Drama Games: A Broadway Age Gap Romance: Drama Games

By Arielle Morisot

Rachael Nightingale is a workaholic theatrical dresser in the middle of a failing marriage to an alcoholic. Hugh Davidson is the passionate, middle-aged British stage star internationally renowned for his incredible Shakespearean heroes. When the two of them form a professional partnership, it isn't long before things begin to heat up between them, and the magic of the theater threatens to break both of their hearts in more ways than one. Their attempts to turn a backstage tryst into a long-term love affair lead both of them to wonder: Was it only a showmance, or is this the real thing?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arielle Morisot
• Release date: May 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223097792

Book preview

FOREWORD

A Note from the Author

Iwould like to take this opportunity to offer a special thanks to Mr. Andrew Joseph Perez.

When I finished writing the first book in this series, Showmance, I hired Andrew to narrate the audiobook. After hearing him read, like, half a page, I quickly realized that I would absolutely die if I did not get him to narrate all three audiobooks.

It is quite a thing to give your beloved debut novel into the hands of some actor on the other side of the country who you do not know, but in this case it was one of the best casting decisions I have ever made.

Little did he realize that over the course of the process of writing the trilogy, I would continually turn to him for advice when it came to plot, characters, overall themes, and pretty much everything else. He even helped edit all three books, and the extent to which he contributed to bringing this series to life is really unquantifiable. 

He has become very much a co-conspirator in the creation of this trilogy, and I am deeply grateful. Thanks, Andrew.

Sincerely,

Arielle Morisot

BOOK ONE:

Showmance

Chapter One

On Saturday, I got home from working the two o'clock matinee to find my husband Danny curled up on the sofa in nothing but his underwear, surrounded by cans of beer and a half-empty bottle of gin. His cute little curls were a mess, like he hadn't washed them in days, and there was a nasty burn mark on his chest where he'd spilled boiling water on himself while drunkenly trying to make coffee the morning before.

I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t even really upset. This was just the way things were, now. Danny h ad been an alcoholic when I’d married him two years before, but at that time he’d been in AA, had been recovering, had been working on getting sober. He’d promised me that no matter what, he’d stick to sobriety and keep himself clean and healthy for the sake of our marriage and for the family we wanted to start.

Unfortunately, that hadn't lasted more than a few months. Several sympathetic members of my support group insisted that it wasn't his fault, that alcoholism was a disease, and that Danny was probably doing the best he could. After doing some research of my own, and witnessing his episodes firsthand for months upon months, I believed them. He was a very sick man.

Unfortunately, hard though I tried to be patient, our relationship quickly started to fall apart. I was working seven days a week to bring in enough money to keep up with his habits. I didn't sleep well at night, worried all the time that he might make himself so sick he'd get seriously hurt on the road, or worse. We stopped sleeping together. We stopped going out together. We even stopped talking unless it was about something really important, and the only thing that ever seemed to be important was his drinking.

This isn't gonna work, I muttered, picking up his phone from where it was lying on the floor by his feet. Something's gotta give, Danny, really. What the hell am I supposed to do with you?

I know I shouldn't have, but I looked at his phone. I don't know why I did it, as I'm not the prying, jealous kind of woman who monitors her husband's contacts, or anything like that. I guess part of me had just gotten used to the idea that he couldn't do anything for himself. I mean, I did all his laundry, his dishes, cooked all of his food, called him multiple times a day to make sure that he'd done basic things like drink water and turn off the stove. Checking his messages was probably just a part of that kind of bizarre, perversely parental thing that I'd gotten into the habit of. I did it without thinking twice.

There was a half-finished text message open on the phone. Apparently, Danny had been writing to someone named Kayla.

The message read She'll be at work tonight. You can come over after seven o'clock, okay?

Oh, I muttered. Shit.

I took a deep breath, then determinedly examined the rest of the conversation.

Kayla and Danny had apparently been talking for weeks. She'd sent a few photos, some of them with clothes and some of them without. Seemed like she worked at the local hardware store, which Danny apparently thought was sexy. He'd told her that he was a middle school English teacher, which had been true when I’d married him, but which sure as hell wasn't the case anymore.

One particular message from him that caught my eye went like this:

My wife's driving me insane. She's on my back all the time, acting like a complete bitch. She won't just let me live my life, and I think I'm starting to hate her. I guess she hates me, too. I don't know, obviously it isn't working out. I need someone to be real with, to be me with. I think you understand me in a way that she never will. I miss you. I dream about you. You’re all I have.

A lot of things went through my head when I read that. Firstly, I was amazed that he was able to type so grammatically while being shitfaced drunk pretty much all the time. I was pissed off that he called me a bitch and that he obviously didn't appreciate all the extra work I'd been putting in for him, day after day. I did everything to keep his life together. I could have complained a lot more than I did, and he didn’t sound sorry at all, like either he didn’t notice or didn’t care.

The thing that hit me the hardest, though, was when he said that he thought I hated him.

I'd never hated him, not ever, not at all...not until now.

Now, in this quiet moment, something felt like it snapped within me, and I realized that I might hate him just a little bit. I was angry, so angry, but it was a dull, achy sort of anger that burned in my chest and then faded into a miserable disappointment. I didn't want to scream, throw things, or even wake him up. I just wanted all of this to be over. I wanted out of it.

I was just tired, so tired of living through this drunken farce of a marriage, and I didn't want to deal with it anymore. If he hated me, so be it. Maybe Kayla would be better at taking care of him.

Maybe, but I doubted that a lot. Anyway, that was his problem, now, not mine. My mind was made up.

Leaving Danny snoring on the sofa, I spent the next several hours moving as quietly as I could around the house, packing clothes, toiletries, rolls and rolls of gaff tape, and a few other essentials into my touring suitcase. Then, satisfied with my preparations, I put on my backstage blacks, fixed my makeup, checked my watch, and headed back into work for the evening performance, taking my suitcase with me and leaving a note in my wake.

The note read Sorry, Danny. I've had enough. It’s been a long time coming. Good luck out there.

I ARRIVED AT THE SHAKESPEARE Theatre on 30th Street at five forty-five, just before call time. 

Ever since graduating from the illustrious Drexel University seven years ago, I'd been working at the Shakespeare as a stagehand, a spotlight operator, a dresser, a makeup assistant, and occasionally an IT consultant when the payment systems went down. I was a woman of many hard-earned skills, which meant that there was a never a show that I wasn’t needed for. Every time it looked like the Shakespeare might need to hire someone who could do something specific, I’d spend weeks taking online courses to acquire that ability. It was expensive, but, so far, it had been worth it.

The Shakespeare was a small but incredibly well-established theater that won awards, and when I say that we won awards, I mean that this theater won a LOT of very prestigious awards from all over. We had every enviable honor from every local competition and publication plastered all over our website and displayed proudly in our lobby. We had scored awards for Best Production, Best Director, Best Actor, Best Lighting, Best Sound, and a host of others. 

Working for the Shakespeare was kind of a big deal, at least for me, and I was insanely proud of my job. I may have been a little cog in the system, a little tiny piece of an exceptionally acclaimed puzzle, but I walked into every rehearsal and into every show with a smile on my face, my ego inflated, and a sense of drive and purpose warming my little thespian heart.

I loved this place. After my fun afternoon encounter with drunken marital misery, being back here felt so much better. Tonight was a very special night and I wasn't going to let Danny screw that up for me the way he'd managed to screw up so much else.

For the past couple of months, the Shakespeare had been running a production of namesake William Shakespeare's Hamlet, featuring a brilliant cast of renowned local names, and starring famous West End heartthrob Hugh Davidson in the title role. Tonight was our closing night. Since the show had opened, I'd had the honor of being Mr. Davidson's personal dresser and makeup assistant, due to my quick fingers and quicker thinking, and I knew that all the other girls and most of the boys were jealous as hell. 

Mr. Davidson was honestly a bit too old for the role, since Hamlet is supposed to be thirty by the end of the play, but he wasn't the first guy in his forties to take on the Prince of Denmark. He lived up to the hype, too, which was a pleasant surprise. When Mr. Davidson had first come onstage, I'd honestly expected him to be one of those overrated white guys who gets endless accolades for just showing up and being coherent and male. As soon as he'd finished the first act of the show, though, there was no question in my mind that this particular old white guy was something genuinely special.

He was also a gentle, unassuming, relatively modest person who didn't try to take liberties with me backstage or treat me like a servant from the Medieval era, and that was a bonus. It was amazing the way some of these actors thought they could talk to the rest of us, as though we were some kind of lower life form just because we didn't tread the boards and throw on wigs and costumes every night. I'd gotten used to it over the years, but it was always refreshing when a decent person showed up and treated me like a fellow human being. 

I liked Mr. Davidson, and I'd be sorry to see him go. If I'd heard correctly, his next gig was off-Broadway, so he'd be headed to New York City to start rehearsals almost immediately after we locked up tonight. I'd only been to New York once or twice with my grandparents when I was little, but, embarrassingly, I'd never actually seen a Broadway show, or even an off-Broadway one. It was a gap in my theatrical education that I was determined to remedy before I got caught by any of the theater elitists in my work circle.

When I opened the door to Mr. Davidson's dressing room, he was early as usual, seated at the makeup table with his brow furrowed. There were four or five bottles of liquid foundation spread out in front of him.

Evening, Mr. Davidson, I said, depositing my suitcase in the corner and smiling my professional smile. Ready to go out with a bang?

Ah, Rachael. Mr. Davidson turned and beamed at me. Thank goodness. I'm a bit ashamed to admit it, but I can't remember which of these I'm meant to use. I'm afraid I knocked half the makeup off the table while practicing with the bloody saber, and now it's all mixed...I am at risk of going out on stage looking like I've suffered a terrible accident, which, in some senses, is true. I beg you to help me before things get any more dire. 

He was a good-looking man with the sort of softish salt-and-pepper hair you see in the movies, and a pair of expressive, deep blue eyes that could be brilliant, enthusiastic, mournful or furious in a second, serving him well in the tragic and dramatic roles he was so well known for.

And look, let's face it, his voice was pure magic. I mean, the guy had a real, home-grown British accent, and coupled with his studied eloquence and perfect actor's diction, he could have read the phone book cover to cover and had me captivated.

I laughed. Hey, I'm glad you waited. Can't have you wearing the wrong foundation on closing night. The review bloggers would have a field day.

I took a quick look at the makeup, then selected the various pieces we usually used and arranged them on the counter in front of him before removing the rest of the makeup to a safer place in one of the bottom drawers.

Mr. Davidson looked relieved. He gently took my hand as I reached for the last stray bronzer, held it to his lips, and just barely kissed the back of it, raising his eyes to meet mine as I grinned at him.

Where would I be without you, you magnificent creature? God only knows, he told me, releasing my hand and inclining his head in gratitude. Certainly I would be lost, confused, ugly, and scandalously unlaced. He shuddered dramatically. Doesn't bear thinking about.

As he began applying the foundation, I opened a new bottle of hairspray and came around behind him.

Shut your eyes, I warned him.

He did, yet managed to continue working with the makeup even with his eyes closed. I neatly sprayed and combed his hair, then moved away. Mr. Davidson opened his eyes again, turned, and looked thoughtfully at my suitcase.

Are you off on a vacation? he asked. That's a rather large suitcase. Somehow, I'd expected you to be a lighter packer, an efficient stage magician like yourself.

Yeah, well, I was in a hurry, I informed him, pulling his loose white shirt and doublet off their hangers and laying them out over the back of a chair. Unfortunately, efficiency takes time.

That seems like a contradiction in terms, he murmured. It takes time to be efficient...sounds like something that belongs in a play. I like it. Have you ever considered writing for the stage?

Not even once, I replied. Turn towards me, please.

He spun around in his chair, and I took a practiced look at his face. Then, very carefully, I smoothed in the foundation on his left cheek with my thumb. He winced.

I shall miss these intimate little moments with you, he sighed, having my skin nearly scrubbed off by your deft and practical workman's fingers. 

Hey, I'm very gentle with you, I informed him. It's not my fault that you have such sensitive skin.

I should hate to know what it would feel like if you were rough with me, he muttered teasingly. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he winked. Not that I'm complaining, oh Maestra of the makeup! Your work is excellent. Please don't glare at me like that. Goodness, your eyes burn even worse than the touch of your lovely hands, it's bad for my heart.

The door to the dressing room opened, and Marty the stage manager stuck his head in.

Ten minutes to fight call, he told us, then just as quickly lurched away, shutting the door aggressively behind him. 

Ah, the time has come for me to murder...well, mostly everyone, Mr. Davidson murmured, and then to die tragically several times until poor Patrick finally manages to catch me correctly. My lady, if you would be so kind as to pass me my pants.

I did so, and then politely turned my back as he presumably slipped into them.

It wasn't that I hadn't seen naked people countless times backstage. Nudity got boring after a couple of years in the dressing room, and there weren't really any body types that would shock me at this point. I literally got paid to undress people in a hurry. 

Still, I felt a little different with him. Maybe it was because he was such a famous big deal, but I wanted Mr. Davidson to see me as a classy lady. I had this idea in my head that classy ladies, outside of the theater anyway, probably avoided seeing butts.

Once Mr. Davidson was dressed, I helped him lace up his impressive boots, which had been a special donation to the production by a local Renaissance Festival artist. Then he stood up, gave me another of his brilliant smiles, and abruptly allowed his shoulders to droop slightly and his eyes to darken. His whole mannerism changed, and the affable, teasing, gentleman actor transformed before my eyes into the sullen, brooding, tragic figure of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

I'll be back shortly, he murmured. If you wouldn't mind, I'd love to run the Hamlet and Horatio moment in Act Four before the curtain tonight. Would you oblige me?

Sure. I nodded. Break a leg out there. See you in a bit.

He left, off to face a series of practiced stage murders, and I turned to my suitcase. Unzipping the front pocket, I pulled out my cell phone, and saw that I'd missed several calls and texts from Danny.

I can't live without you, read the first text that I opened. I need you. Don't do this. You can't do this to me.

Yeah, I said aloud. Actually, I can. Anyway, we'll both have to make the best of it.

I put the phone away without answering any of the messages, but despite my determination, my chest was starting to hurt. I couldn't help but picture the look on Danny's face when he'd finally woken up and seen my note. He'd probably gotten angry, then desperate, then frantic. I wondered if he'd noticed that so many of my things were missing, or if he understood how serious I was about this.

Actually, I was only just now starting to understand how serious I was about this. Until this moment, I'd been so focused on either anger or work that I'd been almost cheerful about walking out, but...I was leaving my husband. I was leaving the man who'd told his secret girlfriend that he hated me because I cared about him too much to stop nagging him. If I stuck to this plan, then the life I'd dreamed of when I walked down the aisle would be unobtainable forever. The life I'd lived for the past two years would be history, and I'd never wake up next to Danny again. He'd never kiss my forehead and laugh at my jokes or insist on carrying my bags when we left the mall, or do any of the sweet, loving things that I remembered him doing before the alcohol took control again.

I missed that man, the man he’d once been. I hadn't seen that loveable guy in so long.

But that guy was gone now, so I needed to...what? Just keep working as though nothing had happened? Get myself a profile on Match.com and try starting over with somebody new? 

The prospect was huge and exhausting. I pulled the phone out again, re-read the text, and a little tiny part of me started to miss him. I hated the idea of making him sad. Was he sad, or was he just drunk and lonely? Maybe Kayla had decided not to come over. Maybe we could talk about Kayla and find a way to work things out.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe I didn’t even want to work things out.

With my head spinning, I sat down in Mr. Davidson's makeup chair and stared at myself in the mirror.

I looked so normal, so put together, so in control.

For some reason, my own competent, confident face suddenly made me angry. I glared at myself, wishing I could cry, wishing I could scream, wishing I could find it inside myself to have a mental breakdown...but that wasn't going to happen. I didn't do things like that anymore. I don't know exactly when it happened, but sometime not too long before, I'd somehow forgotten how to really feel sad. I could still find it in myself to get up every morning, to do my work, to laugh at my coworkers jokes and to get through my day without feeling too terrible, but I missed being able to feel big, deep emotions, even sad or frightened ones. I never seemed to experience those anymore...except when I was in the theater. 

The theater was the sort of place where emotions reigned, where passions were real. I loved the hell out of the theater, even when loving myself was difficult.

In this moment, the theater needed me, Mr. Davidson needed me, and no matter what was happening in my home life, the show had to go on.

I clung to that like a life raft.

Chapter Two: His Point of View

Ileft Rachael getting everything sorted in the dressing room and walked out onto the stage where the fight captain and several of the other actors were waiting for me.

Sorry, sorry, I said, smiling as I took my place near the throne. My fault entirely, I fumbled my makeup again. Thank you ever so much for waiting.

Most people nodded, smiled back, or generally ignored me, but Ms. Amy Griffin, the willowy, thirty-something brunette playing Queen Gertrude, actually leered at me, which was rather unbecoming even on her beautiful, delicate-featured face.

Everyone knows you’ve got the hottest dresser of the bunch, she said, cocking her head to one side and winking at me. Unfortunately for me, I think she’s straight. Anyway, who could blame you for taking a little...extra time?

The woman endeavored to make the words extra time ooze out of her lips like the beginning of a raunchy scene in an erotic drama. The phrase was so laden with intimate suggestion that I couldn’t even be properly irate. She was so clearly, intensely envious of my position, and I wondered if she’d been rebuffed by Rachael in the past. She certainly gave me that impression.

Of course, it wouldn’t have done to ask about it. That was Rachael’s private business, none of my concern at all. Still, I couldn’t just let the lewd remark stand.

Mrs. Reed is a happily married woman, I said quietly, looking directly into Amy’s dancing eyes. Even were I the sort of man who would make a pass at his dresser, I’ve no doubt she would be disgusted by my advances, and rightly so. I would like to state for the record that I am not and have never been the sort to harass my colleagues, so do be good and keep your unpleasant insinuations to yourself.

There was moment of slightly stunned silence on the stage, and even Amy looked taken aback. Her face flushed, and then she glared at me and turned away.

Jeez, Hugh, I was only teasing, she muttered. Way to blow things out of proportion.

A couple of the other actors murmured in assent, but Todd, the fight captain, glanced over at me, gave me an approving nod, and then cleared his throat.

Okay, he announced, enough of this crap. Come on, Act Five, Scene One, from the top of the fight. Osric, I need you in place. Okay.

Andrew, the actor playing Laertes, stepped forward, and Todd presented us each with our weapons. I relaxed my shoulders, leaned my body into the combat stance, and made direct eye contact with Andrew, waiting for his signaling nod before I lunged into the first thrust. We moved in slow motion for our first pass through the combat, familiarizing ourselves with the steps and with each other. This was a crucial safety precaution before attempting the fight at full-speed, and Andrew, thank heavens, was a very meticulous and responsible combatant.

In the past, I have certainly worked with actors who were not so responsible. Of course, I have never worked with someone like that more than once. I simply will not sign on to a production where safety isn’t taken into the strictest consideration. One injury can be enough to ruin a career, and I’m sure you’ve heard stories of poorly executed Shakespeare productions that have been fatal for careless performers. These weapons may be blunted, but they can still be lethal if used recklessly. Half the popular ghost stories of the Macbeth curse come from shows with irresponsible fight directors, or showy, unreliable leads.

I’m quite serious about all of this, and so should you be if you ever fancy a turn on the stage.

Once we had finished marking our way through the fight, Todd nodded at us.

Great job, great job, he said. Yeah, let’s take it again from the top at full speed. Amy, back up a little bit. Osric, back in place.

It occurred to me that Todd never used the name of the actor playing Osric. I tried to recall what the man’s name was and was alarmed to discover that I could not for the life of me bring it to mind. Had I ever heard his name? Surely I had. It would be in the program, and on the website. I was ashamed of myself, people-person as I thought I was.

Goodness, I had to remember this name.

As I stepped back into my fighting stance, ever-so-slightly distracted by my search for the elusive name, I felt something twinge in my right arm, and then there was a familiar, squeezing pain in my chest, as though a vice had closed around my heart. I gasped, and Andrew instantly dropped his arm to his side and relaxed his posture.

Todd held up a hand. Hey, hey, you okay, Hugh? Hold, everybody hold, we’re taking a five. Hugh, what’s up? You pull something? He hurried over to my side.

I’m...quite all right, I mumbled, but of course I was nothing of the sort. In fact, it was difficult to breathe.

Talk to me, pressed Todd, quietly but insistently. Tell me what’s happening. What did you do?

I don’t know, I said. I...I’m sorry, it’s, erm, only a moment of weakness. I’ll be right as rain in just a minute.

Hugh. Todd sounded doubtful.

Thankfully, the pain had begun to recede. I shut my eyes and sucked in a few grateful breaths, then straightened up and turned back to the others, all of whom were now staring at me with varying degrees of concern, alarm, and disappointment on their faces.

Right, I said, clearing my throat. Must have twisted or tweaked something the wrong way ‘round. Sorry to keep you. Shall we take it from the top again?

Todd looked like he might object, and Andrew was watching me in obvious concern. Finally, Todd sighed and nodded.

Oookay, he muttered. If you’re sure. From the top, then, but let’s take it nice and slow again, step by step, very gentle. When you’re ready, Hugh. Take it EASY, got it?

Quite determined to prove that I was, in fact, perfectly all right, not a thing wrong with me, I did not take it easy. Subsequently, after a brief and frankly justifiable safety sermon from Todd, we ran the fight several more times until everyone, including myself, felt comfortable that we were capable of completing it and that I wasn’t going to drop dead in the middle or something suitably horrific of that kind.

While Amy rehearsed her dramatic death-by-poison collapse, I stood to the side and endeavored not to look as shaken as I felt.

This was, in fact, the second time that I had experienced this sort of pain while working on Hamlet. A few weeks ago, I had been in the middle of the crux of the play, the notorious To Be, Or Not To Be, speech when that same sort of vice-like grip had taken control of my chest, and it had been all I could do to get through the soliloquoy without falling down. At the time, I had sunken to my knees in what I hoped appeared to the audience like a moment of dramatic passion. In reality, it had been difficult to stay standing due to the dizziness and the pain.

The director had loved it, and I was instructed to keep the collapse in the show for the duration of the run.

What was wrong with me? I had never been prone to spasms of this kind before. At forty-four, I was still a man in the prime of my life, perfectly fit and healthy, as far as I was aware.

Of course, there were reasons to be worried. My mother had passed away of a heart attack some years ago now, so heart disease did run in the family.

Is that what I was experiencing? Were these terrifying moments of weakness tiny heart attacks of some kind? That hardly bore thinking about, at least not right in the midst of a closing night.

Dear god.

Hey, Hugh. Andrew walked up to me, frowning. How are you feeling?

I flashed what I hoped was a confident smile. Oh, fine, fine mate. Sorry about that little-!

It happened a couple of weeks ago too, didn’t it? interrupted Andrew. In Act two. I saw you wince in the middle of your big speech. That’s why you changed the blocking that night, isn’t it? I knew something was wrong when I saw you fall. 

Oh, did you now? I grimaced. Watchful bloke, aren’t you? I suppose I should be grateful. And I am, I appreciate it, truly. Thanks for taking an interest.

Andrew just shook his head. I think you should see a doctor, he insisted. This isn’t the kind of thing you mess around with, okay? I’m serious.

I shrugged. It’s probably nothing.

Yeah, he countered, but maybe it isn’t nothing. Worth the risk?

We locked eyes for a moment as he watched me expectantly.

Hey, Hugh, Andrew, called Todd, mercifully breaking the tension between us. Let’s take another crack at the fight, okay? Everybody else, you’re dismissed until curtain.

Yes, of course. I took center stage again but could still feel Andrew’s eyes boring holes into me as he came around to face me, sword drawn.

I mean it, he told me, before striking his fighting stance.

All right, I’ve got it, I told him. I’ll get it looked into soon as I can. Yeah?

Yeah, he agreed, Okay.

ONCE WE HAD FINISHED the fight, this time painlessly, I returned to the dressing room, where Rachael was sitting, looking unusually distant and distracted. She started up when I came in and blinked as though returning to reality. I wondered what she’d been stewing about.

Back I am from the fray, I announced, sweeping into the room and shooting her a grin that I thoroughly hoped would mask the dull panic I’d begun to feel over the sudden chest twinges and the very serious, very intense look on Andrew’s normally relaxed face.

Rachael turned and smiled at me, and it was such a normal, sensible, friendly smile that the quaverings in my heart started to calm almost instantly.

Great, she said. Have fun out there?

My water bottle was sitting on the dressing table, refilled with both water and ice, presumably from the green room kitchen. Rachael pushed it over to me.

Don’t forget to hydrate, she said firmly. You look pale, so I bet you’re overdoing it. Need some sugar? I think I have a granola bar in my bag, one sec.

Turning to her suitcase, she rummaged for a moment and then retrieved a somewhat squished but ostensibly still edible granola bar in a blue and white package.

Chocolate chip, I said, nodding with approval as I unwrapped it. You’ve remembered my sweet tooth, you remarkably observant woman.

Hey, I like chocolate too, she reminded me. Hopefully that’ll fuel you for a bit. Now, hold still while I re-spray your hair.

Rachael always had such a warm, confident, capable air about her, and the dressing room was a lovely, safe space in consequence. In Lady Rachael’s backstage, no dragons, monsters, boogeyman or heart attacks were permitted. I sighed, allowing myself to relax into the cloud of hairspray that was now forming around my head.

You’re a wonder, I murmured.

You’re a flatterer, she retorted. Oh, but now your granola bar is going to taste like hairspray. Sorry, I should have waited.

The granola bar did indeed both taste and smell of hairspray, but so did everything else around me, so I managed to stomach it. That, along with half my bottle of ice water served to steady me a bit, and I was exceedingly grateful for the oasis of sense that existed in the bubble of her presence.

Closing night, she remarked conversationally as she squeezed, smoothed, and patted at the stray clumps of hair at the back of my neck. Go out there and do me proud, okay? Break a leg and some hearts, while you’re at it.

She looked at me and smiled, and the world was mine again for the taking.

Right then, I told her. So I shall. It shall be a night to remember, I assure you.

Chapter Three

Later that night, the show did go on, and it was an excellent closing night. Not flawless, of course, because live theater never is, but that’s part of the magic, really.

At one point, the actor playing Laertes skipped a couple of lines and Claudius had to cover for him. Ophelia’s flowers disappeared backstage, and a stagehand pretending to be a maidservant had to run on mid-scene to give them to her before her big tragic monologue.

Of course, the audience probably didn’t notice any of those mistakes, so overall it was still a really good night.

Mr. Davidson, of course, was about as perfect as could be. As far as I could tell, he didn’t flub a line, step out of his light or make even one mistake the entire evening. Every face he made was correct, every strikingly handsome gesture and pose was a showstopper. He turned Hamlet into the kind of Byronic hero that every woman dreams about, and if you’ve read the play then you’ll know how impossible that ought to be.

I mean, this actor was an experienced professional who’d worked for years on the London equivalent of Broadway, so I guess I should have been expecting perfection. You don’t get to where he was in life and in the theater unless you’re really the best of the best. The sheer excellence of it was almost irritating, but, like, in a good way.

While the final scene played out onstage, I did my best to clean up the dressing room and to get ready for the end of everything. By everything, of course, I mean the world of the play, the world of this show, and...well, my marriage, my life as I knew it. Mr. Davidson and I would both be leaving that night to start new adventures, and the closer we got to the closing lines, the weirder and more upset I felt about it.

By the time the curtain fell, I had finished packing up the costumes, the makeup, and any personal effects of mine or his that were lying around the dressing room. I had even wiped down the counters and rearranged the furniture so that the room would be ready for its next occupant.

When Mr. Davidson finally returned from greeting his adoring fans, I was sitting on top of my suitcase, scrolling through pages and pages of texts from Danny, feeling sort of empty.

When I was in college, they’d called this feeling Post Play Depression, or PPD for short. I wasn’t sure if it had a name in the real world, but I knew that I wasn’t the only one who felt it. The melancholia was normal, even for people who weren’t about to abandon their entire lives and strike out on their own. The end of a good show left a hole in your soul, and everyone in the theater knew it, felt it, maybe even got a little bit of a masochistic high off of it.

Rachael, my sweet! announced Mr. Davidson, bursting into the dressing room in high spirits, covered in the fake blood from the final fight. We’ve done it, my lady of the laces! A standing ovation for all of us is a standing ovation for you as well. Tonight, I was not Hugh Davidson, aging, befuddled Britisher, but Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, brooding and charming, in the flesh. You are, and have been, primarily responsible for that transformation, and for that you have my eternal gratitude. Thank you for the brutal beatings you have given my face every night. I shall miss the sweet abuse.

Dramatically, apparently intoxicated by the success of a great performance, he knelt at my feet, took my free hand in his, and again pressed it to his lips.

I glanced up from the messages I was reading and managed a tired smile.

You’re an amazing actor, I told him. It’s been a privilege. I’m glad I could help.

Mr. Davidson’s face fell, and he peered thoughtfully at me, frowning a bit.

What is it? he asked. You’re troubled. Am I perhaps overdoing it? I apologize for my excitement. I can be serious. Yes, let us be serious.

He stood, strode over to the chair and sat down again, still watching me.

Now, he demanded, what’s the matter? Are you feeling it already, the loss of the theatrical magic? I don’t believe you’re supposed to allow yourself to mourn until after the cast celebration. Oh, or is it our imminent parting that’s making you so sad? Chin up, love, you’ll be over me before you know it.

He winked, and I laughed a little, but my heart wasn’t quite in it.

No, no, I’m fine, I insisted, shaking my head. You really did a beautiful job tonight. Don’t mind me, it’s just...you know, I’ve got stuff on my mind. Personal stuff.

Hmm, murmured Mr. Davidson. Personal. He paused for a moment, then asked kindly, and might an old but avid admirer of yours be privy to your personal affairs? Perhaps I shouldn’t, pry, but...you should be smiling right now. I’d like that, you know, if you could join me in a good smile. Whatever it is, perhaps you’ll feel better once it’s off your chest.

Reaching out, he gave my hand a warm little pat, then leaned back in his chair and watched me, patiently but expectantly.

I’m leaving my husband, I told him.

Mr. Davidson’s eyes went wide. Oh my.

He’s having an affair with someone named Kayla, I went on, finding that I had no problem at all sharing this with him. He was the first person I’d discussed it with other than Danny himself, and a scribbled note didn’t really count as a discussion. Saying the words out loud felt more freeing than I’d realized it would. As far as I’m concerned, she can have him. He’s a drunk. He says he hates me. I...I’m going to start over. I’m leaving tonight and not coming back.

For the very first time since I’d left the house that afternoon, I felt tears beginning to prick at my eyes, which was a huge relief in itself. I’d been desperate to cry.

Goodness, murmured Mr. Davidson. And you’ve been sitting on this sadness all night and haven’t said a word. You’re...rather impressive, Rachael Reed. Your calm and composure are remarkable, perhaps slightly frightening.

I shook my head. There’s no place for personal troubles at work, I reminded him. The show must go on.

So it must, he said, nodding slowly. So it must...and now? What will you do now?

I looked down at my phone, then stood up and slipped it back into my suitcase.

I think I’m going to get a drink, I said.

Very good. Mr. Davidson nodded approvingly. It would be an honor if I might buy you that drink.

I raised an eyebrow at him. Are you asking me out?

Mr. Davidson laughed. Ah, if only I was so bold or so lucky. No, you’ve nothing to fear from me, but I am asking for your company, at least, if that’s not too hideous an idea. Join me?

He held out a hand to me, still with his chest drenched in red dye, and I smiled.

Okay, I said. Sure, I’d like that, but let’s get you cleaned up first.

AN HOUR OR SO LATER, we made our way over to the bar around the corner. Of course, as soon as we walked in, half the people there recognized Mr. Davidson and got up excitedly to meet him, to shake his hand, or to insist on posing for a photograph. Most of the people drinking here had probably come straight from the show, so it must have been a real treat for them to get a personal moment with the lead. These were theater enthusiasts and the people who kept me employed and fed, so we couldn’t let them down.

Subsequently, I sat at the bar for quite a while, absently stirring my screwdriver, while Mr. Davidson patiently did his meet-and-greets. When he finally sat down next to me, he gave me a quick, apologetic look.

Having fun with your adoring fans? I asked, teasing him a little.

He shrugged, and his smile momentarily turned into a grimace.

It is lovely to be recognized, he said, but perhaps we should have waited a bit longer before going for our little drink, or perhaps another bar would have been wiser. As it is, I hardly think we’ll be able to get much privacy.

I don’t mind one way or another, I told him, but if you want to go somewhere else-!

No, that’s all right. He shook his head. What are you drinking? It looks fruity. He sniffed it. Ah, orange juice and vodka. A classic cocktail for a classy lady.

The word classy made me laugh. Do you know, I asked him, how many butts I’ve seen over the last six years? A lot. I’ve seen a lot of butts.

He stared at me incredulously for a moment, obviously taken aback, and then started laughing.

Well, he said, aren’t you full of surprises? Usually, the women in my acquaintance don’t get on to talking about private anatomy until they’ve had a couple of drinks in, but you’ve barely started your first and we are already discussing backsides. Something of a lightweight, are we?

Nah. I shook my head and, showing off a little, downed the rest of my drink in one go. I’m just American.

Ah, of course, the fabled carefree, crass American woman. He held up his hand politely for the bartender.

I frowned. I don’t know if I like ‘crass,’ even if it does suit me.

Not at all, he returned. I’m teasing. Despite your avowed familiarity with gentlemen’s buttocks, you have always been extremely sensitive to my modesty in the dressing room. My original estimation was correct; you’re quite classy, and you won’t change my mind on the subject no matter how many cocktails you pound down. Another drink, then?

When the bartender came over, Mr. Davidson ordered two screwdrivers; a refill for me, and one for him.

You’re going to drink that? I asked. Really?

I shouldn’t have ordered it otherwise. Taking a small sip, he somehow managed to make his screwdriver look elegant. You’re surprised? I like a good, fruity drink. If you’re going to make any jokes about ‘fruity gentlemen,’ now is your opportunity, by the way.

Hah! No, not my style. I shook my head. That’s, uh, not really the kind of joke we make at the Shakespeare. I mean, half the company is openly gay.

Only half? Hmm. Mr. Davidson thoughtfully gazed into his drink. What about that remarkably handsome Artistic Director of yours? What’s his name, Alexis? Alexander? Up which tree does he bark?

Depends on who’s asking, I told him.

Excellent, Mr. Davidson murmured. I’ll keep that firmly in mind.

I felt like I’d learned something new about the famous actor. Maybe it wasn’t a secret, but I definitely liked knowing something new and special about his personal life. For some reason, that felt nice. We’d never really talked about his love life before, but this little glimpse into his preferences made me feel like we were on closer, friendlier terms, and that made me feel warm inside. This was comfortable. He was so good at making people comfortable.

So. Mr. Davidson took another sip of his drink, placed it on the bar, and turned to look at me with a serious expression on his face. Rachael, I’d like to ask you something. It’s presumptuous and might surprise you, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Wow, what a setup. The dramatic way he’d phrased that was kind of exciting. Okay. I’m listening.

Mr. Davidson rested his elbows on the bar and folded his long fingers together.

Well, he asked, are you quite certain that you want to leave your husband?

I blinked. I...

I thought about Danny, about the text messages with Kayla, about the way he looked at me with resentment when our eyes met over morning coffee and when I asked him about his plans for the day. I thought about the sofa covered with beer cans, and the way he used to kiss my forehead but never did anymore. There was a slight lump in my throat, but I swallowed it and chased it down with another gulp of cocktail.

Yes, I said, as confidently as I could. I’m sure. At least...I’m sure I’m going to leave him. I mean, I’ve already left him. The jury’s still out about what I want, I guess.

A cryptic response, said Mr. Davidson. Not that it’s unreasonable to be uncertain, of course. This is a very large, very difficult decision, I’m sure. I shouldn’t rush you, forgive me.

I frowned at him. Why do you ask?

Well... Mr. Davidson paused for a moment, then answered slowly, carefully choosing his words. I...would like for you to come to New York with me. No, I’d be privileged.

I gaped at him.

I’m not suggesting anything indecent, he assured me, cracking a small smile. My intentions are entirely honorable, at least where your lovely self is concerned. You are an excellent dresser, a remarkable scene partner when it comes to studying my roles, and you draw a thin eye line with the skill of a Monet or a Morisot.

Monet was an impressionist, I reminded him. So was Morisot, actually. They used dots, not lines.

He waved that away with a dismissive hand.

My point, Rachael, he went on, is that I think you might turn out to be the best assistant I’ve ever had. I’m aware that you’ve done far more for me than should traditionally be expected of a dresser or makeup asssistant, and I doubt I’d find a better or more devoted professional companion anywhere. For that reason, I would like to poach you from the Shakespeare and take you away with me...first to New York, and perhaps, someday, back to London. Would you like to see the theaters of the world? I think you might. A bright young enthusiast like yourself could discover a lot of new opportunities that way. It would be my absolute honor to accompany you on that journey...although I will tell you up front, it’s very possible that you may end up having to finally see my backside.

For a moment, the reference to his butt jarred me out of the fantasy image he was painting. Wait, what? I thought you said-!

Erm, I meant as my dresser, he added quickly. You know, because you...ah, you may have to help me with various costumes. I certainly didn’t mean to suggest...oh dear, I see my joke fell flat, forgive me. I am not making a pass at you, I promise. I’d never presume or take advantage.

His cheeks flushed, and he looked so uncharacteristically awkward and alarmed that I laughed. It was adorable.

So? Apparently encouraged by my laughter, he rallied a bit and his smile returned. What do you say, then, oh my captain of the concealer? My goddess of the garments? Will you run away with me to shores unknown? Erm, or at least to New York, for a time? Oh, naturally, I’d pay you monthly. What do you make at the Shakespeare? I can offer you three thousand a month, on the first. How does that sound?

At first, I was completely speechless. This day just got crazier and crazier, and honestly it was starting to feel like something out of a TV show. Here I was, essentially running away from home, and a famous, not to mention gorgeous actor was inviting me to be his personal assistant on a trip to at least two of the greatest cities in the world for theater and the arts.

It didn’t feel real...and maybe that was the problem. Everything about it felt like a pipe dream, and what I needed right now was to find a way to ground myself in something that felt like it could become a new home, a new reality, a new normal. I needed an anchor, safety, security. This wasn’t it.

Can I...have some time to think about it? I asked.

Slowly, Mr. Davidson shook his head. I’m sorry, he said, frowning, That’s a perfectly reasonable request, but I’m afraid I’m leaving in a matter of hours. I need to get back on the road shortly in order to catch a few hours of sleep before our first rehearsal tomorrow afternoon. This is something of a now or never opportunity, stressful as that probably is.

I stared at the bar, then tried staring deeply into my drink, as though the answer might be drowning in the vodka somewhere.

I’ve put you in something of a difficult position, haven’t I? asked Mr. Davidson softly. Terrible of me, really. I do apologize, Rachael. I just...I felt I could not waste the chance to have you with me. I’ve gotten rather attached to you, you see. I hope that’s not too forward. Perhaps it is, but I believe you understand what I mean.

The gentle, honest way he said that warmed my heart, and I looked up at him, grateful for the open kindness.

You’re a really sweet person, Mr. Davidson, I told him. You’re a kind, thoughtful, incredible man, and I can’t believe I’ve had the luck to work with you, but...well, I might regret this. It’s just, I don’t want to leave the Shakespeare. Working here has meant so much to me, and right now, I think that consistency, that safety is what I need. I’m about to make a lot of changes in my life. I don’t think I want to change it entirely. I need something to hold onto, something familiar. It’s the wrong time for me to run away to New York. Does...does that make sense?

Mr. Davidson smiled with just a touch of disappointment.

It does, and I respect that immensely, he said. Your loyalty is admirable, and they are lucky to have you, just as I have been lucky these past few weeks.

I’m sorry, I began. I don’t want you to think-!

Nonsense, no, nothing of the sort, he interrupted, waving my apologies away. You’ve nothing in the world to apologize for. Now, finish your drink and then perhaps we should both stop for the night. You have got quite an adventure ahead of you, and I, in turn, don’t want to embarrass myself by puking on the highway.

I grinned. He’d had one drink, and he didn’t either look or act like the sort of person who’d be even tipsy after a single cocktail, but I suspected he was looking out for me. A gentleman to the end, he had decided to pretend to be concerned about his alcohol intake to make sure that I didn’t overdo it on what was likely to be a rough night for me.

I liked him. I really did. I was gonna miss him a lot, which was a little strange considering how short a time we’d worked together.

Then again, that’s just how it is in the theater, sometimes. Maybe it’s the proximity, the inevitably close working relationships that bind people suddenly and tightly together, or maybe it’s part of that theater magic.

Either way, I was glad to have met the guy.

As I quietly finished my drink, he patted me gently on the shoulder, which was such a very appropriate, polite, British thing to do. I grinned into the bottom of my glass.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a man unintelligibly yelling outside the window.

What is that racket? muttered Mr. Davidson. I suppose I shouldn’t be shocked that the drunk gents are out in force on a Saturday night, but still...

I, however, knew that sound all too well, and knew the voice that was making it.

I looked over just in time to see the door to the bar swing feebly open, revealing my husband, Danny Reed, tottering slightly in the entryway.

Oh no, I whispered.

Rachael! Danny cried out my name, peering blearily around the bar at all the shocked faces turned towards him. Ra...Rachael...

Oh dear, murmured Mr. Davidson, his face darkening. Friend of yours?

As I stood up to meet Danny, Mr. Davidson stood up with me.

No, it’s all right, I assured him. It’s...it’s Danny. You don’t have to-!

Before I could finish my sentence, Danny spotted me, straightened up, and lurched over in my direction.

Rachael, he mumbled, throwing his arms around me and putting his head on my shoulder. Rachael, Rachael...come home, won’tcha? Come back to me, I miss you.

His beer breath hit me in the face full-force, and I turned my head away.

I’ve only been gone a few hours, I reminded him.

Don’t wanna lose you, he mumbled. Can’t lose you, can’t live without you.

He looked up and into my face, and even through the drunken haze there was a brightness in those pretty brown eyes of his that drew me to him.

I love you, he told me, clearly, without stumbling over a single word.

Danny, I whispered. Did you...did you drive here?

He didn’t say anything, just glanced over my shoulder at Mr. Davidson, who was standing a couple of paces back from us and regarding Danny with undisguised distaste.

Who’s that? Danny demanded.

Listen to me, I repeated, did you drive here? Did you drive yourself to the theater?

I know you. Danny pointed a finger at Mr. Davidson. I know you, I’ve...seen you in the movies.

I shook my head. No, not in the movies, Danny. You saw him two weeks ago in the play, remember? When you came to see Hamlet? This is Mr. Davidson, the actor. I’ve told you about him.

Danny blinked at Mr. Davidson, then cocked his head at an angle that was actually kind of adorable, like an inquisitive child.

Hey, he asked, strangely without malice, are you sleeping with my wife?

Good god. Mr. Davidson, looking mortified, averted his eyes. Certainly not.

Grabbing Danny by both shoulders, I forced him around to look at me.

Danny, I demanded for the third time, raising my voice a little bit, Did you drive here in your car?

I love you, he told me again. He smiled the sweetest smile you could possibly imagine, and something inside me twisted painfully.

This was what Danny did whenever I caught him in a lie, or whenever I figured out that he was doing something that he knew he shouldn’t do. He’d be sweet, sweet as could be, until my heart melted and I forgot all about how angry I was. At the support group, they’d told me this was typical alcoholic manipulation. Lots of the other women in the group had stories about husbands who acted like this, who knew exactly the right, loving, romantic things to say to stave off a difficult conversation about the kids, the mortgage, or a slew of lost jobs and broken promises.

I’m going to drive you home, I told him. Give me your keys.

Yeah, he agreed. That’s right, come home. I want you. He gave me a