was a confident and professional smile. “I’m Christine Daly,” I offered. “I’m here for the auditions.”
Behind her fashionable rectangular frames, the receptionist’s dark eyes widened a bit. “The what?”
“The aud—” I began, then trailed off. Of course. How could I be so stupid? This was an office building, not a theater or rehearsal hall. But maybe only the address on the letter was wrong, or the information as to the actual audition site accidentally omitted. “Just a sec,” I added, when I saw her start to open her mouth to speak. “I can show you the letter.”
I set my purse down on the floor and scrabbled through my briefcase, looking for the envelope I had tucked in with my scores. Of course it was buried at the bottom, but eventually I dug it out, although it was a bit the worse for wear. Then I unfolded the piece of ivory paper and handed it to her.
She took it from me, the frown line between her brows deepening as she looked it over. “I think someone’s played a pretty mean joke on you,” she said at last.
I just stood there, staring at her, as my heart began to pound in heavy, anguished strokes against my ribs.
“This is our stationery,” she went on, and I could tell she was trying to help me out by explaining further. At least she looked sympathetic. “And we are doing The Rake’s Progress in the spring. But the production was cast two weeks ago. I don’t know who sent you this letter, but it didn’t come from us.”
I said, in a voice not entirely my own, “I see.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said, and, to her credit, she actually did look sorry. Then she handed the letter back to me.
Because it was the polite thing to do, I took it—why? so I could burn it later?—and shoved it back inside my briefcase. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and because I knew I had to get out of there before I made even more of a fool of myself, I said, “Thank you,” managed a watery smile, maintained enough presence of mind to gather up my purse and briefcase, and then had to endure the excruciating wait for the elevator to return.
She watched me with concern as I stood there and wondered to myself what kind of moron had designed an elevator that opened directly into an office suite. Wasn’t a proper hallway with a discreet door good enough for them? Finally, after several eternities, the elevator arrived and I fled inside.
You will not cry. You will not cry , I scolded myself during the long ride down. Of course, my ignominious retreat had to be attended by the unwelcome addition of elevator riders from the fourth and third floors. I burrowed into a far corner of the elevator, my briefcase and purse clutched against my chest like a shield. Luckily, no one really seemed to pay any attention to me—it was the end of the work day, and all anyone seemed concerned with was getting the hell out of there. In that way, I had a lot in common with them.
Of course, when I got to my car I realized that I hadn’t gotten my parking ticket validated—no surprise, considering the circumstances—and had to pay for my lovely little episode in the offices of the Long Beach Opera. Price of humiliation, $6.50, thank you very much. Not to mention all the gas this pleasant trip had cost me.
Not until I had peeled out of the parking structure, popping the clutch from first directly into third and almost stalling the car in the process, did I allow the tears to flow. By that point the quick-falling dusk of late autumn had already come to the city, and it was dark enough that no one could see me weeping as I pointed my battered little car northward for the long drive home.
Erik had been expecting Christine to make at least one phone call when she returned home from her audition, so he was poised by the listening equipment instead of just waiting for Jerome to give him the digital files for review. The apparatus had been set up in a smaller secondary office that
Behind her fashionable rectangular frames, the receptionist’s dark eyes widened a bit. “The what?”
“The aud—” I began, then trailed off. Of course. How could I be so stupid? This was an office building, not a theater or rehearsal hall. But maybe only the address on the letter was wrong, or the information as to the actual audition site accidentally omitted. “Just a sec,” I added, when I saw her start to open her mouth to speak. “I can show you the letter.”
I set my purse down on the floor and scrabbled through my briefcase, looking for the envelope I had tucked in with my scores. Of course it was buried at the bottom, but eventually I dug it out, although it was a bit the worse for wear. Then I unfolded the piece of ivory paper and handed it to her.
She took it from me, the frown line between her brows deepening as she looked it over. “I think someone’s played a pretty mean joke on you,” she said at last.
I just stood there, staring at her, as my heart began to pound in heavy, anguished strokes against my ribs.
“This is our stationery,” she went on, and I could tell she was trying to help me out by explaining further. At least she looked sympathetic. “And we are doing The Rake’s Progress in the spring. But the production was cast two weeks ago. I don’t know who sent you this letter, but it didn’t come from us.”
I said, in a voice not entirely my own, “I see.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said, and, to her credit, she actually did look sorry. Then she handed the letter back to me.
Because it was the polite thing to do, I took it—why? so I could burn it later?—and shoved it back inside my briefcase. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and because I knew I had to get out of there before I made even more of a fool of myself, I said, “Thank you,” managed a watery smile, maintained enough presence of mind to gather up my purse and briefcase, and then had to endure the excruciating wait for the elevator to return.
She watched me with concern as I stood there and wondered to myself what kind of moron had designed an elevator that opened directly into an office suite. Wasn’t a proper hallway with a discreet door good enough for them? Finally, after several eternities, the elevator arrived and I fled inside.
You will not cry. You will not cry , I scolded myself during the long ride down. Of course, my ignominious retreat had to be attended by the unwelcome addition of elevator riders from the fourth and third floors. I burrowed into a far corner of the elevator, my briefcase and purse clutched against my chest like a shield. Luckily, no one really seemed to pay any attention to me—it was the end of the work day, and all anyone seemed concerned with was getting the hell out of there. In that way, I had a lot in common with them.
Of course, when I got to my car I realized that I hadn’t gotten my parking ticket validated—no surprise, considering the circumstances—and had to pay for my lovely little episode in the offices of the Long Beach Opera. Price of humiliation, $6.50, thank you very much. Not to mention all the gas this pleasant trip had cost me.
Not until I had peeled out of the parking structure, popping the clutch from first directly into third and almost stalling the car in the process, did I allow the tears to flow. By that point the quick-falling dusk of late autumn had already come to the city, and it was dark enough that no one could see me weeping as I pointed my battered little car northward for the long drive home.
Erik had been expecting Christine to make at least one phone call when she returned home from her audition, so he was poised by the listening equipment instead of just waiting for Jerome to give him the digital files for review. The apparatus had been set up in a smaller secondary office that
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