The Playing Fields

Chapter 30

Arthur Paisley calmly withdrew his arm from around Gertrude, as the curtain fell on the second act and the house lights came up, leaving a set of damp creases from his fingers, just above her waist.

"Well, what did we all think of that?" Ivan asked, leaning forward to address his wife on the far side of Arthur.

"Pretty much what I'd expect to see at our regular council meetings," Arthur answered, sardonically, "the costumes were quite professional though."

"And the makeup," Carmela added softly, resting a hand on Ivan's leg.

"Carmela's husband did the makeup, Arthur." Gertrude graciously pointed out.

"Ah yes, the undertaker."

"Funeral Director," the soft voice corrected, politely.

"So, are we going downstairs for a drink, or what's our pleasure?"

"Arthur and I will get the refreshments this time, you and Carmela can relax here if you like." Gertrude stood, adjusting her dress and picking up her handbag.

"Bully! Maybe we'll just go up and sit in the lounge." Everyone stood and filed carefully out of the private box.

*****

Nigel quickened his pace following the cast to the costume room, hoping for safety in numbers, from the fast approaching Susan.

Nigel! Nigel," she called excitedly, catching him just outside the door, "what did you think?"

"Uh, it's coming together Susan, I've got to-"

"How was I? Please tell me the truth now," she clutched his arms, backing him into the wall. "Did you notice my flower? I added it myself."

"Yes, well, I really think we could do without the plastic orchid, Susan. We're not doing South Pacific here." He saw the disappointment in her face and mentally kicked himself for exacerbating the situation. "Why don't you speak to Serge, maybe he can suggest something not so- something less uh- different."

"You're the director, Nigel," she surrendered submissively, leaning full length against him.

The threat of an impending argument inside the room provided him with a thankful escape, and he eased his back along the wall to the door, holding Susan at arm's length.

"Serge simply cannot work in this environment." The pouting hairdresser stood in one corner, arms folded tightly about his thin chest.

"You're only patting a few curls in place, for god's sake," Tiffany looked pained, the corset required for her costume felt so tight, her lips seemed permanently pursed.

"Mrs. O.," he huffed indignantly, "Serge doesn't just pat curls in place... Serge designs the artistic flow-"

"Oh bullshit! Will somebody undo this thing before I break in two?"

"How fortunate you don't need one of those things," Ramon oozed into Grace's ear, standing close enough to feel the heat of her bare arm against his shirtsleeve.

"Are you coming on to me, Private Courts?"

"Mmmm, that question conjures up all kinds of interesting possibilities." He flashed a brilliant smile, letting his eyes hood suggestively. Grace turned an appraising look on the handsome tennis pro; the even tan of his face, the sensuous mouth and the jet black eyes.

"Possibilities?" she lowered her own eyes demurely, long lashes dusting the tops of her pink cheeks.

Ellen and Denise moved frantically among the milling cast, changing costumes and making final adjustments. Victoria's interruption had left them upset and concerned, studiously avoiding one another's faces as they worked, sharing the tingling shock of excitement whenever their fingers accidentally brushed together. Donald sat on a stool in the corner shooting dark looks at Denise for ignoring his presence. Instead of helping him, as she had the others, she'd handed him his change of costume, pointed to the tray of accessories he would need, and hurried back to Ellen.

"Darlene, could you bring me that green ribbon from the box marked, Penelope, please?"

Grace stepped forward as Darlene handed the green choker to Ellen, and she fastened it about Grace's neck. "Nice touch, Ellen. I like it." She made her way to the dressing table and admired the haughty but daring look the ribbon provided. Ramon caught her eye in the mirror, and signaled with a bold, thumbs up.

"Serge, your work has been inspirational," Nigel huddled with the hairdresser, coaxing and cajoling, "it highlights every scene, we need that expertise, Serge. Everyone has to make a little sacrifice to pull this off. Come now, what do you say?"

"Eeeeew!"

"Susan! Could you leave us for just a moment, please?" He turned back, giving Serge his most sincere look, relaxing when he saw a hint of prideful sacrifice in the man's eyes.

"Serge will persevere... for the good of the play." He strutted off, brush and comb at the ready, and waded into the confusion of the half-dressed, frustrated troupe.

"The way you handle things just makes me all goose bumpy," Susan clutched at him again, almond eyes sparkling with unabashed infatuation.

"Su-san, please- oh god!" Nigel saw Allen stomp into the room, his right eye red and swollen. "Allen, what the devil happened? Are you alright?"

"Do I look all right?" He snarled, wincing and putting delicate fingers to his wound.

Nigel turned and scanned the crowded room, spotting Henry, nose to nose with Darlene, and called impatiently for the young man to come over, a short stab of jealousy pinging in his chest.

"Henry, Allen's had some kind of- he needs a really good makeup job for that eye. See what you can do, eh?"

"That looks like a real keyhole job, Mr. Gregorio," Henry grinned, as Nigel swam away seeking a safer locale.

"I don't need any smart-assed comments, Ace." Allen growled at the young man.

"Ace, is it? Sit over here, Mr. Gregorio, let's see if I can't do something about this unfortunate blemish, with the magic of Max Factor."

"Victoria, what the hell's going on up there?" Nigel was ready to toss in the towel and flee. The costume room was chaos, barely controlled by the industry of Ellen and Denise.

She sat on the stairs thumbing through the pages of her script copy, looking calm and content. "Milo's miffed over the way Ramon delivered his lines to Amanda. He's annoyed because his wife was supposed to be in the audience, and right now he's busy jamming his hairpiece into the office shredder."

"Ahhh god, give me strength." He squeezed onto the step next to her and hung his head.

"Don't look to God for help with fools, Nigel. He's probably sick to his stomach with laughter right now."

"Sort of like his avenging angel here on earth, eh, Victoria?" A wry, tired glance.

"Take heart, Nigel," she said, encouragingly, "you're a hit with our sample audience anyway."

"Small reward for very large grief, Auntie." He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, "In for a penny, I suppose... guess I'd better see if Serge can whip up another wig for Major Stiff."

"Atta boy, Nigel, ever onward." She hit his departing rump with a confident slap.