She moved upstage of him, towards the lights of her mirror, and turned, knowing they would back-light her hair more flatteringly.
‘Well, Mr Lichfield, what can I do for you?’
‘This is frankly a delicate matter,’ said Lichfield. ‘The bitter fact is — how shall I put this? — your talents are not ideally suited to this production. Your style lacks delicacy.’
There was a silence for two beats. She sniffed, thought about the inference of the remark, and then moved out of centre-stage towards the door. She didn’t like the way this scene had begun. She was expecting an admirer, and instead she had a critic on her hands.
‘Get out!’ she said, her voice like slate.
‘Miss Duvall —‘
‘You heard me.’
‘You’re not comfortable as Viola, are you?’ Lichfield continued, as though the star had said nothing.
‘None of your bloody business,’ she spat back.
‘But it is. I saw the rehearsals. You were bland, unpersuasive. The comedy is flat, the reunion scene —it should break our hearts — is leaden.’
‘I don’t need your opinion, thank you.’
‘You have no style —‘
‘Piss off.’
‘No presence and no style. I’m sure on the television you are radiance itself, but the stage requires a special truth, a soulfulness you, frankly, lack.’
The scene was hotting up. She wanted to hit him, but she couldn’t find the proper motivation. She couldn’t take this faded poseur seriously. He was more musical comedy than melodrama, with his neat grey gloves, and his neat grey cravat. Stupid, waspish queen, what did he know about acting?
‘Get out before I call the Stage Manager,’ she said, but he stepped between her and the door.
A rape scene? Was that what they were playing? Had he got the hots for her? God forbid.
‘My wife,’ he was saying, ‘has played Viola —‘
‘Good for her.’
‘— and she feels she could breathe a little more life into the role than you.’
‘We open tomorrow,’ she found herself replying, as though defending her presence. Why the hell was she trying to reason with him; barging in here and making these terrible remarks. Maybe because she was just a little afraid. His breath, close to her now, smelt of expensive chocolate.
‘She knows the role by heart.’
‘The part’s mine. And I’m doing it. I’m doing it even if I’m the worst Viola in theatrical history, all right?’
She was trying to keep her composure, but it was difficult. Something about him made her nervous. It
wasn’t violence she feared from him: but she feared something.
‘I’m afraid I have already promised the part to my wife.’
‘What?’ she goggled at his arrogance.
‘And Constantia will play the role.’
She laughed at the name. Maybe this was high comedy after all. Something from Sheridan or Wilde, arch, catty stuff. But he spoke with such absolute certainty. Constantia will play the role; as if it was all cut and dried.
‘I’m not discussing this any longer, Buster, so if your wife wants to play Viola she’ll have to do it in the fucking street. All right?’
‘She opens tomorrow.’
‘Are you deaf, or stupid, or both?’
Control, an inner voice told her, you’re overplaying, losing your grip on the scene. Whatever scene this is.
He stepped towards her, and the mirror lights caught the face beneath the brim full on. She hadn’t looked carefully enough when he first made his appearance: now she saw the deeply-etched lines, the gougings around his eyes and his mouth. It wasn’t flesh, she was sure of it. He was wearing latex appliances, and they were badly glued in place. Her hand all but twitched with the desire to snatch at it and uncover his real face.
Of course. That was it. The scene she was playing: the Unmasking.
‘Let’s see what you look like,’ she said, and her hand was at his cheek before he could stop her, his smile spreading wider as she attacked. This is what he wants, she thought, but it was too late for regrets or apologies. Her fingertips had found the line of the mask at the edge of his eye-socket, and curled round to take a better hold. She yanked.