Life on the Paisley Pathway, the wealthy, ten home enclave that housed Ashton Hill's gentry, and was the showcase development of Arthur Paisley, town philanthropist, to all outward appearances, maintained its original mystique and decorum; although many of the older residents of the community were more than aware of the lack of both.

The Pathway residents still held the monopoly on the town council, as well as representing the largest share of the community's business and professional leaders, providing a comfortable, if somewhat sandy, base for the old community's allegiance.

As the final week of June passed from the calendar, trailing an uncharacteristic spate of rainy weather in its wake, the town began its annual preparation for tourist season. The first long weekend brought cottagers through the town in caravans of SUVs, towing boats and trailers filled with all the paraphernalia necessary for opening up and preparing their summer retreats.

Hardware Heaven benefited the most, supplying the inevitably forgotten items like light bulbs, batteries and fuses, to those whose idea of 'roughing it' meant no cable TV. Restaurants and grocery stores came next, their prices rising in direct proportion to the number of vehicles passing through.

At the insistence of the voters, whose determination it was to wring every dime out of the summer tourist trade, the council irresolutely agreed to a street-wide banner, proclaiming the Ashton Hills Playhouse, Silver Jubilee, on the second to last week of August. Now, the onus was on them to provide the event, and that was proving just a little more difficult.

With the women on the council, and the wives of their counterparts in full accord, the board passed the budget expenditure for a number of flyers to announce a call for horse-drawn transport. Response was surprisingly interested and prompt. A screening session was set up at the playhouse, and Susan's committee, after exhaustive calls, e-mails and letters, enlisting the participation of what was to become the 'riding' dignitaries, was charged with selecting suitable transport for forty people.

 An investigative search in the bowels of the theatre, turned up a trunk filled with Mary Quant inspired skirts, knee-hi vinyl boots, polyester, flared-bottom pants, and a number of 70s style wigs. Susan dragged everything out, placing it in the hands of Ellen and Denise, the wardrobe specialists for the town's previous playhouse endeavour, for cleaning and repairs.

Nigel, with a prodding from Victoria that bordered on physical harm, agreed to sit in as a selector, along with Tiffany, Patty, Melaine, Allen and Susan. For most of a week, he had dodged meetings and phone calls imploring him to help, citing lack of experience and a loathing of horses, as feeble excuses.

Susan was relentless. On an early Sunday morning, when he was jogging around the park, she waylaid him, springing out from behind a clump of cedar bushes and wrestling him to a stop. Nigel's synapse fired, triggering vivid memories of previous encounters with the overly demonstrative Susan, feeling the same helplessness overwhelming him again.

When she was through cajoling and pleading, she left him standing gutted on the park lawn, praying his condition would subside before anyone else came along. Victoria had listened straight-faced to his ranting complaints, letting him wind down before laying down the law in her usual, devious way.

******

On Saturday, the day chosen for the interviews, Nigel made his way to the playhouse, a dawdling, unenthusiastic hike along a circuitous route, which brought him to his destination coincident with the arrival of Melaine and Shelia Croft.

"Maestro!" Melaine called, bringing a flush to his cheeks. "How are you?"

He framed a smile and greeted the two women with a genuine delight. Melaine had always seemed one of the steadier members of the Paisley group, and Shelia, while sometimes exhibiting an almost painful insecurity, showed a remarkable penchant for sincerity.

"So nice to see you both again," They observed the traditional cheek kissing and stand-off appraisals. "You're both looking lovely. How is your daughter? Candice, wasn't it? And ah, Bill- William?"

"Candy," Shelia answered, pleased that he remembered. "She's going on five now, and William is fine too."

"Five! Good grief, what happened to time?" He noticed more self-assurance in her demeanour, a hint of acuity in her frank stare.

"You look as fit as ever, Nigel." Melaine patted his arm.

"I found a discriminating tailor." They all laughed together. "I guess we should go in," he said finally, opening the door for them and following behind into the cool lobby.

"Hey, Stainway! Long time." Allen popped up from the water fountain and charged toward him, arm extended like a jousting lance. Brief 'Hi's' to his neighbours, and a vigorous pump of Nigel's hand.

"Hello, Allen. We were just talking about the passage of time."

"Yeah? Well this audition thing can't be over too soon for me." He chuckled loudly and swept a hand toward the entrance to the auditorium.

The rest of the council and research committee were already inside, milling about and chatting in several groups. A few of the non committee members were also present.

"Eeeeeew! He's here!"

One if by land, eeeew if by Susan, Nigel groaned inwardly, stepping down the aisle and accepting a mix of greetings from his group of ex compatriots.

"Gonna lead us to another Broadway smash, Stainway?" Daryl gave his hand a quick swipe. The need for a response vanished, as the other women surged forward, hugging and cheek pecking. He shook a few more hands, accepted an introduction to Peter and spent the next twenty minutes listening to Susan's bubbly description of the 70s theme they'd decided on, parrying questions and indulging in small talk.

"This is going to be a disaster," Daryl complained noisily, striding down the aisle of the theatre and throwing himself into a seat next to Patty. "There must be a hundred people out there with kids and dogs and God knows what else."

"Your flyer should have been a little more explicit, Susan." Milo said smugly, arms folded in a posture of arrogance. "The summer will have passed before you get to see all those people."

She looked at the members of her committee, stricken. "What should we do?"

"What do you think, Nigel?" Tiffany asked, enjoying the chaos, and positioning herself thigh to thigh with Allen.

"Me? I don't- I'm just here to—"

"You were so good last time, you must have some ideas, Nigel." Allen shot him a malicious grin.

Victoria, I'll kill you! He twiddled his fingers for a moment, organizing his thoughts. "Uhhm, well, I suppose you could start by eliminating the owners of anything that carries more than four people."

"Eeeeeew! Super idea, Nigel."

"And perhaps we should say that- that we'd prefer topless buggies." Patty suggested meekly.

"That has an interesting ring." Daryl chided.

"That's not what she meant, darling." Tiffany glared him down. "I think that's a good suggestion, Pat, no point in having transportation nobody can see into. Leave it to me, I'll speak to that group."

"God help them." Allen muttered.

"Okay then, so what should our next move be, Nigel?"

He looked at Susan's beaming face, sinking quickly into an abyss of unavoidable entrapment. Studying the seat back in front, he was aware that everyone was watching him, some eagerly, some disparagingly, and with a sudden, surprising surge of resolve, he made up his mind; shit, or get off the pot! "Right. First. Allen, you go outside and inform the people that two-seaters are out. Tiffany, you have the covered wagons, and Susan, you weed out the ones that don't look presentable enough.

"The rest of you start organizing those that are allowed in into groups, take names, issue them a number for order of interview and let's get this show on the road." There followed a dropping of jaws, and a few gasps of surprise, but little movement. "From what I understand, you only have this place for one day, so I suggest we get a move on people." He gave them all a brook no-nonsense stare, and settled comfortably back in his seat.

"Jesus! He's turned into Cecile B. DeMille." Daryl yelped.