THE PLAY

"All you have to do is go and see the play; watch and listen with a writer's mind, take the tour with Susan and study the facilities, then say good night."

"Yes, but she's bound to ask about the writing." Nigel paced in front of the hall mirror, catching brief glimpses of his worried expression.

"Just tell her you want to go back home to absorb and distill your impressions. Tell her it's paramount for finding the right tone of the play. She'll believe you, Nigel, trust me. Susan doesn't know anything about this stuff."

Nigel stopped in front of his aunt, arms spread wide. "And neither do I."

Victoria pooh poohed his concerns and steered him toward the door. "Off you go now. Just remember what I said." She gave him a peck on the cheek and shooed him down the front steps. "You have got your ticket, right?" Nigel nodded glumly, patting his jacket pocket, and headed down the tree-lined street toward the theatre.

He entered the foyer of the Ashton Hills Playhouse amid a crowd of noisy patrons, all apparently acquainted and all chattering loudly. Self consciously, he stood off to one side, out of the ebb and flow of well-dressed couples. He was thankful that Victoria had taken him out and bought him some decent clothes; the dark blue blazer and beige trousers were more than suitable for this affair. It made him seem, he felt, sans souci. Remembering Victoria's advice, he made mental notes about the audience, their dress, the manner in which they spoke, and the dizzying variety of physical attributes. An instrumental version of Paul William's You and Me Against the World played softly behind the din. Politely returning the nods of several couples, passing close by to join friends, he gazed about the two-storey lobby with genuine interest and was mentally cataloguing the architecture when he felt a tap on his sleeve.

"Pardon me, d'ya'll know where the lady's room is?"

Nigel turned to find a petite young woman staring at him with large, dark, inquiring eyes.

"I'm sorry?"

"The lady's room, where do I go to find it?"

So much for sans souci, she thought he was an usher. "I'm sorry, I don't know. I'm a patron here as well." He watched a rosy blush creep into her brown skin.

"Oh please excuse me, I thought you were- well- I just thought..." She looked down, then guiltily around the milling crowd.

"Think nothing of it." Nigel extended his hand, "Nigel Stainway, it's my first time here."

"Darlene," her hand was small and soft in his, "Darlene King. My first time too. One of my customers gave me a ticket. I've never been to a play before."

"Neither have- well, I've never seen this one. It's supposed to be very good." He released her hand, admiring the silky voice and the soft accent. As with his outfit, her dress seemed brand new, purchased and worn for just this special occasion.

"I guess we're lucky then, it's the last performance."

"Oh really, I didn't know." Nigel had no previous experience with black people, and found himself intrigued by her pleasant features, remarkable hair, and trim figure.

"Uh, well I really need to find the lady's room. Nice to have met you Nigel," she dragged the vowels of his name like a tender caress, "maybe I'll see you at intermission."

"Yes, yes that would be quite splendid. Until intermission then." As he watched her melt into the crowd, three soft chimes rang out, indicating patrons take to their seats.

Intermission was bedlam. Long washroom lineups, crowds of people around the refreshment stand, and every available seat filled to overflowing with gowned women, their standing husbands and escorts sharing noisy critiques of the first act. Nigel wedged himself into a corner near the stairs where a huge pot of a cut-leaf philodendron was just high enough to rest one cheek. The play was very good, and he enjoyed the quick, witty dialogue that the author had written. Surprisingly, several ideas had come to him as he watched, and he felt more at ease and confident with Victoria's plan. Throngs of people moved up and down the stairs; bodies squeezing past one another like cells under a microscope. A pair of bare, black shoulders suddenly appeared in front of him, and he brightened, recognizing the young woman, Darlene.

"There's a bit of sanctuary here." He called over the clamor, pleased when she turned and gave him a beaming smile of sparkling teeth.

"Nigel, I didn't think I'd see you in this crowd." She walked over and offered her hand again.

He accepted, and pulled her into the corner beside the monstrous plant. "So, how did you like the first act?"

"It's pretty good, I guess. I don't quite get some of the jokes though." The tiny space forced them to stand quite close, and Nigel caught a strong scent of rose water from her hair.

"I suppose it's a class thing, you know, the–" he immediately bit his tongue, cursing the stupid remark, "I'm sorry, Darlene. I didn't mean–"

"I know what you meant, Nigel, don't worry about it." Her expression remained pleasant, but unreadable.

"Look, may I offer to buy you a refreshment?" He looked at the crowded stand challengingly.

Darlene stared into his eyes for a moment, then her features softened, and she nodded with polite acceptance.

After an ordeal akin to basic training, Nigel returned with two glasses of white wine and one soggy napkin to soak up the overflow.

"I wonder what it would be like if people were thirsty?"

Darlene took her glass and grinned at his remark. Sipping daintily, she looked about the foyer, the lids of her eyes at half-mast.

"You wouldn't know I did most of the hairdos here tonight would ya'll?"

"You did? You're a hairdresser?" He glanced again at her neatly fashioned soft curls.

"Ummhuh, I work at The Fawn Do, it's the only salon in town."

"That sounds more like a restaurant to me."

"No, it's fawn. Like when ya'll pamper people like. And do is like, hairdo."

"Ahh, I see. Quite clever actually." He followed her eyes about the room. "I haven't seen any of them speak to you."

"They wouldn't- here." Her voice grew softer.

Nigel mentally kicked himself again, falling into the safety of silence. The chimes rang again, rescuing him from a further faux pas, and he took her empty glass, thanking her for the pleasure of her company.

"The pleasure was mine, Nigel. Thank ya'll for the drink and your courtesy, sir. Perhaps I'll see you around town sometime." He watched her drift away with the crowd heading back to their seats, considering the possibility.

*****

"Well what did you think of our play, Nigel?" True to her word, Susan met him when the lights came up, and bucking the exodus from the auditorium, led him around the stage and behind the curtains.

"Most enjoyable, actually. I found the transition between acts to be a rather clever approach." He saw her shoulders squeeze together, and fell silent, letting her tug him past the clutter of props and scenery, down several steps to the dressing room hallway. Susan stopped in front of a door with a plastic sleeve glued to its face. A hand-lettered card announced the name, Harold Muncie - Grandfather. A few short raps and she opened the door, dragging him after her.

"Harold! Bravo, a wonderful performance." Nigel stood back as the two shared a hug and a passing kiss. "Harold, I want you to meet Mr. Nigel Stainway, he's a British playwright."

"Is he indeed? Pleased to make your acquaintance Nigel." A firm, rough hand squashed Nigel's unprepared fingers, bringing him up onto his toes.

"Uhh, the pleasure's mine sir. I enjoyed your play immensely... and your own performance particularly."

"He doesn't want to borrow money, does he?" Harold returned to his dressing table with a broad wink at Susan, who stood gazing starry-eyed at her guest.

"Oh Harold, you're such a tease," she recovered, blushing, "no, actually Nigel is writing a play for our summer theatre this year. I'm just giving him a little tour to soak up the ambience of our playhouse."

Harold found Nigel's eyes in the mirror, his own like two glistening coals in the paste of white cream he was spreading on his face. "Is that a fact... Nigel."

"Uhhm, yes. I'm over here working with my aunt, Victoria Moss, perhaps you've heard of her. She was a stage actor in Britain. Her name then would have been Stainway, of course."

Harold continued tissuing his face, his eyes never leaving Nigel's own. "Victoria Stainway. Nope, don't believe I have, but then I don't know many Brit actors."

"Uhhuh."

"Well, I just wanted Nigel to see our little actor's quarters, and to meet you, of course, Harold. We'll be on our way. Once again, wonderful performance." Susan took Nigel's hand and headed out the door.

"Good luck... Mr. Stainway." Nigel gave a weak wave, uncertain about the actor's deliberate farewell.

The entire tour, while interesting in itself, had taken another hour and one half, during which, Susan had fed him an endless barrage of questions, and when she insisted on driving him home, he felt compelled to accept.

"I hope you don't mind my saying, Nigel, your accent just gives me goose bumps all over." She guided her little Toyota slowly through the near empty streets, sticking cautiously to the center of the road.

"Well, I uh, don't exactly know how to respond to that- uhm, Susan." He checked her from the corner of his eye, impressed with the delicate profile couched in long, silky black hair.

"Eeeew, there you go again!" Nigel winced as she squeezed her knees together causing the car to slow, and then spurt ahead.

"I uh, think if we're going to be working together, it's something you'll have to get beyond." He grabbed for the support bar over the door as the car swerved to a halt against the curb. "What- what's the matter? What hap–"

Susan turned in her seat to face him; her partially shadowed gaze was steady and intent. Nigel peered curiously back, perplexed. Such beautiful eyes, he observed. The epicanthic fold really did give them a striking almond shape. And the colour! Just like a brown, almost black yoke, swimming in the white of an egg.

"Nigel, more than anything I want to work with you on this project, but- but I- I don't think this is something I can get beyond."

He turned to face her, his brow wrinkling in confusion. "Susan, what do you mean? I don't–" The kiss happened so fast, he was simply astonished. Susan's fingers wrung his hair like a wet rag, soft generous lips smothering his own with fierce intensity. When he felt the moist intrusion of her tongue, Nigel drew back in panic, banging his head on the window and gasping for breath. "Susan! What are you doing?"

She slumped back, leaning her head on the raised rest, panting. The smudge of lipstick around her mouth looked like a black rose bloom in the shadows of the car. He turned and stared out the window, stunned by the event and his own nervously excited state.

"I've wanted to do that from the first day in the restaurant." She whispered. "You've stirred something in me, Nigel. Something I can't control."

"Well, I think you're going to have to control it, Susan." He felt some composure returning, yet found he was afraid to look at her face. "You're engaged, for goodness sake. I mean, think of- of Victor."

She turned to him again. "I can't think of Victor, I can only think of you."

"Susan," he tried desperately, looking at her without turning his head, "this is not right. I don't- I can't- we- you..."

"I'd better get you home." Her mood change was so sudden; Nigel felt for a second that he'd dreamed the whole thing.

When they pulled into Victoria's drive, he hesitated, hoping to say something positive and resolute, but she preempted his attempt with a breathy, good night, and a promise to wait until Monday for his first draft of the new play. Nigel stood limply in the driveway, watching the twin red taillights crawl down the street and out of sight.