“I’ll be there,” she said to Jay, who for the past few days had been a little more off-hand with her than she would have liked—except in bed, where he was almost heart-breakingly tender. “But not early. What time do you think you’ll be arriving at the theater?”
“We should be unloading by ten. Come after twelve and you can have lunch with us.” After a too-quick kiss, he’d left at seven-thirty on his motorbike. Steve had decided to discontinue his pickups, which didn’t appear to bother Jay in the least. He seemed to revel in the fraught atmosphere.
She went home, and as usual dressed in fresh working clothes for her day onstage, old jeans and a cotton shirt. After finding the designated parking area near the Festival Theater, she headed across a melting path of asphalt in the right direction, her tin of pencils, sharpeners, and rulers rattling in her big workbag as she walked. Her paints and brushes had been transported with the set, and she wished she had thought of a hat. The sun blared overhead, burning her neck. Sweat gathered on her face as she followed behind a trail of busy people, feet slapping, heads down, and not talking, to the backstage area.
Electric drills whirred, men’s voices shouted over the noise, and someone seemed to be slamming wood against wood, repeatedly. Hesitant, not wanting to be knocked on the head by anything dropping, falling, or being carelessly swung, she stood in a backstage doorway, trying to spot a clear path through the sparsely lit area.
Parts of the set leaned against the black wall of the stage along with the new planks of wood that would be used to hold the components together. The Little Miss Muffet cupboard sat on a truck, the name for any transport that moved parts of the set onto the stage from the sides. Anything delivered from above, actors or sets, were “flown” from the fly area. At least three ladders of varying heights from sky-high to relatively safe had been set up. Black horizontal bars, tangled with electric cords and speckled with various globes, swung head-height on cables, waiting to hit the unwary. Apparently, the stage lighting still needed readjusting. Three men worked on this, while a woman called instructions from the control booth built in a cramped space above the front of the stage.
She heard, “Watch your head,” from the woman, likely the lighting designer, and she froze, having learned from her work experience job to tread warily. The call hadn’t been meant for her, apparently, and she didn’t recognize anyone. Once a member of the team, she was now a mere bystander getting in the way. She cheered herself up by hoping something would go wrong that only she could fix.
A familiar head appeared from a trapdoor built in the center of the stage floor. Trent grinned at her, his face streaked with perspiration and dirt. “We’re getting the pool organized because they’re not finished with the lights up there yet. The lighting designer slept in and so now we’re all late.” He sounded cheerful. “Go to the green room. That’s the first room at the back on the right. We put your leaves there to keep them safe. Lunch is in there, too. See you in five minutes.” He disappeared and the trapdoor closed.
She found the green room, a cream-painted recreation area containing two long brown leather couches and a small battered kitchen. A new coffee machine sat on the counter top along with bottles of soft drinks in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Plates of sandwiches, stacked slices of iced chocolate cake, and muffins, all covered with plastic wrap, had been set up on a trestle along the far wall. Except for a bowl of assorted fruit, everything looked very unhealthy. She salivated, waiting for the others.
After a noisy lunch with the team, which now included a stage manager, a lighting engineer, a lighting designer, the theater manager, the production manager, various technicians in charge of the movements of trucks and flies, and the stage crew, she watched the other workers leave trickle by trickle to busy themselves elsewhere. Among so many people, few would have noticed the cool silence between Jay and Steve. Each spoke to everyone else.
Vix sat in the green room organizing her leaves into their various components. The wired greenery had a decorative role in the vases on the set. She would arrange these when the furnishings had been set out. The loose leaves would be attached to the background trees when the trees had been set up. While she automatically sorted, she speculated yet again about Steve’s silent treatment of Jay.
Trent clearly knew what the problem was but he played dumb. Without bias, Vix doubted Jay had anything with which to berate himself. If he had, he would show signs of guilt, or he would try to make amends. Her knowledge of Jay put Steve in the wrong and refusing to apologize, which would explain Jay’s noble silence. If this tension lingered, she would knock their wooden heads together, though not literally.
As the only person currently backstage, having finished the only task she could as yet, she decided to investigate and found the bathrooms and the dressing rooms, the latter already heaped with the costumes. The dressers, who were sorting various outfits onto racks, assuming for a moment she was one of them, were more friendly than the stage crew who thought, being a woman, that she wasn’t. She stayed a while for a chat. Returning, she heard voices in the kitchen: Steve’s and Trent’s.
“No,” Steve said, his voice grumpy. “Jay got her pregnant. He can look after her.”
“She didn’t say he got her pregnant.”
“She wouldn’t. And he won’t say he didn’t.”
“Don’t be a dick. The last thing you want is, oh…hi, Vix. How’s it going?” Plastering a cheesy smile on his face, Trent left the room with the speed of light.
Steve stood, his big arms crossed, his expression pugnacious. “What did you hear?”
“What was I meant to hear?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s what I heard.”
Steve left more slowly, after giving her a long suspicious stare. She sped back to the green room and sat, slumped, focusing on the worn carpet, not having to guess whom Steve thought Jay got pregnant. That would be the woman who currently wasn’t drinking, who now wore loose tops. Dear Lonny. Dear troublemaking, man-stealing Lonny. Shaking all over, Vix lifted her gaze to the plain white wall, her mind whirling over and over events, words, scenes, and facial expressions.
Although not a good judge of men, she’d suspected her ex-husband, Tim, was having an affair. She hadn’t fought for him because she didn’t want him. She hadn’t trusted Tim because she didn’t love him. She loved Jay, and she doubted he’d ever tried to fool her. She doubted he’d ever lied to her although she recognized his evasions of truth, which pointed out his reluctance to lie. For example, she still didn’t know if he’d been offered a full-time job although she had seen plenty of incoming mail from various companies, and she didn’t know why he had received a letter from Tremain’s, too. The opened envelope had been on his desk but had disappeared soon after she’d helped him rearrange the shelves on the day they’d been delivered.
For no reason she could imagine, except pride, Jay was now quite determined to let Steve suspect him of lying about his relationship with Lonny. A loose top didn’t mean a single missed period. A loose top meant three or more missed periods—unless Lonny had decided to exaggerate her condition. Did Jay have a sexual relationship with her before he met Vix? He consistently said he didn’t. Vix believed him, despite the silver earring in the depths of the couch, despite the key being kept by Lonny, and despite the other woman’s attempts to imply a closer relationship with him.
Part of loving was trusting. Vix’s mission was clear, and her place was beside Jay unless he could prove her to be a gullible fool. A man who could protect his younger brothers from their drunken father and teach a spoilt, untrusting woman the joys of sex and sharing with the right, generous man…
“Hi, there, Vix, sweetie.” A beanpole with a shock of pink hair stood in the doorway. “I’m not here today. I’ll be here tomorrow but everything is looking good.”
She stood, smiling at the set designer she’d met in person six months ago but hadn’t seen since. His sparse top hair had been blue then
and he’d worn blue. Now he wore pink. Being outrageous suited Paul Evans, better known as Polly.
“I’m still stuck with the leaves, as you can see,” she said, indicating the filled room.
“Poor lovey,” Polly said without a scrap of sincerity. “I like your nursery wardrobe, and a couple of those lads building the set are simply delicious.” He sucked in a breath. “They’re straight? Bad luck for me; good luck for you.” He leaned over, kissed her on each cheek, and left.
Since Jay and Steve were acting like boneheads, she only told Trent he looked delicious.
* * * *
Until five that night, she wove leaves into a shaped greenery header the width of the stage and four feet long in some areas that would fly high at the front for the outdoor scenes. Without alterations to make on any of the flats yet, she had nothing else to do. The guys had finished the swimming pool and Trent had splashed Jay and Steve, neither of whom seemed even slightly amused.
“Jay,” she said in an undertone, finding him onstage cabling the house flat to a fly at the back. “I’m heading home. Since you’ve got the bike, you may as well come to my house tonight.”
His hands stilled, but he didn’t turn to face her. “I’ll be late and I want to make an early start in the morning. I think we should both have a good night’s sleep.”
“That sounds reasonable,” she said to the back of his head, firming her jaw. “Especially when you’re in such a deadly mood. See you tomorrow then.” When she stalked off, she tried to look personally huffy instead of annoyed with whatever game he was playing with Steve.
She hardly slept at all that night. She tossed and turned, worrying about Jay, terrified that Lonny might have some sort of hold on him, until she decided she shouldn’t be worried; he was a tough guy. Lonny couldn’t force him to do anything he didn’t want to do. Nor could she, for that matter, so then she started agonizing instead. If she didn’t do or say exactly the right thing, she would lose Jay.
The next day the team finished building the set and a few actors began to wander over the stage, acclimatizing and getting in the way as she began to cover over screws, patch dents caused in the move from the warehouse, and paint two new uprights for the balustrade whose originals had inexplicably disappeared during the move. Oblivious to paint cans or other people, one actor took selfies in front of the parts of the set in which he would act, his scenery. The more experienced actors seemed to have a little more consideration for the set construction team.
Jay kept busy, organizing the working parts of the set, and she missed him. “Are you staying for the rehearsal tonight?” she asked in a voice she hoped didn’t sound plaintive.
“I’ll need to see how everything works.” His gaze met hers for the first time that day.
A little breath caught in her chest. “I’ll stay with you. I need to see everything in the proper lighting. I might have missed painting a screw or three.”
He grinned. “We could cuddle in the back stalls.”
Relief whooshed out of her lungs. She had almost begun to believe her own imaginings: that he planned to end their relationship soon. But he’d told her he loved her, and so he wouldn’t leave her.
“Just don’t mess with me while I’m working,” she said, making her voice growly.
His expression softened and she could see in his eyes that he did love her. “I’ll try not to. But you’re mighty tempting.”
That night in her bed, he held her as if he never wanted to let her go.
* * * *
On the morning of the last dress rehearsal, Vix called Steve before leaving home to make sure he was still planning to attend the show that evening. “If you’re going to be the manager of the team after this, you’ll probably—fingers crossed—be working with me again. I want to see the sorts of last minute changes that need to happen once the actors tangle with the set,” she said in her most confident voice, “and I suspect you ought to as well.” Her hands shook. Right or wrong, she would fight to the end for Jay. She doubted anyone else had in his whole life.
Steve took his time to answer. “Okay, since this is the last time I’m going to have to see a certain person. What time?”
“Six.”
She and Jay would go separately, as usual. At exactly six o’clock, she joined the crew in the theater. The director, the lighting designer, the set designer, and the production manager sat in a row of their own, a black desk over the backs of the seat in front with a light trained on the script for the director, upon which he would scribble notes about every last thing he needed to address before the first night. During her work experience with a set designer, she’d had to stay back painting with him until four in the morning for one production because of the director’s notes.
She acknowledged Trent, Luke, Kellen, and Jay as she sat beside Steve, a few rows in front of the executive team, hoping not to have to work into the night again for this show. She had expected Lonny, perhaps unrealistically, given the paternity speculation.
The theater lights dimmed, the curtain went up, and she saw her house-flat standing on the stage, looking spooky with the dark bay behind. Day dawned on the set and actors, some still in their own clothes, rushed on singing “High Society.” Steve groaned. She patted his hand encouragingly.
Scenes faded and changed, and Steve stopped wriggling and sighing and forgot to dislike musicals. He listened to the words and the songs. He nudged her and gave a soundless clap as her nursery cupboard appeared and he laughed with everyone else when the youngest daughter of the house stepped out of her hiding place inside it. He concentrated deeply when the swimming pool arose and he leaned back with satisfaction when the surrounds looked theatrical rather than fake.
The cast took a costume break before Act Two, but since the same cast had done the same show in Melbourne for more than a year, nothing was expected to be a problem except for the blocking—the movement of the actors around the set—that so far had proved well rehearsed.
Grouped in the lobby for a stretch of legs, Steve and Jay ignored each other nicely, and out of nowhere Ilona appeared in tight red jeans and a flowing lilac top, her hair turbaned back with a wide patterned scarf. Like Moses parting the seas, she strolled through the dressers and wigmakers, the stage crew, and extraneous cast members to the momentarily silenced set-construction team.
“Sorry I’m late.” She addressed her words to Jay.
He looked incredibly tense. “The second act will be starting any minute. We should go in.”
“Hi, Lonny,” Vix said, praying for Tremain poise while the other workers began to file back in. “I’m glad you could be here.”
Lonny shifted her bored gaze over Steve; then, she glanced at Vix. “I wouldn’t miss this for quids.” She deliberately patted her belly. “I suppose you’ve heard my wonderful news.”
“Not officially, but I think congratulations are in order. When’s the baby due?” Vix held her breath.
“Six months.”
“Tell her who the father is,” Steve said in a mean voice.
“Now, who could he have been?” Lonny said, tapping her fingers on the side of her cheek. “Was it you, Steve? Trent? Kellen? Jay? Hands up. Who wants to confess?”
“That’s enough,” Jay said, clamping her around the waist. “We’ll go in now.”
“No takers? How very sad. I guess I’ll have to bring up baby alone, then.”
“You won’t be alone,” Jay said in a tight voice. He didn’t look at Vix.
“Of course you won’t be alone,” Vix said, trying to sound sympathetic, although the three main participants in this melodrama didn’t deserve points for anything other than sheer pigheadedness. “I don’t suppose it matters who the father is as long as you have support.”
“Of course it matters.” Lonny planted her feet and stared mutinously at Vix.
“I’m sorry,” Vix said, humbly. “I don’t know anything about these things, but I can take one prospective father
off your list. It’s not Jay.”
“Did he tell you that?” Lonny frowned at Vix.
The guys stood like statues, only moving their eyes.
“He doesn’t need to. You’re three months pregnant. I’ve barely let him out of my sight in that time and I’ve only let him out of bed to go to work.”
Steve’s jaw dropped. The other guys stared at Jay, who said, “That would be a gross exaggeration, and you don’t need to take me off the list. I didn’t mean for this to happen, Vix, and I’m sorry, but it’s over between you and me. It was just one of those things.”
“You cheat,” she said, faking outrage. Steve and Trent flanked her. “That’s one of the songs in the show, in the second act, as you know. If you plan to get rid of me, at least use your own words. As for who the father is, only Lonny knows, and you don’t need to take the responsibility because she’s not saying.”
“I told the father of the baby, but he told me my baby could be anyone’s. He would know.” Lonny’s chin wobbled.
“Well, then, he’s a boneheaded moron,” Vix said. “Let’s go in and see the second act.”
Lonny, her expression a sullen pout, turned to stare at her, but Vix took Steve by the arm and led him back into the theater. She thought she needed to give the baby’s father time to regroup and see sense. Lonny sat at the far end of the row, beside Jay, her arms crossed under her pregnancy-enhanced breasts, her bottom lip jutted.
For a while, Steve appeared to be more interested in picking at his nails than watching the show. He fidgeted, sitting this way and that. When Vix sensed his body bunching to stand, she took a death grip on his arm and whispered her need for support. She almost heard the grit of his jaw.
Finally, the changing-hut scene began to play and for the first time, he sat still and silent, concentrating. Vix had made a mystery of this part when she had described the story. After he had watched the leading lady grow more intoxicated and less lucid, he muttered, “I don’t know if she did or she didn’t have one last…fling…before getting married.”
Sets Appeal Page 17
