall in love with me again – because I really think he would fall in love with me again if we were together – I saw the way he just looked at me – that the thought of another woman taking her place on that stage was unbearable. So she didn’t look back, in case another actress was stepping on stage at this moment, smiling at James: but as she pushed open one of the swing doors at the back of the stalls and stepped into the lobby, she was horrified to see Felicity sitting there, wrapped in her tweed coat with the ruffled collar, a coffee in her hand, curled up on one of the velvet benches reading a magazine, looking as cosy as if this were her living room.
‘Oh, Melody!’ she said casually, uncurling and stretching out her legs. ‘Are you finished? That was quick.’
It can’t have gone well, the subtext ran. Since they didn’t really want you to read for any length of time.
‘It was so nice of them to see you!’ she added, tossing back her long blonde hair. ‘Cate told me she did it as a favour to Anthony. Sweet of her, wasn’t it?’
Felicity stood up, threw her magazine to the bench, and held out her coffee to Melody, who was so dumbfounded that she took it.
‘Mind getting rid of that for me?’ she said, walking towards the theatre doors. ‘Or you could finish it if you want. I have to read now. It’s a formality, really, of course. Cate’s pretty much promised me Beatrice already. Oh!’ She turned to deliver the coup de grâce. ‘I saw you in the paper! Some paparazzo shot outside your building. God, those bruises! They looked awful. Not exactly the publicity you want, is it?’
She pushed open the door and went through. Melody caught the door with her foot, watching Felicity dance lithely down the aisle, bend to kiss Cate, who actually stood up to hug Felicity in return. No wonder Cate was so hard on me, Melody thought bitterly. She’s on Felicity’s side. That audition was just a sham, a favour to Anthony. Felicity’s acting as if she has this already all sewn up.
Felicity was standing at the bottom of the stage now, in the aisle. She shrugged off her coat and tossed it onto the front row, holding both her hands up to James, saying winsomely:
‘Pull me up, darling!’
James bent over, taking her hands, lifting her up; she swung her legs up under her and landed on the stage.
‘Right!’ she said, throwing her hair over one shoulder and flashing a big smile at Martin and Cate. ‘I’m ready! What do you want me to do?’
Melody turned away, letting the door swing shut. She went slowly up the foyer stairs, her footsteps resounding on the tiled floor, feeling as if all the breath had been knocked out of her with one huge punch to her gut. A woman doing paperwork in the box office looked up as Melody passed, said something friendly, but Melody didn’t notice; she was immersed in a deep dark cloud of misery.
If I hadn’t done so well just now – because I know I did really well, I know no one could be better than me, I know Felicity can’t be as good as I just was—
I was so close – I should have had that part! I should!
Because Felicity had taken it from her, as she had taken James. He, and Beatrice, were already gone.
The cold December air outside felt heavy and wet; snow had been predicted, and she looked up at the sky, which was dark already, at barely four in the afternoon. It was clear, another indication of snow. She went down the short flight of steps to the pavement, and as she did so a man jumped out of nowhere and a series of flashes went off in her face.
‘Melody!’ he said. ‘Just been auditioning with Dr Who? How was it seeing your ex-boyfriend? How do you feel about his shagging Felicity Bell? And any comments on your surgery? We’ve all seen the photos by now!’
Felicity tipped him off, Melody knew. Just as she tipped off that pap outside Limehouse Reach yesterday.
She flashed her best and most brilliant smile for the camera as she walked across the pavement and held out her arm for a passing cab: she knew better than to say a word. She kept the smile on her face as she stepped in, pulled the door shut and sank into the seat, kept it plastered on as the cab drove away.
And she kept smiling, her face reflected back at her in the Plexiglas of the partition, all the way back to Limehouse Reach. Because she was damned if she was going to cry one more tear this year.
December 31st – New Year’s Eve
Andy
‘Ooh, look, it’s the pretty boy!’
Diane swept into the Limehouse Reach foyer, her girls trailing behind her in two wings: they looked like beautiful, migrating birds in arrow formation. She waved at Kevin on reception, but didn’t stop there, gliding over to Andy’s desk.
‘Hello, darling,’ she said, holding out her hand to him. ‘Remind me of your name, won’t you? If you’re not a paying client, I’ve got a very bad memory for names.’
‘It’s Andy,’ he said, taking Diane’s hand and kissing it. She cooed at him in pleasure.
‘What a lovely boy you are,’ she said, patting his cheek. ‘Are you coming up to party with us later?’
‘We’re putting on a show!’ said the tallest girl excitedly. ‘We didn’t really do it on Boxing Day, so I thought I’d see if Mr K wanted us to do it on New Year’s Eve, and he’s well up for it!’
Diane shot her a frigid look.
‘Um, very keen on it,’ the girl corrected herself.
‘Sounds great,’ Andy said, trying his best to sound enthusiastic.
‘I’ve got tons of cossies,’ the girl went on, waggling the handle of the small wheeled suitcase she was pulling. ‘And wings!’ She nodded at the big flat bag which another of the girls was carrying. ‘We’re going to be naughty angels! Like in the Victoria’s Secret fashion show!’
‘God, give it a rest, Kesha,’ another girl sighed. ‘You’re banging on about it so much I’m bored with it already.’
‘Wait till you get your wings on,’ Kesha said, tossing back her long fake ponytail. ‘Everyone gets excited when they’ve got wings on.’
‘That is actually true,’ a third girl agreed.
Diane winked at Andy as she turned away.
‘Come on, girls,’ she said. ‘You’re wasting your time with this one. But we’ll see you for the party, eh?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Andy said. ‘I’ll be seeing the guests up and then popping up later. Mr Khalovsky was kind enough to ask me.’
‘Toodle-pip, then!’
Waving her fingers at him rather like the Queen bidding a subject farewell, Diane stalked elegantly across to the recessed penthouse floor lift. One of Grigor’s bodyguards had already summoned it and was waiting there, holding the doors open for Diane and her girls.
Andy watched them all tuck into the generous lift car, the doors sliding shut.
‘You lucky cunt,’ Kevin said enviously. ‘Getting to see all those gorgeous birds in the altogether.’
‘Kevin, I’m gay,’ Andy said, sighing.
‘Oh yeah!’ Kevin grinned. ‘I always forget. It’s a—’
‘Compliment,’ Andy finished, in tandem with Kevin, rolling his eyes. ‘Look, Kev, it isn’t a bloody compliment, all right? You keep saying that! It’s like you think that, just because I’m gay, I have to hold myself back from jumping your b
ig fat lardarse. And I really don’t, okay? I don’t fancy you.’
‘Andy—’ Kevin started nervously, but Andy kept going.
‘It’s not a compliment to be straight-acting, you know!’ Andy snapped. ‘I’m just being professional at work, that’s all. I really don’t appreciate all the “I forget you’re gay” nonsense, and I’d be grateful if you cut it out in future.’
Kevin was looking mortified, but Andy didn’t care. He stood up and walked swiftly to the doors, activating the automatic release, standing outside in the cold winter air. It had snowed the night before, but hadn’t been quite cold enough to settle; tonight, though, all the forecasts were saying that it would. There hadn’t been a white Christmas this year, but there certainly would be a white New Year’s Eve.
Andy tilted his head and looked up at the sky, clear and whitish-grey. The air was sharp, and without the good-quality wool fabric of his winter uniform, he would already have been shivering. Honestly, he welcomed the cold: it was bracing, cutting through the dismal mood he was in as he faced New Year’s Eve, a time for parties and celebrations and kissing the person you loved at the stroke of midnight: well, I can’t say I love Wayne, not yet. I barely know him. But I’d love to be kissing him at midnight.
He sighed again.
And instead I’ll be watching a few really rich guys fuck a bunch of escorts. Yay! I must be the luckiest gay boy on earth...
Aniela
She was exactly where she wasn’t supposed to be. Inside Jon’s old apartment. And she had a sense that he knew it, too. She didn’t know how or why, where he might be. Maybe he had rigged invisible spy cameras in here or something. But she had a very strong feeling that Jon was nearby, keeping an eye on her, as she supervised the patient being wheeled into the apartment, a nose splint and surgical dressings over his heavily bruised face.
Apart from her worry about Jon’s interdiction, the patient was a thoroughly welcome distraction. He was a rich businessman who had had a nasty accident on a skiing holiday in Zermatt – skied straight into a tree and smashed up his face – and had insisted on being flown back to London to have his face operated on by the plastic surgeon who had done such a good job on his nose a few years ago.
Bad Angels Page 41
