Loving Liz Read online

  “Do you know where she’s seated?”

  “Right orchestra, third row, third seat.”

  “Really?” Two seats from those reserved for Liz and she hadn’t noticed Felice. “I don’t want her in my face tonight. I’ll give you ten bucks to pull the fire alarm.”

  “Right. Ten bucks to scare the hell out of fifteen hundred people and have them stampede the theater. That’s great, Jamison.” The overture came to the final measures. “You’re on.”

  Marty found her mark at center stage and faced the curtain. Her flesh turned into goose bumps. Tight, prickly skin told her she was home. She’d always felt the electricity of an opening curtain, no matter how many times it went up. Good shows, bad shows, she felt respectful of that drape in whatever theater, for whatever audience, to whatever end. With confidence, she would dazzle her audience tonight, with or without Liz Chandler’s presence.

  The maestro ended the final note. Marty watched the red velvet wave of the curtain rise slowly in front of her. Charged with anticipation, she wanted to smile, but that wouldn’t have been in keeping with her character. Applause began before the curtain had reached knee level. As the drape reached her waist, she was ready to burst. When the audience was full in her vision, their standing ovation forced her to wait several minutes before she could begin her monologue.

  It was a great night at the St. James Theater.

  While act one progressed, she managed an occasional glance toward Liz’s seats. They remained vacant after forty-five minutes, and she accepted the fact that the seats would stay vacant. However, Felice's look of bored indifference caught her attention and it irritated her, to her surprise.

  At the close of act one, Marty completed her ballad, reached behind her, and pulled the gun on her nemesis. In a defensive maneuver, the actor raised his hands to his face. She tightened her finger on the trigger. Click. She pulled the lever again. Click. No shot rang out. No smoke rose from the barrel. The click wasn’t even loud enough to echo through the house. Shit, she thought and heard a snicker from the audience. No one had to tell her it was Felice’s snicker.

  The recipient of the missing bullet covered the faux pas, giving her time to react appropriately. He bellowed in a sinister voice, “Ha ha ha! You thought I’d fall flat on my face. You haven’t seen—”

  Marty stifled a laugh at her cast member’s demonic ha-has. Quickly, she threw the gun at him, rushed him, knocked him to the floor, and then proceeded to choke the life from his character.

  “Good recovery,” he barely said as the curtain came down. “Ease up on the throat.”

  Marty released her hold and a severe case of the giggles overcame her just before the curtain reached the floor. She rolled off her cast mate and continued laughing until Bert stood over her. His smile, his look of satisfaction, gave him away without words.

  “You smartass,” she said through her laughter. She reached up and he helped her to her feet. “Did I deserve that?”

  “It pays to come to work on time,” he answered. “You did well, Jamison. Now, clear the stage and get ready for the second act.”

  *

  The remainder of the performance ran smoothly, and the final curtain fell just past ten o’clock. Marty’s excitement didn’t end when the curtain came down. She hugged and thanked all her fellow actors, for yet another night well done.

  “Excellent work,” she said to the last member and entered her dressing room. “What a great time we had.”

  Nina helped remove her costume. “Do you think Wonder Woman will come backstage?”

  “If you mean Liz, I didn’t see her in the audience. So much for my carrying on, I guess.” Marty yanked her blouse over her head and waved it as a fan against the top half of her torso. “I need a shower before I greet my guests.” She kicked off her boots and slipped out of her skirt.

  “Maybe you’ll run into her another time.” Nina reached into her pocket and pulled out some cash. She counted out fifty dollars and handed it to Marty. “Here. That’s half of what Bert paid me to take the bullet out of your gun.”

  She smacked Nina’s arm. “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “I knew you’d recover and both of us made a buck. Drinks are on Bert tonight.”

  “You’re killing me, Nina.” She tossed the money onto her vanity. Stripped bare, her body absorbed the chill as perspiration dissipated and Marty headed to the shower. “You can let people in. I’ll be quick.”

  “Your ass is falling,” Nina said.

  “I’m forty-two,” she said over her shoulder. “Asses fall.” She closed the bathroom door.

  Cool water soaked her hair and she lathered her body quickly. Marty briskly scrubbed away at her makeup and sweaty flesh. Not ten minutes into the shower, she heard a knock at the door.

  “Sugar?” Nina entered the bathroom.

  “Is something wrong, Nina?”

  “How do you feel about greeting Felice?”

  Marty turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Nina handed her a towel. “Tater tot wants to see me? This could be fun. Sure, invite Felice in.”

  Wrapped in a silky peach robe, Marty walked into the room. A towel draped her wet hair. Nina had allowed at least fifteen people into the dressing room and Marty happily greeted them all. Felice was last.

  Felice lifted her forearm to a handgun position and pulled the trigger. “Bang,” she said, adding a triumphant smile.

  Marty smiled. “Hello, Felice. Were you awake long enough to see the end of act one?”

  “My escort nudged me once or twice.”

  However appropriate “escort” was for the Times Square area, she let the thought go. It was humorous enough seeing that pixie of a woman standing before her.

  “At least you got a good nap. Comp tickets? Surely you wouldn’t pay to see me perform.”

  “Oh, I paid full price. I was curious. Didn’t anyone tell you I was offered the role and turned it down? I’m guessing they thought you might be too old for the part.”

  The statement was Felice’s psychological game. Marty wasn’t too old. Elaine Stritch still played the theater, Bebe Neuwirth wasn’t getting any younger, and they were just for starters. For most lead theater roles, age wasn’t much of a factor. Felice was sniping.

  With all the belittling comments Felice made to gossip columnists, never once did Marty return the verbal volley. Tonight was different. Maybe because she was disappointed that Liz hadn’t shown up, or maybe because Felice wasn’t important to her, she took the bait.

  “Thank you, then.” She grabbed her Tony from the vanity. “And thanks for this. How many of these do you have? Three? Four?” In fact, Felice had never had as much as a nomination. All of Felice’s shows had been Off Broadway.

  “Broadway isn’t about awards. It’s about craft.”

  “Then I suggest you go on out there and be crafty.”

  Felice scowled at the comment and then perked up when she looked over Marty’s shoulder. “Who’s this lovely vixen that’s making her way toward the great Jamison? A new girlfriend?”

  Marty turned around. Surprised, relieved, and elated that Liz stood directly behind her, she felt a stupid Cupid pang in her chest and never had time to smile. Liz elegantly wrapped her arms around her and kissed her as though they’d been together forever.

  Shocked with the kiss, their union blew such delight through her that even Cupid would have opened his eyes in surprise. Oh yeah. Marty knew a good kisser when kissed by one, but she also knew a good act when she saw one. Advantage hers, she savored the delicate warmth of their intimacy until Liz broke the kiss just when Marty’s legs were about to fall out from under her.

  “I heard Felice’s comment and you looked stressed,” Liz said for Marty’s ears only then moved slowly away. “Your show was wonderful, kitten. Ready to go home?”

  “Well,” Felice huffed and walked away.

  Grinning, and still clutching the Tony Award, Marty presented the statue to Liz. “Best performance by
a featured female actor in a play,” she said. “Thanks. That’s twice you’ve rescued me today, and I liked that one best.” Feeling awkward wearing nothing but a silk bathrobe, she tucked the lapels closer together.

  “Thank you.” Liz took a bow. “I enjoyed your show.”

  “You did? Your seat was vacant all night.”

  “I was there. You sang, you didn’t shoot the man, all was well at the end, and I’m about to drink free champagne.” Nina handed each of them a full glass. They tipped their glasses together for a ringing, wordless toast.

  Marty scrunched up her nose. “Stage right?”

  “Right orchestra.” She held up the Tony. “You’re a little confused on direction, Ms. Jamison. Should I return this to the academy?”

  “No, that’s the gold guy. We’re the American Theater Wing.” Marty glanced over Liz’s face. “I’m glad you attended the show.” She looked around the room of friends and guests. “Did someone come with you?”

  “All alone,” Liz answered with a captivating smile.

  “Would you care to join me for some late night chatter at Sardi’s?”

  “I’d prefer Rosie O’Grady’s. It’s quieter.”

  “Great.” She looked down at her robe. “I suppose clothes would be a good idea.”

  While Liz mingled with other guests, Marty slipped into the bathroom and dressed quickly. She rummaged through the Sephora bag and sprayed her neck with perfume. Nina dried, waved, and styled Marty’s hair, and twenty minutes later, she was ready to go.

  “You need a dye job,” Nina said. “You have a salt and pepper thing happening. Go get ’er, tigress.” She pushed Marty away from the chair. “Call me. I want the dirt.”

  *

  Their walk to O’Grady’s was quick. A few cast members were present and waved for Marty and Liz to join them at the bar, but they declined. Seated in a side booth with low lighting and candles, the ambiance of the back room was warm and cozy. They ordered a round of Irish coffee and received them quickly.

  “This is the best Irish coffee in town.”

  Liz lightly stirred the cream that floated on top of her coffee. “It’s a dark roast. Like your hair.” She pulled her spoon from the cup and took a sip. “Thank you for inviting me tonight. I’m usually good with seeing the big shows, but yours slipped by me.”

  “I’m glad I could accommodate. Tell me about your final book. Why the sabbatical?”

  “It’s simple. I’ve kissed, ran away from, seduced, charmed, fought, and slept my way through so many characters that it’s become too repetitive. I’m bored.”

  Marty nodded. “I can see that it would get monotonous, but I’ve enjoyed relaxing with your novels. I imagine you have quite a following of readers and they’ll be disappointed, too.”

  “I sell well, if that’s what you mean. And look”—she fished around in her handbag, pulled out the Tony Award, and set it on the table—“I’ve received my first Broadway recognition.”

  Marty snorted her laugh. “Oh my God. You kept it? That’s too funny.” She appreciated the surprise, and stashing the statue took guts, but Marty quickly pulled the Tony to her side of the table. “What are your plans? Will you try mainstream publishers? Maybe you’ll become the next Nora Roberts? Or will you go more daring like Jackie Collins?”

  “Do people still read Collins?” Liz fell silent for a moment. “I’m not sure what I’ll do. A screenplay would be challenging. Thanks to a demanding publisher, I belong to just about every writer’s guild in the country. I can write for Broadway, if I choose.”

  “Really? We need new writers and fresh material.” Her enthusiasm grew into bubbling. “We could brainstorm ideas, if you want. I have plenty of them, but I’m far from a writer.”

  “I’ll think about it. That sounds like fun.”

  Loud voices filled the front of the restaurant, and soon Felice sat at a nearby table with her following of older men. Marty smiled politely and nodded to the boisterous crew.

  “Hello again,” Felice said. “No late night snuggle after all?”

  “The night is young, Felice.” Liz smiled and reached for Marty’s hand. “Is she always so obnoxious?”

  Marty enjoyed the slow, soft touch of Liz’s fingers caressing her hand. She wanted to lace their fingers together, for a feeling of permanence, but thought better. It didn’t matter how real and needful the touch felt. She chalked up the touch to another performance.

  “Yes, and it gets worse sometimes. The sad thing about Felice is she has potential and could probably make it on Broadway, but do you see that group of cronies with her? They buy properties for her to perform. They’re not horrible shows. Her reviews are often mediocre, but she’s received at least one Obie nomination. The only people making money are those fat men who keep telling her she’s the greatest thing since, well, me.” She shrugged. “Felice loves the attention and she loves throwing her barbs at me.” Laughter sprang from Felice’s group, and Liz looked over at them.

  “I can see that. Speaking of barbs, I owe you an apology for the one I threw at Felice.” She gave Marty’s hand a final squeeze and then let go.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t habitually kiss strangers, but I didn’t like the way she spoke to you in your dressing room.”

  “Well, it didn’t hurt. The kiss, I mean. It was my pleasure.” Disappointed that Liz responded with only a nod, she changed the subject. “Are you a writer by profession?”

  “Yes, but I write technical manuals for various companies. I wrote novels out of boredom.” She looked at her watch. “I’m sorry. I know this might seem awfully quick, but I’m afraid I have to end the evening. I feel as though I’ve been up forever and today wasn’t that great of a day. Your show was great, though. I see why you won the Tony.”

  “Will I see you again? I recall some books that are in need of your signature.”

  “I’m moving in the next three days. If you give me your number, I’ll call you once I’ve gotten some things unpacked.”

  The brush off. That was the last she would see of Ms. Chandler. She supposed there was another woman at home, but she dug through her handbag until she found a paper and pen and then wrote her phone number down. At the least, she could get her books signed and maybe develop a friendship with Liz.

  Marty handed her the paper, but Liz looked distant. “Are you okay?”

  Liz snapped quickly back to attention and straightened her shoulders. She smiled when she looked at the phone number. “Yes, I’m just tired. Give me a few days and I’ll give you a jingle.”

  “You jingled me when you kissed me.”

  “I liked it, too.” She glanced at Marty’s lips, but yawned. “Sorry. It’s not your company. I’ve had a hectic, long day, and I need to get some rest. Walk me to a cab?”

  At the curb, a car was immediately available. When she opened the door, Liz turned back to Marty. “I had fun tonight. Good night.”

  “Me, too. Good night.” When the taxi pulled away, Marty hailed another one. “I could have easily sat through a few hours of conversation with her. This night ended much too soon.”

  Chapter Two

  Marty’s show closed, and she immediately read and reread the new script, aka the half-baked show. She tried to figure out how to change bland into something delicious, but nothing clicked. Creating a project wasn’t within her comfort zone, but she flourished with performance. Therein lay the problem. Her new play was a one-woman show, and Marty wasn’t confident that she could carry an entire night. She’d always worked with an ensemble of performers.

  “I wanted something different,” she said to the pages on her lap. “Now I’m wondering if I made the wrong decision.”

  Another problem was a low budget that had her working the boards for less than half her usual rate. One redeeming quality to the show was the venue. At least someone saw fit to stage it Off Broadway. She would get through her six-month contract then turn it over to another actor, or the show would close and then she
’d be back in town. Another good point, the schedule called for only five performances a week. That was a walk in the park when compared to her usual eight shows.

  The story itself was common to theater and screen: A Broadway star takes fame to heart and ends up alienating her friends, colleagues, and lovers. She turns bitter and places the blame onto those around and no longer around her. With the heavy-heartedness of Sunset Boulevard and A Star is Born, each having ended in tragedy, Marty’s character plans to turn the gun on herself.

  “The dialogue isn’t even interesting.” She leafed through the pages and mocked the words. “‘I don’t need another bullet. You’re killing me.’ I think we should insert a song there.” She laughed at herself. “Could do with some rewriting.”

  Writers. Marty sighed. Two weeks had gone by since she met Liz, and she still hadn’t called. Disappointed, but finding no logic in losing her agility by sitting on the sofa, she turned on a CD of fast tunes, secured ten-pound weights around each ankle, and began a rigorous workout. “Gotta do it to dance” was her motto.

  Thirty-five minutes into her exercise routine, the phone rang. She pressed TALK without looking at caller identification. “Hello,” she answered more cheerfully than usual.

  “Well?” The gravelly, over-smoked voice told her the caller was Nina.

  “What’s up? Are you bored without me to fuss over?” She stretched onto her back and executed leg lifts.

  “Never. People like you are a dime a dozen on these streets. Is there a story on you and Wonder Woman? Did you ever go out? Did you get laid?”

  “I haven’t talked to her in two weeks. She said she’s in the process of moving.”

  “Do you think she gave you the slip? Ditched you? Traded you in for a younger model?”

  “That could be. You did say my ass was falling.” Marty pushed up from the floor, turned on her stepper, and worked her glutes with a high resistance. “I guess my charm was lost on her.”