The door to the Theatre Arts Workshop squealed as Shannon eased it open. Why didn’t somebody fix the stupid thing? she thought as she slipped into the dimly lit, overheated classroom. Did it always have to sound like an over-the-hill soprano struggling for a high C?

The actor and actress reading lines in the glare of the lights at the front of the room were caught in their roles, thank heavens. They didn’t so much as glance in her direction—but the two people seated nearest the door turned towards her and frowned.

She mouthed an apology, slid along the back wall until she reached an empty seat, and slipped into it. The wooden chair creaked noisily—why not? she thought, fighting against an overwhelming desire to kick it into silence—and a woman nearby glared at the intrusion.

So much for unobtrusive en­trances.

Maybe she should have waited in the corridor until break, but she’d missed so many classes lately that she was afraid to miss another.

Not that her teacher had complained; Eli encouraged his students to take any part they could get, even if it interfered with class time. The Theatre Arts Workshop had been difficult to get into. She’d had to wait two years after her audition before she’d been admitted. But she knew she’d benefited from the harsh criticism that was part of the curriculum, and was a better actress for it.

Carefully, she opened the catch on her shoulder-bag. The snap of the clasp sounded like a crack of lightning in the silent room. Shannon froze, expecting another furious stare, then breathed a sigh of relief when none came. Her workshop script was in her bag somewhere, tucked behind the All Our Tomorrows script Jerry had thrust into her hands as she’d raced out the door a half-hour before.

‘1 have tomorrow’s script,’ she’d said impatiently. ‘Jerry, forgive me for running, but...’

‘The script I just gave you is changed—and your agent called. She’ll be along in just a few minutes.’

‘Thanks for the message, but I can’t wait.’

‘There are some things in that script that I’d like to go over with you, Shannon.’

‘Tomorrow, Jerry. OK? I’ll get in early,’ she’d pleaded. She had missed her last workshop class; that, and wanting Eli to help her with what she and Tony laugh­ingly called the infamous bedroom scene, had given her the courage to turn the director down. Jerry had given her a funny look and she’d wondered if she’d over-stepped her bounds. Then he’d shrugged and waved her away.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he’d said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

There was a sudden murmur in the small classroom. Shannon blinked and looked up from her shoulder-bag.

‘Thank you,’ Eli was saying in a non-committal voice. ‘Next pair, please.’

Another actress settled on the high stool and smoothed down her skirt with hands that trembled. Eli nodded to her and she launched into her opening speech.

Not bad, Shannon thought. Her voice betrayed her ner­vousness, but she had the feel of the part. But the guy playing opposite her was awful. The class shifted restlessly, a sure sign that they would show him no pity when they criticized the hour’s performances.

This was the most demanding of audi­ences. Playing to these impassive faces was enough to make even the toughest soul want to turn tail and run. Once in a great, great while, if everything went well, you could wrench a stir of emotion from the class. It hadn’t happened to Shannon yet, but she was sure that when it did—if it did—she’d treasure the moment. Well, she thought, at least she no longer felt intimidated when she read in front of them.

Terrified, yes, but not intimidated.

The actor’s voice cracked and a murmur ran through the room. The poor soul was blowing his lines. Eli un­coiled his thin figure from the wall he’d been leaning on and cleared his throat.

‘This is a pivotal scene, young man. It’s one of the only chances we have to glimpse the real man inside the mask he’s created. Try it again, please, and with feeling this time. Remember—the writing is spare and you’ve got to provide the emotion.’

The scene started again and Shannon’s thoughts drifted. Funny that Eli should say something like that. Jerry Crawford had made virtually the same speech to her only a couple of hours ago. They’d been taping to­morrow’s show and her dialogue had consisted of three lines with a grand total of fifteen words. It had hardly seemed worthwhile to bother rehearsing something so simple. Jerry had sensed her dissatisfaction or maybe her boredom, she wasn’t sure which, but midway through the fourth take he’d smiled at her.

‘Just think of the scene as a skeletal structure, Shannon,’ he’d said. ‘I’m counting on you to flesh it out.’

She didn’t think it was true—you could have cut her dialogue from the scene without losing a thing—but it had made her feel better, although she’d wondered almost immediately why he should care how she felt. Claire swore she had a suspicious mind, but it seemed to her that Jerry had been awfully nice to her over the past few days.

Maybe he was making up to her for that unpleasant incident with Cade Morgan.

At least all that nonsense about co-starring them had bitten the dust. She had no idea why—it was nice to

think it was because she’d objected—but she wasn’t that naive. After all, she was just an unknown actress; Jerry Crawford and the producers of All Our Tomorrows could replace her in the time it took a viewer to tune into a competing game show. No matter how good a case Claire might have pleaded in her behalf, they were interested in ratings and how much detergent and toothpaste the viewers were buying, and they would do what had to be done to achieve both those goals.

No, Cade Morgan must have backed out.

Maybe his demands were too outrageous, even for the producers of All Our Tomorrows. Maybe he’d chickened out at the thought of pretending he could act in front of fifty million fans—whatever, things had gone back to normal on the set. She and Tony hadn’t rehearsed the infamous bedroom scene again, but she was sure they’d be running through it tomorrow. After all, they’d be taping it next week. And it didn’t really require any complex acting technique. Maybe Eli could help her find some moti­vation for her character’s behavior.

The door to the classroom squeaked open. Somebody was even later than she had been.

Tags: Sandra Marton Romance
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