Ross waited for the signal from Carlos, and then threw the switch for the footlights. A white glare flooded the bottom of the stage, exposing the scuffs and splinters in the old wooden flooring. He handed Jean a box of bulbs and pointed to where a few had burned out. Carlos hollered down if it was working okay, and he signalled back with a thumb up sign.

"We'll try the coloured spots next," Ross shouted, "just give me a few minutes to position the lectern." First I have to find the damn thing, he grumbled, pushing past the huge, heavy drapes backstage. He spotted it stashed in a corner beside a pile of old props, covered in dust and loaded down with stacks of old music sheets.

Carlos squinted through the tiny opening in the projection room, following Ross's progress behind the drapes.

"Okay Arlene," he said, "we've got a few minutes." They folded together in a tangle of arms and legs, bumping across the room until he had her pinned against the wall.

"None of this hit-and-run stuff, Carlos. I didn't come up here to flash on and off like one of your lamps."

"Just hurry, and it won't matter." He hoisted her up by the rump, balancing while she scrabbled with his belt and zipper.

"Hurry!"

"I'm not the bloody India rubber man! Push them down, I can't reach any further."

"Ah! Aaah, there," He felt her legs encircle his waist as she settled down with a moaning gasp. "Oh baby!"

"Carlos! Hit the colours, okay!" Ross shaded his eyes toward the booth.

"Oh, shit!"

"No you- uhh- don't, Carlos. I- uuuh- warned- ooaaah- you."

"I've got to, or he'll- oof- come up- unnngh- here." Two firm hands on Arlene's bottom, he backed up slowly, staggering across to the control panel.

"Carlos!"

"Yeah-h-h uh, Mr. Preston. One sec... ooohaaah."

"You need help?"

"No. No, Arlene's givin' me a hand." His voice wavered plaintively across the empty auditorium.

"Well hurry up, will ya, I don't want to be here all night." He looked at Jean and shook his head. "They're probably doing up there, what we should be doing down here."

"Ross! They're just kids."

"Yeah, and randy ones at that. C'mon Carlos, what's the hold up?"

The coloured spots blazed on, bathing Jean and Ross in a multi-hued kaleidoscopic wash. "Oh Christ, they're all out of whack." Ross groaned.

"Stop complaining and let's just get on with it. Help me drag the lectern over to where you want it, and I'll dust and polish it while you do the lights."

It was ten-thirty before they finally set the coloured spots, cleaned up the lectern and positioned the piano backstage with its microphone. Several times, Ross had to berate Carlos for taking too long to balance the speakers, and he threatened more than once to come up and wring his neck.

Carlos leaned across the control panel, exhausted. His shirt was hanging by one arm, pants around his ankles, and Arlene, in non-stop mode, mauling and kissing him all the while. When Jean called up to say they were finished, and thanked them for coming in, Arlene had to help him dress and practically carry him from the theatre to his car.

"Alone at last." Ross's words bounced around the vast theatre with an eerie resonance. The only light remaining on was by the curtain controls, a dim, yellow blush that crept weakly among the clutter backstage. He reached for her hand, pulling her close, and bruising her mouth with a passionate kiss. "I've been looking forward to this all day." He sighed.

"Let's find somewhere a little more comfortable," Jean suggested, pulling him from the stage and around toward the dressing rooms. "As I recall, you were going to blow my mind tonight."

"Among other things," he chortled suggestively.

"What was it?"

They stopped at the top of the stairs leading down to the dressing rooms, and leaned on the thin iron rail. "You are not going to believe this. This is what you call, Gossip Supreme."

"So, what is it?"

Ross related everything Tiffany had told him, revising and editing for the ultimate drama. Jean just stared, mouth hanging open like a broken cupboard door.

"Now was that a mind-blower, or what?" He took her by the waist and swung her side to side.

*****

Xavier's was nearly empty. Only two other tables in the chic dining room held occupants; a swooning couple in their late twenties, holding hands across their tiny table, and in a far corner, three middle-aged salesmen, their booth covered in forms, day timers and calculators. Daryl and Jeffery shared a table against a rough stucco wall, beneath a jet-black mural of the Eiffel Tower.

A guttering candle danced spastically in the wrought iron holder, making the wall-painting appear animated. Jeffery sipped his drink, listening to Daryl's rant about his marital woes.

"I know we're not blood brothers or anything," Daryl fiddled with his napkin, "but I thought, considering your circumstances, you might have some... advice."

Jeffery set his glass on the cloth, twisting the material under its base. "Considering my circumstances," he said, with a strong measure of irony, "you could say I was more in Tiffany's camp than yours." The waiter drifted by, splashing more water in their glasses and vanishing into the shadows like a phantom.

"C'mon Jeff, I don't want a Dear Abbey lecture, I just want some- aw hell, what I really need is to be able to go back home."

"So go."

"Yeah right. I might as well jump in front of a bus." He dug his swizzle stick into the linen cloth in a series of pinholes. "Do you know what it's like sleeping in that damned great department store? It's bloody frightening. Every little noise and I think someone has broken in... I'm a wreck."

"This is your first night! You haven't even slept there yet!" An image of his dental chair popped into his mind.

"You know what I mean."

"Osborne," Jeffery considered his companion with great restraint, "for the past hour you've been telling me that this was the freedom you wanted. I don't understand your problem."

"My problem is I don't have anyone to be free with!" Daryl's helpless look appeared almost comical in the flickering candlelight.

"Well you didn't plan that very well, did you? Didn't you have anyone in mind?"

He looked back down at the cloth, pushing the words out with difficulty. "My neighbour, Grace Winston."

Jeffery let go of his glass and rocked back in his chair, completely blindsided by the confession. Grace! This ersatz, philandering little twerp, wanted Grace... his Grace! Pin-balling emotions raged around his head, and he gripped the table for fear of toppling over. Daryl was speaking, and he forced himself back to listen.

"...right into her bedroom. You should see this woman." Daryl was watching him with a yearning expression.

"Wha- what? Her bedroom?"

"Yeah, I've got this really neat telescope, cost me a fortune—well it cost the company a fortune—and I can zoom right in on her. Did you know she has a tattoo right on her—"

"You spy on her—in her bedroom!" Jeffery popped up from his chair like a cork, swaying unsteadily. "You are the most– the most..." He snatched his wallet from his pocket and threw a handful of bills on the table, leaning over a cowering Daryl, and spat angrily. "If this isn't enough, you can bloody well make up the difference. Call it my fee for listening to this- this- aaachh." He kicked back his chair and stormed out of the restaurant.

"Is there a problem, sir?" The phantom waiter materialized, looking suitably concerned.

"Must have been something he ate." Daryl said nastily, adding to the scattered bills and taking his leave.

Jeffery crossed the waiting room to his office, punching on the lights and pausing until the fluorescents caught and settled down. He was livid over Daryl's behaviour. Spying on a woman in the privacy of her bedroom! It was unconscionable. He spun his Rolodex until he found the number he wanted, and jabbed the buttons on his phone, waiting for the answering machine message to end.

"Grace, this is Jeffery Richardson. Would you please call me at- at my office, as soon as possible? I'll be here until ten tonight, and again at eight in the morning. We have to talk. Uhm, okay then...goodbye."