Vamparazzi (8 page)

I took off my street clothes and my bra, and I donned the foundation garments for my costume: white stockings, pretty garters, and a translucent, strapless, push-up corset that, being wholly modern, fastened in front. Then I styled my shoulder-length brown hair into a simple Regency-era topknot, with loose tendrils framing my face. Ruthven took down Jane's hair on their wedding night, so I never used hairspray for this show; I didn't want lacquered strands sticking out like porcupine quills in that scene.

I cleaned off the street makeup I had worn to get past the tabloid photographers tonight, then started applying my stage makeup—more heavily than usual, since I needed to make sure the bruise around my eye wouldn't show up under powerful stage lights. Because I was dressing a little later than usual tonight, I started doing my breathing exercises and vocal warm-up while applying my makeup, so that I could deliver my dialogue without stumbling over words, straining my voice, or failing to be heard by half the audience. When my face was done, I gave it a generous dusting of powder, and then I moved to the center of the room and started doing my stretches and physical warm-up exercises. The corset wasn't ideal garb for that, but since I wore it the whole time I was onstage, I preferred to wear it while preparing, too.

Then I pulled on Jane's gown, careful not to let it muss my hair or smear my face, and settled it into place over my body. It was a plain white gown, high-waisted, with a blue sash. Jane wore it for the whole play, not even changing for her wedding day; since her brother was deathly ill at the time of her nuptials, Jane got married quietly in a private service, without fanfare or festivities. I finished dressing by adding Jane's jewelry to my ensemble: a broach and a pair of earrings.

Preferring to avoid Mad Rachel when she returned to give her face and hair a final touch-up, I left my dressing room and went down the hall to Leischneudel's room, which I entered after a brief knock on the door. He was still working on his makeup, so I did some more warm-up exercises while waiting for him to finish that and then lace up my gown.

Glancing at me in the mirror, he said, “Good job with the eye. I don't think the bruise will show up at all.”

I paused to say, “Good,” then returned to breathing and vocalizing while I repeatedly bent over, stretched, and rolled up slowly, warming up my spine—and ignoring the way the wires of my push-up corset poked and squeezed me.

After a few minutes, Leischneudel asked, “Any word yet on when Thack is coming to see the show?”

I decided I was prepared enough, and I slumped into a chair. “No.”

He winced at my dispirited tone. “Sorry I asked.” Leischneudel's agent was quitting the business, and I had promised to introduce him to mine, Thackeray Shackleton (not his real name, I suspected—but then, doesn't everyone come to the Big Apple to reinvent himself?).

“Six weeks we've been running,” I said, “and Thack still hasn't come, and still prevaricates when I ask what night to hold a seat for him. In fact, this week, he hasn't even returned my calls.” I sighed and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Knowing what I was thinking, Leischneudel said, “He's
not
planning to dump you.”

“Of course he is,” I said morosely. “What else would explain this? Thack is conscientious. He always watches his clients working. It's part of his job, and he takes it seriously.”

“Maybe he's really busy and just hasn't had time—”

“Six weeks, Leischneudel! Something's
wrong.
We're closing in two weeks, I don't have another job lined up, I haven't had an audition for anything . . . He's barely even spoken to me since I got this part!”

“You
got
this part,” he pointed out, “and your reviews are excellent.”

“When they bother to mention me,” I grumbled.

This show was a vehicle for Daemon; the reviews mostly focused on him. After that, Leischneudel got the most attention, since the male roles were better developed than the female roles in
The Vampyre
—following the pattern of Polidori's story.

Leischneudel persisted in his doomed effort to cheer me up. “And you were great in that episode of
The Dirty Thirty
that aired a few weeks ago. Didn't you tell me Thack said so, too?”

“He didn't say ‘great.' He said I ‘did very well.' Talk about being damned with faint praise.”

“Esther.”

“Besides, the size of my role in
D-Thirty
got reduced after Nolan's heart attack, so it wasn't as good a part as we'd originally thought it would be.”

The paycheck had been as much money as originally expected, though, thank God. In addition to the usual bills, I'd had to replace my bed and paint my bedroom after my mattress had spontaneously burst into flames one night in August. While I was
on
the bed. With Lopez.

There's nothing like unexpected conflagration to ruin a moment of passion.

At the time, I thought the spontaneous combustion of my bed was an attack on me by an evil sorcerer in Harlem. Since then, though, I'd begun to suspect ...

Don't think about Lopez
, I reminded myself.
Don't.

I welcomed Leischneudel's intrusion on that distracting train of thought when he said, “It was still a good role, Esther.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I shrugged.

The Dirty Thirty
was the latest spin-off series in the
Crime and Punishment
empire of prestigious police television dramas. I'd been cast in a meaty guest role for one episode. My scenes were all with Michael Nolan, one of the lead actors on the show, and he'd had a heart attack while filming the episode. Nolan wouldn't be able to work for quite some time, and when they wrote his character out of the remaining scenes of that episode, they wound up writing me out, too. So my character had less screen time than I'd hoped.

On the other hand, this was at least better than the scenario my mother (who wasn't thrilled about the prospect of me portraying a homeless bisexual junkie prostitute on national TV) had hoped for, which was that they would pay me but never air the episode.

“Stop brooding and stand up so I can lace you up,” Leischneudel said as he rose from the makeup table.

He was right. I was brooding.
Two
men not calling me—even though, I reminded myself, I
didn't want
one of them to call—was too disheartening. One way or the other, I needed to resolve my fear that Thack no longer wanted me as a client.

He was a young agent who had a respectable client list and was rising in his profession. Although he was flamboyant in an uptown yuppie way, he was originally from a middle-class family in Wisconsin, like me. He was also hardworking and polite, which I had so far found to be rare qualities in New York theatrical agents.

I would be sorry to lose him; but if that's what was on the horizon, then I wanted to get it over with rather than fretting about it any longer.

“I'm going to call him again,” I said with determination. “He needs to commit to seeing the show or else he needs to tell me what's wrong. I can't keep chasing my tail about this.”

“Good,” my companion said with approval.

“Where's your cell? I don't want to risk going back to my dressing room now.”

Leischneudel didn't bother to ask why. Although he and Mad Rachel were believable onstage together as innocent young lovers, when they were offstage, Leischneudel avoided her at all costs.

He pulled his phone out of his daypack, handed it to me, and started doing up the back of my gown while I dialed Thack's cell phone number.

It occurred to me that when Thack saw an unfamiliar number on his phone's LCD screen, rather than mine, he might actually answer, instead of letting the call go to voice mail ... And I was right.

“Hello?” he said after the third ring.

“Thack, this is Esther Diamond. When are you coming to see
The Vampyre?
” I said in a rush.

“Esther?” He sounded surprised. And not thrilled. “Uh . . .”

“We only have two weeks left. When shall I reserve your seat?”

“I thought every performance was sold out,” he prevaricated. “The show's a hot ticket. I heard some of the scalpers are getting three hundred dollars per seat.”

“For
this
show?” I blurted. “The vamparazzi really
are
crazy.”

“The who?”

“Never mind. When are you coming?”

“Oh, I don't see how you could even get me in, if—”

“I can get you in,” I said firmly. “Daemon's contract allows him access to a couple of VIP seats for any performance. I'll make him give one to me.” I figured Daemon owed me for my black eye. “How about tomorrow?”

“Well, er, I don't have my calendar with me, so I'm not sure . . .”

“Look, if you don't want me as a client anymore, just say so!”

In the silence that followed, I realized this was a tad more confrontational than I had intended.

Then he said, “What?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Is that why you're not coming to the show? Because you're getting ready to dump me?”

“Dump you?”

“If that's the case, I'd rather you just tell me right now, in a straightforward way.”

“
Dump
you?” he repeated, sounding aghast.

His tone opened the door on a tiny glimmer of relief.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “Is
that
what you've been thinking? That I was planning to . . .” He sighed, then said heavily,
“Actors.”

Leischneudel gave a final tug as he finished fastening my gown, then circled me to meet my gaze as I said hesitantly into the phone, “So you're
not
planning to drop me?”

Leischneudel smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.

“No, of course not,” Thack said soothingly. “Put the thought out of your head. It never entered mine.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me for weeks?” I demanded.

“Because you keep asking when I'm coming to the show!”

“But you
always
attend your clients' shows!”

“Yes, but in this case, I just ... just . . .”

“What?” I said. “You just
what?”

“I just ...
hate
vampires,” he grumbled.

I blinked. “
That's
the problem?”

Leischneudel's eyes widened. “Thack hates vampires ?”

I whispered to Leischneudel, “You
heard
that?”

“Yes!” Thack cried, unburdening himself with gusto now. “I hate vampires!”

“Oh.” After a moment, I said with weary commiseration, “I know the feeling.”

“B
ut, Thack,” I continued,“haven't you had other clients in vampire shows?”

“Not so far,” he said. “I've been lucky.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I could cope with sitting through a stage adaptation of a gothic classic that a more merciful culture than ours would have let remain neglected,” Thack said. “I really could. After all, I've sat through worse things. Many times.”

“Uh-huh.” I recalled now that Thack hadn't been enthusiastic about getting me an audition for this play. He'd done so only at my insistence, after I'd heard about it from another actor.

“But a neglected
vampire
gothic, with a leading man who claims to
be
a vampire, and an audience of people who dress
up
in vampire costumes?” He made a sound of physical pain.
“It's obscene!”

Thack shouted so loudly that I jerked the phone away from my ear for a moment.

Leischneudel asked, “Is he all right?”

“Who
is
that?” said Thack.

“Leischneudel Drysdale,” I said. “He plays Aubrey.”

“Oh, yes,” Thack said, recovering his composure. “He's been getting very good notices, hasn't he?”

“So have I,” I snapped. “When they bother to mention me.”

“Yes, I know you have,” my agent said soothingly. “I have been following the show in the press, Esther. But I . . .” He made a muffled sound of disgust. “I
loathe
vampire plays.”

“Yes, I think I've grasped that.”

“
And
vampire movies. And TV shows. And vampire novels! And
wine cooler ads!
” He was really warming to his theme. “I just
HATE
them!”

“I want you to take a deep breath and calm down,” I said firmly.

“Sorry,” he said. “
Sorry.
It's a thing.”

“I can tell.”

After a moment, Thack sighed and added, “But you're right, of course. You're a client, and I should have come to see you in
this
vampire play well before now. And I apologize for being so obtuse that you thought I was planning to drop you. So . . .” He stifled a little groan. “Get me a seat for tomorrow. I'll be there.”

“You're not going to have anti-vampire hysterics during the performance, are you?” I asked anxiously.

“No. Of course not.” After a moment he added, “I don't think so.”

“Look,” I said, “maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all.”

“No, I'm coming,” he said. “I will not neglect a client on the basis of mere . . . good taste.”

“Oookay. I'm glad. I think.” Realizing it would be kind to throw him a bone at this point, I said, “By the way, Leischneudel Drysdale needs a new agent.”

“Oh?”