Bernhardt's Edge Read Free Page B

you. That’s the best advice I can give. Decide what your character has for breakfast, what he does for kicks—how his love life is going, or not going. I always encourage actors to write bios of their characters. Believe me, it helps. And it’s fun, too. So—” He put the script on top of the clipboard, put his ballpoint pen away. “So I’ll see you Friday night. If I should have a conflict—that moonlighting, I told you about—I’ll call you. I’d help if you give me all the phone numbers you can, where I can get you, or leave a message. Okay?”
    As they nodded, some of them thanking him, some not, the group dispersed, moving up the aisle, individually. Was it intentional, Bernhardt wondered, that Pamela Brett had lingered, the last one up the aisle? Hastily, he vaulted up on the stage, switched off the work light, jumped lightly down, took up the clipboard and script, walked up the aisle. Ahead, she was already pushing open the door to the lobby. He couldn’t run after her; he could only walk like this, briskly, believably, hoping she’d linger.
    And, yes, through the lobby door’s small round window he saw her. She stood with her oversize leather purse and script hugged close, staring gravely at a reproduction of a turn-of-the-century playbill, Elwood Carrington’s Hamlet.
    He pushed open the door, went to the fusebox, switched off the lights in the auditorium. At the sound of the switches she turned, smiling when she saw him. Had she been waiting for him? He would probably never know.
    â€œYou’re a ringer,” he said, returning the smile.
    â€œA ringer?”
    â€œYou’ve acted before.”
    â€œMaybe I shouldn’t admit it.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause when I tell you how long, you’ll think I should be better.”
    â€œThat’s the wrong attitude. I should’ve given my positive-thinking spiel.” He widened his smile, stepped closer, looked into her eyes. “Anything’s possible, you know, as long as you don’t give up. And it’s true. I’ve seen it work. Acting—working—marriage. It all comes down to determination.”
    Still hugging her script and purse to the swell of her breasts, she shook her head, then dropped her eyes. Her voice was pensive as she said, “You think so?”
    The three words, spoken so softly, revealed a certain sadness, a hidden vulnerability. Unintentionally, he’d touched a nerve—a very raw nerve.
    â€œDo you feel like coffee, a sandwich? There’s a place around the corner. Mike’s. They stay open until midnight. And they’ve got great pastrami sandwiches, the best outside of New York.”
    Quickly, her head came up, the smile returned. “On rye, of course. Dark rye.”
    â€œOf course.”
    As he chewed a mouthful of pastrami, he studied her face: a small, oval face with a good, straight nose, dark, lively eyes, expressively arched eyebrows, a mobile mouth, generously shaped. Her hair was deep auburn, shoulder length, simply gathered at the nape of her neck. The modeling of the face was delicate, but the play of her expression was animated, inventive, fleetingly mischievous, sometimes bold. The pensive vulnerability he’d seen as she responded to his “positive thinking” quip hadn’t returned, even momentarily.
    â€œWhat’s the name of your play?” Watching him over the rim of her glass, she sipped her apple juice. “The one the Circle produced?”
    â€œIt’s called Victims .”
    â€œIs it three acts?”
    He nodded.
    â€œI’d like to read it.”
    â€œWhen I know you better, maybe.”
    â€œWhy do I have to know you better to read it?”
    â€œBecause it’s part of the past. My past, anyhow. I can do better, now.”
    â€œYou’re working on another play?”
    He looked away. “Always.”
    She bit into her own sandwich,