| Subject: Chapter 277 - Part 2 (16 and above) (end of chapter 277) |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Thursday, March 22, 10:56:14pm
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark continued (273>)" on Monday, March 05, 07:03:06am
It was for this reason that he was making his way back so tiredly from the soundstage, was wondering how all these people did it. It wasn't that Broadway was easy--by any means--but the exhaustion there was entirely different. While rehearsing a play, the days might drag on for hour after hour, might see stretches of intense concentration followed by various periods of waiting, but it still wasn't the same--especially once the production premiered. After that, assuming it was at all successful, it was primarily a matter of pacing oneself, sleeping as much as he could during the day--unless there was an interview or matinee--to prepare for that evening's performance. Then, in two to three hours of intensive concentration and focus, all the day's energy was drained, to be searched for in rest and preparation the next. But here, it was different; his hand rubbed the back of his neck, as he sighed softly. Here, there never really seemed to be any rest at all.
This was an entirely new fact for him, one he was having an immense amount of trouble adjusting to. He had never been anywhere before where the people were so completely dismissive of the concept. Even coming from "the city which never slept," it amazed him. After all, there, the city might not sleep, but the people did--often at strange hours, given various of its jobs. But here, the goal almost seemed to be that you were alert and fresh at every hour of the day and night; he was beginning to understand some of the drugs which were supposedly popular here, such a boost nearly necessary in order to keep going. He was often up before dawn, in Makeup and Wardrobe before most people's days typically began, and then out on the soundstage to sit out the rest of the day. Only once evening had come did the studio day end. But that didn't mean that you were ever supposed to sleep.
Andrew had learned this early on, even his trip to New York with Michael and Nikita--the woman's true, if odd, name now seeming more appropriate to him--showing him that you were always on display. He had learned to expect this to a certain extent in New York, but there had still been private time in those days. Now, there was essentially none. Instead, once filming was over, there was typically an engagement or two at which you were supposed to put in a good appearance. It just never seemed to end. Perhaps it was just the fact that he was still so new, was being placed into the public mind by being ever in the press--or as much as his employers could place him there; Nikita didn't seem to be expected to do the same, but she was already better known. He felt a slight shiver, thoughts turning. But that said nothing about his employers' attitude toward her at all.
He didn't want to think about this fact just now, tried to fight off such ideas--but they were difficult to dismiss, no matter how hard he might try. Of all the new skills he was learning here--stamina chief among them--they didn't quite extend to any sort of patience over the suffering the woman so constantly endured. While she was unremittingly patient over the slings and arrows she suffered daily, sometimes not even seeming to notice them, he wasn't convinced that her situation was anything like as easy as she made it seem. She was, after all, quite a skilled actress. Whatever Petrosian's rants to the contrary, the fact that she endured them all with such grace always bore that fact out.
It was difficult to withstand his position on set these days, was nearly impossible to have to witness all she went through--to know that there was even more that she was enduring than could be caught by the casual observer. In truth, it infuriated him that she even had to work in her condition, the fact that she was with child becoming all the more evident lately; not even Rene's immense skills could entirely hide it from the naked eye. And that said nothing at all about how she would look on screen.
This question was only one of the many which would provoke their director's constant wrath, but the unfairness of the charge always stung Andrew deeply. While he had never been particularly attracted to larger women himself, he thought an expectant mother to be entirely beautiful, the shape of her body a sign of her holy state, bringing new life into the world; otherwise, he had always rather preferred the ballerina form, the elegance of feminine thinness--had gone to watch Balanchine's productions whenever possible. If Nikita's new girth had merely been caused by her inability to control her appetite, he might have somewhat sympathized with Petrosian's irritation over her growing size--if *not* his methods of conveying it--Shears himself a far more inherently quiet man. But his co-star's current condition was not caused by anything so petty as this. She was *pregnant*, for heaven's sake, had a husband who loved her, however fierce he might seem. It simply wasn't fair to blame her for what nature did so beautifully to her, all on its own.
The unfairness of these attacks annoyed him yet again, practically causing him to stomp toward his dressing room--giving him back a little energy, at least. He was truly sick of having to constantly witness such outrages, having to listen, as the woman was called nearly every name in the book. Even if the actress herself didn't notice--which he thought unlikely, whatever her appearances--it was infuriating him; his harsh sigh lingered. The only question left was how much longer he was going to be able to withstand such indignities, before he broke.
It wasn't that Shears was simply sitting by and allowing these attacks to go unnoticed; he had defended her loudly once or twice. But he had the sense to notice that the director only grew crueler, when someone stood up for her. If she continued to just stand there blankly for his entire harangue, her mind clearly elsewhere, Petrosian would eventually wind down, dismiss her as an idiot, and move on. It was a reaction he was seeking. If nothing he did provoked one, he would eventually let his tirade end.
This truth did give the woman some way out, but it wasn't a pleasant one--and it irritated the actor thoroughly to have to witness such cruelty so often. Still, if these were the only attacks the actress had had to endure, he might be surviving his new life well enough. But no. There was also the matter of the far subtler threats which were aimed at her. And these were not the type which would go away if they were ignored.
He remembered back now to his early journey with Nikita and her husband, to what he had been told on the train--and what the couple's friends had let him in on later. At first, it had almost been difficult to believe, the idea that anyone would knowingly harm a woman's unborn child far too appalling to contemplate. No, he wasn't innocent enough to think the world an entirely happy and safe place, but the visions they had presented had seemed paranoiac. Someone might try to drug her food? Their enemies might put something in her water or lunch which would cause her to miscarry? It was the stuff of melodrama. But he had come to discover lately that Hollywood could be a fairly melodramatic place.
He had been keeping an eye out for her from the first, then, had promised both the formidable Mrs. Worth and Nikita's husband that he would--but the efforts had been a bit half-hearted in the beginning. Other than the way she was sometimes treated, he hadn't seen anything particularly suspicious. Still, one day he had accidentally picked up the glass his co-star had been drinking out of, had taken a sip of the water in it--and had nearly choked. It had been foul. Even he had felt its effects, had been queasy, his digestion quite uncertain, the rest of the day. Had the woman herself drank it, he was sure, the results would have been far more terrifying; a shudder passed through him. And it had been with this discovery that he had become far more vigilant in his watch.
It was only now he was allowing this caution to slip, was finally making his way toward an escape from this place. True, he was supposed to make an appearance with Susan this evening, but that was a pleasant enough diversion. Nikita's guardian could take it from here. He would finally be able to rest.
This was always a relative term, in this city--he was discovering more and more--but he would gladly take any version of it he could get his hands on. A night out for the cameras with Susan would at least mean that he didn't have to watch every single thing they ingested with extraordinary caution, would allow him the pleasure of the young actress's company, at least as much as he could win her away from her brother's cautious watch. He was looking forward to it. However beautiful his co-star was in her current condition, it was lovely to have the opportunity of an evening somewhat alone with an attractive, unattached woman. Given the constant demands of his time, it was a pleasure which was growing entirely too rare.
He was smiling, as he drew closer to his dressing room, was enjoying his thoughts. The studio had ordered the pair of them to go out quite a few times, a fact which had originally made him wonder whether the warnings to watch out for Nikita weren't a bit delusional. After all, if their bosses wished to suggest an affair between the two of them, there was little need to send him out with another woman as well; his mind turned. But, then again, maybe there was. If he were the playboy type the world so often favored, he wouldn't be happy with just one woman.
This wasn't the type of man Andrew was, however, his devotion to one lover at a time quite complete--the act of focusing solely on his partner quite enjoyable. True, the sexes of these previous companions had varied, but it wasn't gender which interested him. He liked personality, the soul. So long as his partner were someone he could admire, someone with enough inner beauty to captivate him, he would be utterly faithful. All that was left after that was to see how long the affair might go on.
It wasn't that the actor was incapable of long-term devotion to one person, his unattached state more the result of never having found that one partner who seemed entirely right. And it was for this reason that he was especially enjoying his nights out with Susan, beautiful girl that she was. The relationship was still an innocent one, the actress too young and inexperienced to allow for anything else, but his time with her was fascinating. Perhaps, it would blossom into something long-term; perhaps, it wouldn't. At this point, with only several public dinners and a few private engagements to go on--along with his rather distracted days of acting with her--it was difficult to tell. He would just have to continue the relationship and see where it led.
This was his intention now, was his one, pleasant distraction from both the exhaustion of the studio and his constant vigilance over his main co-star--and the opportunity was a lovely one. He wasn't even certain whether Susan shared his interest or whether he were merely another duty for her--but time would tell him that, as well. For right now, it was rather soothing to have such an innocent flirtation--involving none of the fire and need which a more sexual relationship required. If it proved to be nothing more than that, so be it. He would be happy to see the girl grow, in whatever ways she saw fit.
There was a happy side to his days here, therefore, was some reason to work through all the fatigue and worry. He might be exhausted, certainly had little physical rest, but the mental rejuvenation Susan's quiet companionship gave him was enough to get him by. He would cherish it. And then he would see where any other part of his life might lead.
Extra note: Although George Balanchine was still working his way toward reinventing the world of ballet at this time, he was definitely known among certain circles and had even been to Hollywood a few years before this story takes place. Among a million other changes he made to ballet, one was his apparent insistence on the body types of his dancers--the nearly pure skeleton-and-muscle form that we now tend to associate with ballerinas. I've read that he once went up to one of his dancers, tapped on her upper chest, and told her, "Must see the bones." Just a little background to the characters' thoughts again.
[End of Part 277]
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