Loveplay

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I blew it.”

David grinned at her. “No problem. We all blow it from time to time. Even Cul used to, in the old days when he was one of the flock, didn’t you, Cul?”

Cul only stared at him. “Let’s take a ten minute break, kids,” he said heavily, “and we’ll get back to it. Bett, come here.”

When he said it like that, it meant trouble. She followed him offstage without hesitant steps, remembering other conferences. She felt small in her jeans and sweatshirt as she followed his long strides backstage.

He fixed two cups of coffee and handed her one. “Now,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“The blocking,” she muttered. “You moved me in front of the table and it doesn’t feel comfortable.”

“If you go behind it, you’ll upstage David.”

“Yes, I know. I’m not complaining, it’s just going to take me a day to get used to it, all right?” she asked defensively.

He sipped his coffee and glanced at her curiously, letting his eyes wander over her slimness, the long waves of her hair. “Do you play Elizabeth much these days?” he asked unexpectedly.

She smiled into her coffee. “Constantly,” she muttered. “I’m typed, I suppose.”

“In every way?” he probed.

She sipped the hot black liquid. “I didn’t expect that you’d direct this revival,” she said, sidestepping the question. “I thought you were in Hollywood working on a screenplay.”

“I was. I asked if I could go to my apartment to work on it, and they said, sure.” He chuckled. “I didn’t mention that my apartment was in New York.”

“William Faulkner once pulled that same trick, if I remember,” she returned.

“A writer after my own heart. He was one of the greats.” He leaned back against the wall with a sigh. “Why did you audition for my play, Bett?” he asked bluntly.

She looked up at him contemplatively, studying the new lines in his face, the dark tan that made his green eyes glitter like rain-washed leaves. “I needed the money.”

“No,” he replied. “That isn’t what I meant. There are other plays in town.”

She sighed and smiled wistfully. “There wasn’t a role I had a better chance of getting,” she admitted. “I know this one like the back of my hand. I didn’t have time to wait for callbacks. I have thirty days to make a start on a very large tax bill. I can do it, but I have to live while I’m earning the rest of what I owe.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really think you’d be here, and I had this wild idea that I might get the part if I seemed polished enough.” She glanced at him. “I played the role during that summer in Atlanta.”

“Yes, I remember,” he said curtly. He drank down the rest of his coffee. “Let’s get back to it.”

She would like to have pursued that line, to ask him why he’d broken it off so cruelly. But it was something that had happened a long time ago, and had no bearing on the present. She was an actress in need of money, and Cul was just the director. All too soon his part in the play would be over, and the stage manager, Dick Hamilton, would be in full charge of it all. Just a few weeks more to see Cul every day and agonize over the past. She started back toward the stage. Well, she’d live through it. She’d lived through six years without Cul, and this surely wasn’t going to be that bad.

By the third day, the play was set, the blocking was done, and they were working without scripts. That was hard going on one or two of the players, but Bett didn’t even notice. She had her lines down pat. It was just a matter of getting the right interpretation into them. Cul seemed to find fault with every sentence she uttered, despite the fact that she was doing it from memory, from coaching he’d given her during the short summer run in Atlanta.

By the end of the rehearsal late that night, she felt dragged out and exhausted. She’d gotten out of the habit of long hours, being between plays, and it was rough adjusting to a day that ran from ten in the morning until after eight or nine o’clock at night. Her nerves were raw from Cul’s criticism, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed.

But Cul stopped her at the stage door. “Not yet, you don’t,” he said coolly. “Let’s talk.”

She felt like crying. She was so tired! “Cul…” she began defensively, her eyes wistfully following the last of the cast as they filed out the door and it closed behind them.

“You wanted this part,” he reminded her with a frankly cruel smile.

She glared at him through the glitter of tears. “Stupid me,” she ground out. “I should have let them put me in jail instead!”

“Save the emotion for your part. You’re going to need it.” He turned away, leaving her to follow, and picked up his script from one of the prop tables. He threw himself down into a chair and crossed his long, powerful legs. He ran his hand restlessly through his already disheveled hair. “All right,” he said gruffly. “It starts breaking down here, on page thirty-six, where you’re explaining your pregnancy to David.”

“Cul, I’m doing it the way you wanted it done in Atlanta,” she began.

His green eyes flashed angrily. “This isn’t Atlanta. And I’ve told you for the last time that I won’t have old ashes dredged up!”

“God forbid!” she agreed with a wild toss of her red-gold hair, her eyes flashing darkly. “I’m a little more choosy these days myself!”

He slammed the script onto the floor and stood up, towering over her. “You haven’t changed,” he said under his breath. “Not one bit. You’re still the same undisciplined, impulsive, maddening little brat you used to be. But while you’re starring in my damned play, you’ll follow my direction, is that clear?”

Her pride felt as if he’d ripped it open. By her sides, her slender, graceful hands clenched until they hurt. “Yes, sir,” she said in a hushed whisper.

His eyes studied her face quietly. “You’ve got more than your share of pride, haven’t you? And much more than your share of temper. You always were passionate.”

He couldn’t have chosen a better way to hurt, and this time she couldn’t stop it from showing. Her eyes closed and tears ran helplessly down her cheeks, although she didn’t make a sound.

“Bett…” he ground out.

She turned away, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m very tired, Cul,” she said with the last fragments of pride she could find. “Please, let’s get on with it.”

He hesitated for a long moment before he picked up the script and sat back down. When she took off her coat and turned, her face was composed, but very pale. He didn’t miss that. His eyes narrowed as if it bothered him.

“I’m sorry,” she said unexpectedly. “I should have gotten a job waiting on tables or something. I’m sorry I came here.”

“So am I,” he said curtly, “but it’s too late to do anything about it now. I can’t afford to lose any more time. As for the way you’re playing the part, it’s been six years. Will you try to remember that my outlook has changed, that my interpretations of the play have changed, and work with me instead of against me?”

She sighed wearily. “Yes.”

“Then, let’s start from your first line on page thirty-six,” he said, leaning back.

She ran through it again, remembering the way he’d coached her earlier, and he nodded as he listened, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed as he took in even her body movements.

“Much better,” he said when she finished. “Much better. You understand now, don’t you, that I want as much emotion as you can drag up. I want the audience to cry buckets when you give that monologue about not giving up the baby.”

“I understand.” She pulled her coat back on, lifting her long hair out of the way. “You never used to like so much emotion in the monologue.”

“I’m older.”

“So am I,” she said quietly. She picked up her own script and tucked it under her arm along with her purse. “You do a lot of plays about pregnancy these days,” she observed. “And yet you’ve never married. Don’t you want—”

“It’s late,” he said shortly, checking his watch, “and I have a late date. I’ll drop you off by your apartment.”

“No!” she said quickly, for some reason not wanting him to see where she lived. “I’ll get a cab.”

He scowled, but he didn’t pursue it. “Suit yourself, darling.”

If he’d known how that careless endearment hurt, she thought miserably, he’d probably have used it ten times as much. Once he’d used it and meant it, so long ago.

He hailed a cab and put her into it, turning away immediately, and she forced herself not to watch him walk away. Minutes later she was back at her apartment and in her bed. She fell asleep the minute her head touched the pillow.

* * *

Bett slept badly, and dragged into rehearsal a half hour early with a cup of black coffee clutched in one slender hand. David Hadison was sprawled in one of the metal chairs, glaring at his script, when she slid gracefully into one nearby.

He looked up, saw who it was, and grinned. “Just running over a little problem spot,” he confessed.

“Is that what you’re doing?” she queried with pursed lips. “I thought you were cursing the dia- log.”

He sighed. “Well, actually, I was. It isn’t a very meaty part, darling. You have the only good lines.”

“Want to trade?” she asked with a slow grin. “I’ll let you borrow that big brown maternity dress I wear for the role.”

He chuckled delightedly. “Cul wouldn’t like it. I’m much too tall.”

“How sad.” She sipped her coffee slowly. “I’d offer you some, but you don’t look like a coffee drinker.”

“I’m a Coca-Cola man,” he agreed. He put down the script, folded his arms, and stared blatantly at her. “Has anyone ever told you…” he began predictably.

Before he could finish, she stood up, threw her scarf royally over one shoulder, and fixed him with her best sharp scowl. “My good man, have the decency not to stare, if you please,” she intoned with the crisp British accent she’d perfected. “We do not like our subjects making free with their eyes on our person.”

He roared, clapping. “You do it with panache, darling,” he said. “Elizabeth to the ruff.”

She curtsied deeply. “We are pleased that you think so.”

“How many times have you played her?” he asked as she sat back down.

“At least ten,” she confessed. “Once in a nude play—I talked the director into letting me wear a corset.”

He shook his head, studying her exquisite facial features—the dark eyes that were oddly gray, the flaming hair. “I’ve never seen such a resemblance, and I’ve been in the theater for ten years. You must be marvelous.”

“I enjoy it, but it gets a bit tedious after a while,” she confessed. “Although, she was a character. I doubt a woman’s ever lived who was her equal, in statesmanship or just pure grit.”

“You started out in Atlanta, didn’t you?” he asked. “I saw you play in this very production about six years ago, just one time. You were magnificent.”

“What were you doing in Atlanta?” she asked, curious.

“Trying to get a job in summer stock.” He shrugged. “I didn’t. I wound up in New York instead. It was a good thing, too.”

“You’re very good,” she said genuinely, sipping her coffee as she studied him. “But aren’t you Shakespearean, primarily?”

“By jove, yes, madam,” he said with his own British accent and laughed. “I’ve done all of Shakespeare’s plays at one time or another. But I’m trying to branch out.”

“If the two of you can spare the time,” a harsh voice rumbled behind them, “I’d like to start.”

They got to their feet in a rush, noticing that the rest of the company was already assembled on stage, and Cul was nothing if not impatient. He glared at them as they joined the rest, and his mood didn’t improve all morning. He snapped at Bett more and more, until by the end of the day she was practically in tears.

“Come on, darling,” David said, taking her arm as she wrapped up against the chill to go out the stage door. “I’ll buy you a nice cup of coffee.”

“How about a sweet roll to go with it?” she asked with a wan smile.

“Whatever you like.” He checked his pocket. “Well, almost.”

She smiled gently. “Starving in garrets isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, is it?”

“How would you know?” he teased. “You’re on top.”

“Is that what I am? You really ought to come home with me.”

“Can I?” he asked, all eyes. “I’ll make the coffee.”

She relented. It would be nice to have company, and she didn’t really mind if David saw her deplorable apartment. He probably had one just like it. “Okay,” she agreed, and went out with him, oblivious to the glittering green gaze that followed them.

It was a nippy evening, although it wouldn’t be long until spring. Bett huddled into her tweed coat and led David up the long staircase to her apartment. The baby was crying, but the man who sang off-key was apparently resting his throat for the moment.

Bett opened the door and let David in with her. “Well, as they say, it ain’t much, but it’s home.”

“My God, you weren’t kidding, were you?” he burst out, staring around him. “What happened?”

“I had a very inefficient business manager,” she confessed. “He talked me into a bad investment, and also neglected to tell me about my taxes. I’ve got quite a bill with Uncle Sam.” She shrugged. “They were very nice about it, in fact. I guess they get used to dumb people like me.”

“I wouldn’t call you dumb, not the way you act,” he said kindly. He moved to the cabinet. “Is this the coffeepot?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes. Isn’t it the pits? But it works, all the same.”

“Old-fashioned,” he murmured, filling the basket with a filter and then dumping in a generous amount of coffee out of the can. “Boiling it on the stove.”

“Well, coffee is coffee.

He sighed. “I guess so.” He finished, turned on the burner, and sat down at the kitchen table across from her. “How did you wind up on the stage?”

“My mother convinced me that it was what I wanted to do,” she said, laughing. “I was torn between acting and driving a semi, and she decided that it was more ladylike to act. Honestly, though, I guess it just came naturally. There was never anything else that I wanted to be. How about you?”

“Same thing.” He made patterns on the table’s chipped surface with a long finger. “I started out playing a squirrel in our third-grade play, and I was hooked. I’ve never wanted to do anything else. I studied and worked and eventually became the practically unknown actor you see before you.”

“That’s not true,” she chided. “You were on one of the soap operas, I heard.”

“For six weeks, until they killed me off.” He propped his face in his hands. “I die well, you know.”

“Yes, I know. Too bad you have to do it offstage in this play,” she murmured on a laugh.

“I thought I’d do it with sound effects,” he said with an evil glint in his eyes. “Screams and groans and thuds, that sort of thing.”

“Cul would kill you,” she suggested.

“He already wants to, I think.” He watched her quietly. “But he’s really after you, lady. I’ve never seen a director ride anyone as hard. What have you done to make him so antagonistic?”

“I breathe,” she said simply. “It’s something I’d rather not talk about, anyway. Would you like some cake to go with the coffee? I just happen to have two slices left.”

“What kind?”

“Chocolate,” she said.

He grinned. “My favorite.”

She dished it up and he poured the coffee into the thick cracked mugs she’d found at a second-hand shop. “Isn’t this fun?” she laughed as they sipped and ate. “There I was, living on Park Avenue in a luxury apartment, wearing leather coats and buying silk lingerie…and I never knew what I was missing.”

“Must be hard,” he said with real sympathy.

She considered that, stirring her coffee idly, with a spoon after she’d added cream. “Do you know, it isn’t? I think I had my values all mixed up. Money and power and getting ahead were all I thought about. I’ve been noticing—forced to notice—how people live around here. It’s pretty sobering. I think I’ve changed directions, all at once.”

“Yes, it does make you think, when you see people so much less fortunate,” he admitted. “I haven’t had the kind of life you’ve had, not yet. But I hope that if I ever do make it, I won’t forget who I was.”

“I can’t see you forgetting,” she said, and meant it. “But you’re supposed to say `when,’ not `if,’ you make it.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yes, I guess so. I get discouraged once a week and have to drown my sorrows in cheap wine.”

“We all get discouraged, it comes with the territory. Just don’t ever give up. Think through it. That’s what I’m trying to do. I like to picture how it will be on Christmas Day this year.” She sighed. “I’ll have paid off my tax bill, I’ll be in a hit play, and happy as anything.”

“No man in that picture?” he asked softly.

She shook her head with a tiny smile. “Nope. I’ve never inspired a man to propose. I don’t see it happening.” Not ever, because of the scars Cul had left on her. But she wasn’t telling that to a relative stranger.

“You might be surprised one of these days.” He finished his coffee. “Well, I’d better run. If we’re lucky we may actually get some sleep before rehearsal tomorrow. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Come again,” she invited, her smile genuine. He was a nice man, and she liked him.

He nodded. “I’d like that. Good night, Bett.”

“Good night.” She closed the door behind his tall figure and sighed. It had been nice to have company.

* * *

After that, she and David became good friends. But their association had a devastating effect on Cul. He glared daggers at them every single day.

It didn’t help that being around Cul was bringing back old, unwanted sensations. He could look at her and make her tremble. She hadn’t counted on that reaction when she’d auditioned for the play. She hadn’t counted on the fact that he might want to direct it himself. She should have thought it through.

One night as they were leaving the theater she stumbled over a metal chair, and Cul caught her just in time to keep her from having a bad fall. She looked up into his green eyes and saw an expression in them that made her heart run wild. His hard fingers on her back held her close for an instant, while his eyes went to her soft mouth and stared at it. It was like being kissed; she could almost taste his lips as she had so many years before.

“Getting careless, Bett?” he asked under his breath. “Don’t fall, darling, it’s not the kind of part you can do with a broken leg.”

“I won’t,” she said unsteadily, and tried to smile.

He studied her slowly. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

“No,” she said.

But this time he wasn’t letting her talk him out of it. He herded her out to his Porsche and put her in the passenger side. Now what was she going to do, she wondered wildly. How could she let him see where she was living? The humiliation would be terrible.

“Come on, coward, direct me.”

She drew in a steadying breath. “Queens.”

He glanced at her, frowning. “I thought you lived on Park Avenue.”

“I did, while I was making money,” she said wearily. “I made a huge payment on my tax bill, Cul. I had to budget. The apartment—at least, my half of it—had to go.”

“Were you living with a man?” he asked.

“Janet would hate being called a man,” she said through her teeth. “And who I live with is none of your business.”

“It was once. I almost asked you to move in with me, six years ago.”

That was shocking, and her eyes told him so. “Me?”

“You.” He glanced at her mockingly as he navigated a turn. “If you hadn’t been a virgin…”

“Have you always had this hang-up about inexperienced women?” she asked bitterly.

“Just with you, oddly enough. I didn’t want to take advantage of what you felt for me. Especially since marriage wasn’t in my vocabulary.” He glanced at her again. “It still isn’t.”

“Don’t imagine I’m any threat,” she said as coolly as she could, clutching her purse on her lap. “I’m a career woman all the way these days.”

“You’re an up-and-coming star,” he agreed tautly. “I went to see you in that last Lewis play. You were good. Damned good.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, dazed. He didn’t give praise easily. In fact, he rarely gave it at all.

“Now where to?” he asked.

“Left, then right at the next corner,” she directed.

He pulled up in front of her apartment building and glared at it. He cut off the engine and pocketed his key.

“Cul, don’t come up,” she pleaded.

“I want to see.”

There was no arguing with him. Resignedly, she led him up the long flight of stairs to the door of her apartment. His face was rigid as she unlocked it and let him in.

His green eyes swept the surroundings with obvious distaste. “My God,” he breathed.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she defended, dropping her purse onto the couch. “It’s warm and dry, and I have neighbors who’d come running if I screamed. Besides, if you remember, the apartment I had in Atlanta was much like this.”

“That was different,” he growled. “You were struggling then.”

“I’m still struggling,” she corrected him, turning away. “Would you like a cup of coffee, or are the surroundings just too much for you?”

“Is that how I sound? Like a snob?” he asked softly.

She glanced at him while she filled the pot and set it on the stove to boil. She got down the cracked mugs. “You were never a snob, Cul.”

“I hope not.” He pulled out one of the chairs and straddled it. He looked devastating, his blond hair gleaming in the overhead light, his eyes almost transparent in his dark, rugged face. “I was born to money, but I like to think I’ve never looked down on people without it. My circumstances were an accident. I could as easily have been born poor.”

She’d forgotten until then about his background. One of his ancestors had been an English duke, and he had titled relatives. That straight, proud nose would have graced a family portrait, she thought, studying it.

The man who sang off-key had just started his nightly accompaniment to an opera recording, and Cul sat up straighter.

“Verdi?” he queried, frowning.

“Amazing that you recognized it.” She laughed. “He has a lot of enthusiasm, for a man who can’t sing. I’ve gotten quite used to hearing him.”

“He probably dreams at night about a career with the Met,” he murmured, not unkindly. “Not a lot of us get to fulfill our dreams,” he added, and his eyes were brooding.

“What did you want to do that you haven’t?” she asked as she poured the coffee. “You’ve made a name for yourself as a writer and a director, you have a play being made into a movie…. You’ve done it all.”

“Have I?” He took the cup from her and watched her drop into a chair. “Not quite, Bett. There was one thing I wanted desperately that I never had.”

“What?” she murmured absently.

“You, in bed with me,” he said softly. His eyes wandered slowly over her face and what he could see of her body. “I wanted you to the point of obsession.”

She felt the old hurt come back, full force. “How interesting. Was that before or after you humiliated me in front of the entire cast?”

He caught his breath at the ice in the calm little question. “Yes, I thought you were still bitter about it. I can hardly blame you. But at the time, it seemed the only way out.” His eyes held hers, and there was faint regret in their green depths. “You were in love with me. Too much in love. I had nothing to give you, except a few kisses in the moonlight or, at best, a brief affair. I had to break if off.”

“You might have just told me,” she returned.

“You’re a bulldog, Bett,” he replied with a faint smile. “It wouldn’t have worked. It had to be something drastic.” He shrugged. “Gloria was willing and handy. I knew your pride would save you.”

She laughed curtly. “Oh, yes, it sent me running for New York. Or hadn’t you considered what the cast would do to me afterward?”