“You guess? Learn to take a compliment, O’Hara. I asked for your help, and you came through. I won’t forget this, mark my words.”
It was only now that Scarlett remembered what this was all about. For better or for worse, she had just helped to destroy Donna’s chance at a Broadway role. And though she knew that Mrs. Amberson’s words were meant in a friendly way, she couldn’t help but feel a faint sense of alarm, as if the sirens in the street below were headed in her direction.
THE NEW SPACE
“Billy called me,” Mrs. Amberson said, when Scarlett walked in the next morning. “It seems that Donna has walked away from her new musical because of a major television opportunity that’s come up.”
She was sitting on her bed, in a meditative position, grinning like a serial killer who’d just been given all the keys to a dorm building. She got up and climbed onto her perch so Scarlett could change the sheets on her bed.
“We have to get going in a minute,” she said. “I have a lead on a place for rehearsal. It sounds absolutely ideal.”
The ideal place was a former church in the East Village. It looked like it had been repurposed long ago—there was nothing left on the inside to hint at its previous function except the stained glass windows. The main room had been gutted and a low stage installed at one end. The stage felt hollow when Scarlett walked on it, and there were small holes dotting its surface. The rest of the room was hard to walk through, as it contained a hundred or so folding chairs, countless boxes, folding tables, fake trees, broken clothes racks, and for some reason, a lawn mower. In the back, there was a large closet with exposed insulation that they called the “workroom.” There were two tiny bathrooms and a dirty window facing an unused playground.
Mrs. Amberson wrote out a check for two thousand dollars for two weeks without blinking an eye.
“It’s gorgeous,” she said, carefully negotiating around the holes on the stage. “It’s a miracle we got it on such short notice and for such a short time. I wish we could just do the show here, but someone has it booked starting next week. Still. It gives us a good place to work out the new concepts. I have fabulous ideas.”
“Ideas?” Scarlett asked. “What are you…”
Mrs. Amberson held up a silencing finger.
“Scarlett, let me tell you the one thing I’ve learned in life. You have to tell people what they want. Most people don’t know. They mill around through life, bumping into things, waiting for someone to give them some direction. Trevor’s a sweetheart, but without guidance, this show will go nowhere. That’s the trouble with so many of these groups—they have no one to tell them the big things they have to do. And this works so well for us!”
“It does?”
“This is the second part of the story that will frame my narrative. I meet the theater group, pull a stunt out of Hamlet to right old wrongs, then save the show. This is part of my story! And you’re my Boswell.”
“Your what?”
“My Boswell. My right hand. The recorder of my adventures. Now, let’s wrap up some business. We need to call Donna and tell her there’s a delay for a few days while the script is being rewritten. Tell her that the studio will be sending someone over to cut her hair short. It’s a nice touch. She’s always been a hair diva. It will be a very, very nice buzz cut.”
For some reason, this caused Scarlett to hesitate.
“It’s hair, Scarlett,” she said. “I’m not cutting off a finger. Now, I have a contact at the Roundabout who has access to the most amazing costumes. I’m going over to meet her. Move all of these things off the stage and the floor. I want this space completely clear and open. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Scarlett looked around at the chairs, furniture, boxes, and heavy pads.
“You want me to move all of this?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Mrs. Amberson said. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
She grabbed her purse and waved, leaving Scarlett alone in the sweltering room. This didn’t precisely seem like the copious thanks she’d been promised. Scarlett folded a few rows of chairs in a disgruntled manner, then planted herself on a pile of them to send some messages to her far-flung friends. She was so engrossed in this that she didn’t notice when, a half hour later, the door opened and someone walked through the mess in her direction.
“Hey,” Eric said.
Scarlett literally fell off the chairs in alarm. Profuse apologies from Eric followed. They weren’t needed. What she needed was some dignity and poise, but you can’t just get them at the corner deli.
“So we have to get this cleared out?” he asked, once he was sure that he hadn’t caused Scarlett any permanent damage. “I just got the call. I hope you didn’t do too much on your own. I have to change my shirt. I’ll be right back.”