Chapter 14 #2
Olivia called Philip again. “Camille should read.”
“She is reading.”
“She is nothing like Lara.”
“Good.”
“She is also nothing like you.”
“Better.”
Olivia heard voices around him and the abrupt clatter of something being dropped. He was already at the theater, likely standing amid inspectors, crew members, and producers trying to decide whether the building could be trusted.
“Has the company been told about the railing?” she asked.
“Only that the theater is closed for a safety review. We’ll tell them in person.”
“They will find out from the press first.”
“Keane has asked the police not to release details.” Philip became quiet. “We continue.”
The play would continue. That was the important thing.
Olivia closed her eyes and let herself feel the relief.
Lara had endangered her, violated her privacy, destabilized her marriage, and nearly taken the role.
Olivia’s answer to all the chaos was to return to simplicity of the work and make the production better than it had been while Lara stood in the front row studying how to replace her.
“I’ll see you at eleven-thirty,” she said.
“Sit down when you arrive.”
Olivia looked at the cushion beneath her ankle. “I am sitting now.”
“That sentence does not reassure me.”
She ended the call and returned to the script.
At ten-thirty, Robbie arrived with coffee, a bag of pastries, and a folding cane he had apparently purchased from a pharmacy. He let himself in with the key they kept under the flowerpot.
Olivia stared at it when he held it out. “No.”
“It’s lightweight.”
“No.”
“It has a padded handle.”
“I would rather crawl.”
“That can be arranged after you refuse the cane and fall in front of the press. Philip called and ordered me to make sure you arrived without reinjuring yourself. He used the phrase ‘by any means necessary,’ which I have interpreted broadly.”
Robbie carried the coffee into the kitchen and stopped when he saw the blackened kettle in the sink. “You nearly burned down the house while resting?”
“The kettle failed.”
“The kettle appears to have been left on a lit burner until it died.”
“It had a short life but a useful one.”
He unpacked the pastries and glanced at the script. Robbie handed her the coffee. “Camille Rhodes is excellent. Phillip said you suggested her.”
“You’ve worked with her?”
“Once. She can be hard-headed.”
“Philip will adore her for just as long as it takes her to disagree with him.”
“Then they’ll try to kill each other.”
They ate at the kitchen island while Olivia explained her new reading of the dinner scene.
Robbie challenged the choices, asking whether Serena’s invitation remained an act of cruelty if the other woman entered knowingly.
Olivia argued that sympathy was not the goal.
Serena needed to confront someone who could answer her, or the climax became an execution rather than a reckoning.
By the time they left, the play had begun to occupy more space in Olivia’s mind than Lara.
Robbie insisted on carrying her bag and refused to move the car until she accepted the cane. Olivia compromised by placing it beside her on the back seat and promising to use it only if the pavement proved treacherous.
The Mercer rehearsal building had none of the theater’s faded grandeur.
Its corridors were narrow, overheated, and lined with framed posters from productions that had rented rooms there before moving to larger stages.
The rehearsal studio smelled of floor polish and old coffee.
Folding chairs had been arranged along one wall, with tables set beneath the windows for scripts, water bottles, and the mountain of administrative materials that followed any production in crisis.
The company was already gathering when Olivia entered.
Conversation stopped.
She expected questions about the railing, the police, Lara’s interview, or Mason. Instead, Sandra crossed the room and took Olivia’s coat while another actor moved a chair closer to the table.
“Philip said you had to keep the ankle up,” Sandra said. “Robbie threatened to report us to your doctor if we let you stand.”
“Robbie has become intoxicated with minor authority.”
“He brought you a cane,” Sandra said, visibly delighted.
Olivia looked back to find him carrying it into the room like a ceremonial staff.
Philip emerged from the adjoining office. He took in the cane, Olivia’s expression, and the company’s barely contained amusement.
“Excellent,” he said. “At least one person is following instructions.”
“Call rehearsal before I use it as a weapon.”
The familiar laughter that moved through the room was brief, but it loosened something in everyone. They were still a company. The revelation seemed to surprise them.
Philip waited until the door had closed and the last actor was seated before telling them about the railing.
He gave them the facts without embellishment: the hardware had been deliberately replaced, the theater was closed for inspection, and the matter was now with the police.
Anyone with relevant information would be interviewed.
No one was to speculate publicly, respond to reporters, or contact Lara.
The announcement produced shock, anger, and several frightened glances toward Olivia. She endured them until Philip finished.
Then she opened her script.
“We have eleven days,” she said.
The room quieted.
“The theater may be unavailable today and tomorrow, but the play is still ours. Lara is gone. Whatever else happens to her belongs to the police, the producers, and the attorneys. Our job is to make sure the production survives her.”
One of the actors shifted uneasily. “What happens if the theater isn’t cleared?”
“It will be,” Philip said.
Barbara Levin, standing near the back with her phone in hand, looked up sharply. “Let us not borrow trouble.”
Philip ignored her. “Today, we work the text. We read three possible understudies. We adjust the scenes affected by Olivia’s injuries, and identify every place where this production has relied on habit instead of choice.”
Sandra raised her script. “So a normal rehearsal.”
“Only with worse coffee.”
The company began rearranging the tables into a broad rectangle. Scripts opened. Pencils appeared. Robbie distributed revised pages and a new schedule that compressed three lost days into the remaining week and a half.
Olivia settled into the chair at the center of one side, her ankle propped on another chair beneath the table.
She disliked the position immediately. Serena was a physical role, built from movement through the house she controlled.
Reading from a chair made Olivia feel separated from the character’s authority.
Philip noticed. “Use it.”
She looked at him.
“Serena has arranged the entire evening and cannot control her own body within it. Use the frustration.”
The first candidate for understudy arrived at twelve-fifteen.
She was young, polished, and visibly intimidated by the room. Her reading was competent, but she approached Serena as Lara had: wounded, apologetic, permanently on the verge of tears. Olivia felt the company retreat into old rhythms around her. Adrian softened.
Philip thanked the actress and made no comment until she had left.
“No,” Olivia said.
Barbara looked up from her notes. “She knows the part.”
“She knows a terrible version of the part.”
“She could adjust.”
“In eleven days, she will cling to whatever feels safest.”
Philip nodded. “Agreed.”
The second actress had more experience but treated Serena’s confidence as contempt. She entered the dinner scene already prepared for battle, which removed the tension from every apparent courtesy.
Robbie stopped her halfway through. “Why does Serena come?”
“To confront Helena.”
“She does not know Helena knows.”
“She suspects.”
“Suspicion is not a plan.”
The actress tried again, but the performance remained armed from the first line. Olivia admired her intelligence and knew she was wrong for the role.
Camille arrived late, breathless from another audition and carrying a script swollen with old notes. She apologized once, removed her coat, and asked whether they wanted her to read Serena or Helena.
“Serena,” Philip said.
She took the chair opposite Olivia and read the first scene without asking for context.
Her Serena was not frightened. She was observant.
She entered the house already aware that the invitation was unusual, yet she chose to believe civility might still offer a path through the evening.
Her warmth was genuine rather than strategic, which made her self-possession more unsettling.
She did not compete with Helena because she had not yet accepted Helena’s definition of the encounter.
They reached the moment when Helena poured wine for everyone but Serena.
Camille looked at the empty place before her, then lifted her eyes.
“Have I arrived too late for hospitality?”
The line had always drawn a faint laugh because Lara delivered it as a nervous attempt to ease the tension. Camille spoke with quiet curiosity, granting Serena the opportunity to correct the insult without pretending not to notice it.
Olivia heard Helena’s answer differently. “Hospitality is offered to guests.”
Camille’s Serena’s considered her, then reached for the bottle and poured her own wine.
“And what am I?” Camille made it a genuine question.
Olivia felt the scene open.
Philip leaned forward. Robbie stopped writing.
“Continue,” Philip said.
They read through the confrontation at the end of the first act. Camille did not imitate Olivia’s pauses or gestures. She listened. When Olivia altered the timing, Camille adjusted to the intention rather than copying the effect. The scene became a contest of understanding rather than performance.
At the break, Barbara pulled Philip into the adjoining office.
Camille remained at the table, marking the script. “Your Serena is crueler than the one I played.”
Olivia took a drink of water. “Is that criticism?”