Temptation: The Aftermath

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  But this wasn’t “Fences” nor was it “Aida” or “Fela.” And this wasn’t Broadway. This wasn’t even off-Broadway, it wasn’t two blocks over from Broadway. This was down the street, around the corner, across the river, and almost nine hundred miles away from Broadway.

  And once we began touring, we’d leave Atlanta and go deep into the ‘Chitlin Circuit,’ probably visiting cities I’d never heard of and towns that sounded like the butt end of jokes.

  I did have a little secret, though. One that I would deny if anyone ever asked me – I liked these off, off, off, off, off Broadway plays. Over the years, I’d attended quite a few if I happened to be in the city where one was playing. Of course, I made sure I was unrecognizable, always wearing huge sunglasses, always wearing a hat and a scarf, always keeping my head low so that no one would know that, I, Tamara Collins, the classically trained actor, laughed at all the off-center jokes, swayed to all the off-key songs, then stood with the audience at the end, giving all a standing ovation.

  So while the title and some of the scenes ruffled my classical Yale University School of Drama sensibilities, I couldn’t knock the thousands and thousands of fans who enjoyed these plays and the thousands and thousands of dollars that I was being paid to bring my talents to the stage.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I checked to see if I’d been spotted yet. But he was still talking to Gwen Tanner, the creator, writer, director and producer of this play. After taking another moment and a deep breath, I sat in one of the chairs lined up against the wall. When I was ready, I raised my eyes and stared. Because him seeing me, and our having to speak to each other, was inevitable.

  This made me once again ask myself what was I doing here? It had started just about a month ago. My agent, Maury had received the script from Gwen. I already knew her name. She was new on the play circuit and she was the first female to have massive success. Two plays, two NAACP Image Awards, and lots of buzz for the uplifting messages that followed the slapstick comedy. After I’d read the script, I was even more impressed. Yeah, it had the typical female-on-female hatin’, female-on-male drama, but at the end, there was a powerful message of never allowing anyone’s voice to be louder than God’s.

  So with Gwen’s reputation, the ten thousand dollars per week they were paying me for the ten-week run, plus two weeks for rehearsals, and the sad fact that I had no other offers, I’d signed on, knowing it was the right thing to do.

  That was what I believed when I signed the contract two weeks ago. Heck, that was what I believed yesterday, this morning, five minutes ago. That was what I believed until Donovan had walked into this room.

  Donovan Dobbs, the hot R&B singer and a heartthrob who’d been commanding the stage and stealing hearts for twenty years, ever since he was sixteen years old. He could even act a little, but his major talent – he was fine. It was like God decided to toss Michael Ealy, Blair Underwood and Idris Elba into a blender, hit start, and see what came out. Yep. Donovan was the personification of brown and beautiful.

  And he was a low down dirty dog. “Well, well, well ….”

  My plan had been to keep my eyes on him. But I guess as I’d taken that little jaunt down that lane filled with bad memories, Donovan had spotted me.

  “If it isn’t the love of my life.” His tone sounded like he wasn’t surprised to see me.

  He was still several feet away when he’d said those words, and I could feel the others in the room pause, then stop and watch as Donovan walked my way with his signature strut; he had swagger before the word had even been invented. He had swagger and that smile. The whole time he kept that smile that I loved. That smile that I hated.

  “So, when did you get in?” he asked when he stopped in front of me. He opened his arms, then reached for me as if he was crazy enough to expect some kind of hug.

  I wanted to hug him all right. And if I’d had that knife from my last movie, I would have – hugged him and stabbed him straight in his back. Instead, I glared and hoped that my stare was filled with the heat that I felt. I hoped my stare set him on fire, and I swear, if I saw a single flame, I wouldn’t even spit on him to save him.

  Standing, I didn’t part my lips as I moved away. I heard his chuckles as I stomped by, but though I wanted to stop and swing on him, I kept marching until I was right in front of Gwen.

  It didn’t matter that she was chatting with one of the other actors. We hadn’t all been introduced yet, so I had no idea what role the tall, svelte, with a tan that made her one-degree above white, woman was playing. I didn’t care. There was only one piece of business on my mind and Gwen needed to handle this now. “I need to speak with you.” It was a demand, not a request.

  “Yeah, what’s up?” Gwen replied, giving me just a quick glance. “Privately,” I said.

  The actor, who I pegged as a newcomer since I didn’t recognize her, gave me a smirk with a little attitude. But before I could roll my neck back at her, Gwen said, “Camille, give us a minute,” and the woman did a moonwalk away from us.

  As soon as she was out of earshot, I hissed, “What is he doing here?” I jabbed a finger in Donovan’s direction.

  When Gwen and I looked his way, Donovan winked. Gwen grinned and I wanted to puke.

  By the time she turned back to me, her expression was stiff with seriousness. “Who? Donovan?” She gave a little shrug, and then with a wave of her hand that made the dozen of wooden bangles on her arm jingle, she announced, “He’s in the play.”

  My glance took in the woman who was really quite striking in the floor-length West African print duster that she wore. Her sister locs were swept up on top of her head and wrapped in a matching band. But right now, I didn’t care that she stood in front of me like she was some kind of African Queen. I was the star of this play, and she needed to address the problem I had with this.

  “I assumed that he was here because he was in the play,” I snapped. “What role is he playing?”

  I guess that was the question she was waiting for me to ask and the one she wanted to answer. Her grin was back when she said, “He’s playing your love interest.”

  My nostrils flared and my fingers began that search again for that knife. But I stayed calm, remained professional, though not even my Yale training could hide the fury in my voice. “I thought Jamal was my leading man.”

  Jamal Brown was the R & B singer turned reality star, who didn’t have the voice or the looks of Donovan. But what he did have was my approval. Seriously, my contract said that I had approval of the man who would be starring opposite me.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, he had to drop out at the last minute,” she said as if that fact were not a big deal. “He got a movie deal.”

  Wait! Stop! What? My thoughts did a little rewind. A movie deal? For a moment, I wanted to keep the button pressed on pause and ask, ‘What movie deal?’ because this was the problem. This was why actors, like me, couldn’t get roles. Singers and reality stars and everyone who couldn’t act were landing contracts and taking parts that rightfully belonged to those of us who’d been trained.

  But I had to come down from that mental soapbox and stay focused on what was in front of me.

  “So, Jamal left and you’re telling me that you couldn’t find anyone else?”

  Gwen tilted her head a little, frowned and stared at me as if my words had put her into a state of confusion.

  Clearly, she had no acting training. Or maybe it was just that no matter what she said or did, I knew what this was all about. Everyone in these United States of America knew about my drama with Donovan – it had been covered by every gossip blog, played out in every major tabloid, and dissected on every entertainment show. So Gwen casting Donovan in this role was no mistake. She was trying to take my drama and my pain all the way to her bank. “Tamara, I’m sorry if you have a problem with Donovan, but the show opens in two weeks.” Her tone was saccharine sweet, leaving a bad aftertaste in my ears. “I’m grateful that Donovan was even available on such short notice.”


  “Well, I’m not about to be in this play with him.” I folded my arms and raised an eyebrow. She needed to know I was serious about this.

  There was no way Gwen would ever be able to convince me that this was a coincidence. First of all, my mother had always told me there was no such thing as a coincidence. And secondly, I was just supposed to believe that she’d written a script about a woman who’d been left at the altar and now I was to play opposite the man who’d left me right there?

  Oh no! I wasn’t about to become fodder for the tabloids and the blogs and the shows again.

  “Now, Tam,” Gwen said, her sweet tone still in place.

  “It’s Tamara.” I snuggled my arms tighter across my chest. “Tamara.” All of that sweetness was gone when she said, “I know you’re upset, and I’m sorry I didn’t realize this before ….”

  Yeah, right. She must think I’m BooBoo the fool.

  “But I know you wouldn’t want Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, Black Voices and every other entertainment outlet to know that your ex ran you off from a professional production, would you?”

  I was not impressed because whatever they said about me leaving wouldn’t be nearly as bad as what they’d say if I stayed.

  I kept my stance and that made Gwen add, “And, if that isn’t important to you, just remember, you have a contract.”

  “And?” I smirked.

  “And, you know contracts are binding.”

  That made me stand up straight, lower my arms, and stare at her as if her brain had just fallen out of her head. Was this heffa threatening to sue me? Over a freakin’ stageplay? A Chitlin’ Circuit stageplay?

  “Look,” Gwen said, taking a deep breath before returning to a more natural smile. “I don’t want any disgruntled actors, but I have a show to put on and I know you’re a professional. You’re one of the few talented black actresses out there,” she added, I guess believing that flattery never hurt. “I have all the confidence in the world that you’ll be able to handle this.” Then, she leaned in and lowered her voice as if she were about to share something with me like we were just girls. “Don’t let him get to you.”

  I wanted to tell her first, that true thespians of the female persuasion preferred to be called actors. And then, don’t let him get to me? How would she handle this situation?

  I knew I was trapped, but while I would never admit it, I wanted her to admit one thing. “You did this on purpose, right?”

  “Oh, you give me too much credit,” Gwen said, making her bangles jingle again.

  Yup, she’d never taken an acting lesson a day in her life.

  “Look, while this play bears some resemblance to your life, trust me, it wasn’t done on purpose. Besides if you think about it, it’s not really that close to your story. You never made it to the altar, remember?”

  My fingers began that clutching thing again.

  “Is there a problem, ladies?” Donovan asked over my shoulder. I didn’t even turn to face him, not acknowledging him in any manner. Well, at least not on the outside. Inside, I felt a little flutter, and I cursed that right out of me.

  But while I tried to do nothing, Gwen flashed a smile. “And why in the world would there be any problem?” she said, her glance settling over my right shoulder. “I was just going over some last minute script changes with Tamara.”

  “I’m looking forward to working with you, Tammie-Poo,” Donovan said.

  I whipped around. No, this fool didn’t call me by the pet name he’d given me when we’d first met.

  “Whatever,” I said, shoving my way past him.

  He scurried after me. “Hey, hey, hey, I’ve been looking forward to this, baby. What’s the problem?” he asked, taking my hand and stopping me.

  I looked down to where he still held me, then my gaze inched up until I met his eyes. I snatched my hand away and hissed, “You’re my problem.”

  Stepping closer to me, he said, “Please don’t be like that. There’s a lot you don’t know. So much that we have to talk about.”

  I blinked. Inside his voice, I heard something – like truth, like love.

  He moved in what felt like the slowest of motions: His hand raised, he reached toward me, his fingertips grazed my cheek.

  And a wave rolled through my center.

  Inside, I cursed again. This time I cursed my libido and Donovan. Squeezing my legs together, I wondered why my own body would betray me like this? I hated him and I needed every part of my body to remember that.

  His hand lingered on my cheek for too long, and I slapped him away. “Look, Donovan.” My tone was as sharp as the edge of steel. “We’re both here now, so we’ll do our jobs and get this over with.” “Great.” He exhaled as if somehow my words had given him relief. As if he’d been concerned that I’d walk out the door. “I was hoping you would stay and now, I hope this means that we can hook up ….”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “For a drink. Tonight. I just want to talk.”

  Hook up? A drink? To talk? After I let the gall of his request settle in my mind, I said, “Donovan, you want to talk?”

  He grinned and bobbed his head up and down like a puppy.

  This time, I was the one who leaned in closer. “Then go home and talk to your wife.”

  He blinked.

  I added, “Your wife, remember? The woman you left me for.”

  I did one of those moves that I’d learned in freshman drama

  – a half-turn pivot, before my arm swooped down into the chair where I grabbed my hobo, swung it over my shoulder, and then I did a slow, hip swaying strut right out the door.

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