35. drama, darling
CHAPTER 35
DRAMA, DARLING
IVY
Francis Byrne is standing in front of me. The Francis Byrne. He’s so close I could touch him.
His hand covers his heart. “I was phenomenal in that, wasn’t I? One of my best, even if I was robbed of the Olivier by that bastard Alfonso. But we shouldn’t linger on old wounds.”
Behind me, Lincoln stifles a laugh, which makes me think this is a scab Francis has been picking at for a while.
Holy shit, Lincoln knows Francis Byrne. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.
I wish Astrid were here.
“And who is this ravishing creature?” Francis leans back dramatically and gives me a once over. He’s as tall as Lincoln, but lean, his hair shock white, his face wrinkled with age and experience, with deep-set eyes that skewer you in place.
He’s a bastion of the stage and he’s standing four feet away from me.
Lincoln’s hand curls around my waist. “The someone special I told you about.”
He mentioned me? To Francis Byrne ? Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like?
I hold out my hand, half expecting to wake up the moment we touch. “I’m Ivy.”
“A pleasure, Ivy.” Francis takes my hand and gives it an air kiss. It’s so charmingly dramatic I’m ten seconds away from linking our arms together so we can skip down the aisle.
I can’t believe Lincoln did this for me.
Francis walks back into the theater and beckons us to follow. “Come, let me give you the grand tour.”
I’ve lost count of the shows I’ve seen at the Playhouse. Getting a tour has been on my bucket list since my first, but it’s sat at the back of the list for years, waiting for a rainy day.
Here Lincoln is, making it pour.
Stepping inside is like stepping back in time, like stepping into a dream. The red-cushioned seats, the gilded archways, the buffed and polished and re-scuffed stage.
With rehearsals underway, the stage crew is hard at work around us, taking directions given to them via managers’ headsets. Francis introduces his costar, Julian, who is currently sprawled back on a leather sofa at center stage, talking over the script with someone who is nodding a lot and unable to get a word in.
The air smells of set paint and a little like wet socks, and I’m so happy I could cry.
Lincoln waves me on before we go backstage, and I follow Francis alone into the belly of the beast. When we reach the largest of the dressing rooms, he lingers at the door, watching as I venture into the auspicious space and letting me stare giddily at everything. “Lincoln says you’re a performer yourself. Why aren’t you up here?”
I laugh. “Because I was terrible at it.” There’s a signed photo of Patti Lupone on the wall. I want to sneak it out so badly. “I do miss dressing up, though.”
“You don’t need to be onstage for that.”
True.
Makeup litters the counter, and I suddenly see the joyful chaos around me in a new light. Huh. I guess you can take the girl out of the theater, but…
I turn to Francis, who is eyeing me with curiosity. He’s been acting for twice my lifetime. There’s probably not a role around that he hasn’t played, but the man in front of me doesn’t seem confused about who he is when he’s offstage.
It must be nice.
“Is it difficult?” I ask. “Being someone new all the time? Do you ever feel like you’ve lost yourself?”
To his credit, Francis smiles, warm and knowing. Actor to actor. “Constantly. We all play roles in life. Some we choose, others we don’t. The trick is always knowing who you’re performing for and how to return to what is true.”
I think of Lincoln, of Astrid, my mom. All the times I’ve swallowed down how I’m feeling. All the times I’ve thought of my future and felt trapped.
A compassionate lie, a camouflaged truth, a polite smile. Smiling when I want to scream. Or cry.
I’ve caught myself at my most tender, searching for words, attempting to capture them in voice notes I never send. Ramblings I express, then delete before another person might know them.
“You know, for the longest time, I thought maybe I liked pretending to be other people because they were more interesting than I was.” I pick up a lavish green velvet cloak and drape it over my shoulders, swaying it back and forth. It’s divine. I need five. Immediately. “Now I think maybe I gravitated toward interesting people because I recognized myself in them.”
I turn to the mirror.
“No one ever told me I might be lost as an adult. What was the point of all those conversations with career counselors?” I was supposed to have this worked out a decade ago.
What happens if I never find myself? Am I doomed to wander, never satisfied? It’s not fair to tie myself to another person if I don’t have solid footing first. I’ll always have one foot lifted, anxious to plant myself. And without roots, how can anything grow?
Francis takes a long breath. I shouldn’t be boring him with this. The guy’s a renowned thespian. But he doesn’t look put out. No, he’s looking at me the way Nonna used to. The way Astrid did as we shopped. I’m starting to feel like a group project.
“Can I give you a little advice?”
I nod. “Please.”
“Don’t wait for it. Find what makes you happy and grab on with both hands. Don’t wait and pine for it later.”
I almost want to laugh. Patience isn’t really my style. I used to pace in the wings before my cue, lightning zipping through my veins like the Flash, pinballing around my ribs. I miss the adrenaline rush of performing. The split second before I step out from behind the black curtain, where time comes to a standstill.
One last deep breath before launching myself onstage.
“What if I don’t know what makes me happy?”
“You’ll never know the answer to what if , so you must be happy with what is. And if you aren’t, then you work to change that.”
Shit. Crying in front of Sir Francis was not on my to-do list, but cross it off. He reaches past me and hands me an honest to god handkerchief. It’s embroidered with his initials. “You’re already on your way. Crying in the dressing room is a rite of passage in this theater.”
At the end of the tour, Francis sits on the edge of the stage, and I take a seat beside Lincoln in the front row. His arm goes around my shoulders as soon as I’ve sat down. “How was it?” he asks.
“Incredible,” I say honestly, feeling another piece of my puzzle click into place. I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank him.
“Now, Lincoln,” Francis says, “if you are at all the gentleman you profess to be, you need to make sure this wonderful woman is in that seat on opening night.”
“You know I will,” Lincoln says.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “This is more than enough.” I can’t believe I’m turning down front-row tickets, but Lincoln has already done so much for me when all I’ve done is make him lie to his family and pretend to be my boyfriend.
“Ridiculous,” Francis responds. “Let the man spoil you, dear.”
“Oh, we’re not…” I trail off. “He’s just trying to make me feel better since I was fired,” I explain. “I mean, you saw me before. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to do, and Lincoln has been very nice about it.”
About a lot of things.
Francis narrows his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. He doesn’t look away from me, even as he asks, “Are you often in the habit of pulling favors for complete strangers, Lincoln?”
“No, only the people I care about.”
Francis smiles wider, and I feel my face heat. “Fascinating.” He then jumps up and claps so loudly I feel the air shake. “You must stay and watch us rehearse,” he says before loudly whispering, “Julian needs the extra help.”
“More like you want to preen,” Julian calls out, picking lint off his cape as he stands. “And I’m not overselling the confession.”
“You bloody well are,” Francis retorts.
Julian rolls his eyes. “Ivy, be a dear and tell Francis he’s an aging husk and his best days are behind him.”
I laugh, and Francis turns back to wink at me before he straightens his cuffs and takes ownership of the room.
Damn. He doesn’t just command the stage, he rules it. There’s no taking my eyes off him, eager not to miss out on a single reaction.
“I felt a similar awe watching you work the room that night,” Lincoln says softly. I flush. I still remember the weight of his eyes following me as intimately as my shadow.
I also remember how powerful it was to free myself. The fun of letting my imagination run wild. Like I was sifting through a box of childhood mementos and remembering who I used to be.
How did Lincoln know I needed that, even before he knew anything else about me?
“The first show I ever saw was in this theater,” I tell him, swallowing past the lump in my throat. I was in middle school. I can’t even remember which class it was for, only that it was this musical I hadn’t heard of.
I didn’t know then that my heart would immediately be yanked from its moors, pumped with the voices of the chorus, and then— just for good measure— gloriously pulverized with “On My Own.”
“Mum took me to my first play,” he says, a soft smile on his face. “I was fourteen and bored off my arse, but Mum loved it, and it was nice to see her happy.”
My heart aches. Family means so much to him, but everyone is so busy keeping the peace, they don’t see how much it’s keeping them apart. If there was ever a time for Lincoln to catch my foot-in-mouth disease, now would be it. Maybe then they’d all stop quietly pining for the past.
“Astrid would love this.” Maybe I shouldn’t meddle, but I can’t stand aside and not try. Not after all the advice they’ve given me. Besides, when Lincoln decides he doesn’t need me for practice anymore, I want to know that they’re okay.
Family is too important.
“She thanked me, you know, for finally convincing you to move back. I hated that she didn’t know how much she means to you.”
It’s hard, sometimes, to read anything in his expression, but when he speaks, his tone is somber. “I’m sorry for making you lie to her.”
Making me? “I’m the one who started this, and if you ever want to end it?—”
“I don’t,” he says immediately. Something raw and selfish inside me roars. I don’t want to either. “But,” he adds, and my stomach sinks into my sneakers. “I won’t make you continue if you’re uncomfortable.”
“The reunion’s a week away,” I say, because as much as I know I should, I can’t bring myself to end this yet. I just want a little more of it first.
“I don’t care about that. Ivy, I only want you to be happy.”
Crack. That’ll be the thin ice my heart is currently skating on.
I swallow. “I am happy,” I half-lie. He doesn’t look convinced.
“Just so you know,” I say, picking up our linked hands as a distraction. “Today has been amazing, but just holding hands is good too. Sometimes all you need is knowing that there’s someone there for you.”
Lincoln reaches up with his free hand, brushing my cheek as he attempts to tame my hair behind my ear. It’s fighting him, popping out again. I can’t bring myself to stop him, too enamored with the pinch of determination creasing his brow. On his third try, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
With a sigh that makes me smile, he relents. “I’ve never really been known for my subtlety. It’s something I’m working on.”
“Please don’t,” I say suddenly. He’s too close to miss the heat I can feel warming my cheeks. “I mean, unless you want to. But I like it. Subtlety is overrated.”
“Good, because I don’t want to stop spoiling you.”
He will, someday.