Disclaimer: I do not own Smash.
Hello all. So I've been having some issues sorting out the plot in Preferring the Blonde and this just kind of came to me. It takes place five years after the end of season one. Rated T to be safe. I hope you enjoy. Reviews are always appreciated.
Derek wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten roped into this. When he'd agreed to attend Lyle's birthday party he hadn't thought to anticipate the median age of the attendees. The room seemed to be populated nearly exclusively by twenty-something neophytes with stars in their eyes, a breed that he was indisposed to speak with, especially not in such a casual environment. He'd spent the better part of the evening defending himself from the barrage of recently graduated broadway wannabes, all insisting that they were the next big thing. It mystified him that someone as level headed as Lyle had managed to pick up this many hangers on, each more irritating than the last.
The latest one, a brunette whose name may or may not have been Lila was verbally going through her resume, her eyes pointed at the ceiling as she ticked off each job on her fingers. Pausing, she bit her lip, before asking if children's theatre counted. It was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. Once upon a time she might have been a good lay, but he'd found his appetite for airheads dwindling in recent years. A side of effect of maturity, he supposed. He was, after all, just shy of his forty second birthday. It wasn't an disagreeable age, but it did place him on a bit of a precipice. The years were creeping by and there hadn't been much in the way of work lately. A few projects here and there, he'd even relocated to Europe for while, but he hadn't yet matched the success of his earlier career. He was still a good director, just one lacking significant inspiration.
The last worthwhile venture had been Bombshell, but even that hadn't lasted as long as he'd hoped. A year and a half, certainly a decent run in this economy, but nothing groundbreaking. The show's frantic pace and casting troubles had left it much less than it could have been. Karen Cartwright had done well as he knew she would, but there was only so much she could do with Rebecca's castoffs. There had been too many changes and not enough time to fix them.
In any case, they'd been bested at the Tonys by a ragtag bunch of up and comers, one of which had been Ivy, who'd defected from Bombshell soon after they'd opened in New York. He couldn't say he blamed her. He'd fired her twice, rather unfairly and without much explanation. To her credit she hadn't broken down, not even after he'd slept with Rebecca; an act he still wasn't sure how to justify. At the time, he had seen it as a purely professional venture. Work was Derek's priority. Ivy understood that. She was much the same way. Perhaps that's why they lasted as long as they did. He certainly hadn't had any intention of a continuing affair when they'd first slept together but theatre did that to you. Close proximity, artistic admiration, heightened emotions; it was a recipe for a romantic disaster. It hadn't been the first time he'd been privy to such a liaison. But it was the first that had persisted past the actress' firing. Usually the wronged party would take his refusal of their "talent" personally, saving him the trouble of actually breaking up, which suited Derek just fine. But he'd gone looking for Ivy, and when he'd expected her to leave, when any sane person would have left, she'd only gotten closer. Derek had always prided himself on his observational skills but Ivy had been unpredictable.
He'd gotten the idea that she would stay, pine for Marilyn a while longer. After all, even without Derek, she still had connections to the show; Tom, Julia, Sam. And he was well aware, guiltily aware, that she had wanted that part, slaved for it. But she'd surprised him again, upping and leaving barely a month into their broadway run, not giving him any time to try to repair whatever it was they'd had.
Maybe-Lila was staring at him expectantly now, and he realized that she must have asked him a question. He gave a non-comital nod which was apparently what she had been hoping for, because she flounced off a few seconds later, squealing happily as she pointed him out to her friends. Beyond caring what he had agreed to, he let out a small sigh of relief. But the feeling was short-lived. Another girl immediately filled the seat beside him, wide eyed, sporting a smile that showed one too many teeth.
"Heather." she said, one hand held out to shake his, the other tucking a strand of wavy hair behind her ear.
"Derek." he returned, ignoring her outstretched arm. And yet she remained undeterred.
"I saw Bombshell when it first came out. Marilyn's, like, my dream role." The conversation continued for several minutes; him nodding vaguely from time to time as she dissected the role, rather inaccurately but at least she was trying. She was a bit older than some of the others, probably around Lyle's age and slightly less annoying than her predecessors.
Suddenly, Heather's eyes opened wide, her mouth forming a comical 'O'. Derek turned, perplexed, following her line of vision until he too saw what she was looking at.
Ivy Lynn, still half in stage makeup, had just swept through the door, looking simultaneously exhausted and energetic, a phenomena unique to theatre.
Derek quickly averted his eyes. It wasn't that he was avoiding her, not exactly. Broadway was a small world in which they were both players so he wasn't unused to seeing her around. Parties were parties and connections were connections; neither was willing to give up a chance to network on the other's behalf so they had learned how to deal with the inevitable awkwardness that came with running into your ex. Sometimes it was merely a glimpse across the room, often an exchange of pleasantries, hands fisted around their latest (un)significant others as proof that they were doing just fine, even, or maybe especially, when they weren't. Lately though, they had taken to coming alone.
But this was different. Lyle hadn't invited more than two dozen people, and this group lacked the discretion of the circles they usually travelled in.
Her entrance was accompanied by murmurs, just as his had been only hours before. Although she had never reached the superstardom of her mother; she had been nominated for a Featured Actress Tony, which, in a room full of wannabe actors, meant a lot.
Leaning back, his hands behind his head, Derek braced himself as Lyle guided Ivy over towards him.
She knew he was going to be there. She'd known and she'd still come. Even with everything that had happened between them, even though she had the perfect excuse.
Part of it had been Lyle. Now just shy of twenty five, the child star had spent the last few years rejuvenating his broadway career and had proceeded to cast Ivy in several of his shows. So she really couldn't have said no, not that she'd wanted to. Proximity had pushed the already amicable pair into close friendship and she was unwilling to miss such a milestone birthday.
Maybe it was because she was lonely. Break ups and make ups were draining, and her recent relationships had been nothing but. Perhaps Derek was something that had never really been forgotten, merely deferred in the craziness of her post-Boston existence. Working two shows, a whirlwind romance with the leading man, a Tony nomination; she'd been too busy to think, let alone dwell. But the dust had settled now, work had grown a little scarce and she was left with time to spare.
Whatever the reason, she'd turned up, even though Lyle had made it quite clear that he would be inviting all his close friends, Derek included. They were both between shows right now, unlike Tom, Julia and Eileen, all of whom were in London opening the latest Huston-Levitt creation.
Looking around, Ivy saw all eyes were trained on her, some out of recognition, a few out peer pressure. It was an odd sensation, one she had thought she would enjoy more than she actually did. Fame, even in a scope as tiny as hers was, seemed to mock you when you had no means to uphold it.
Slowly, the room fell back into its original state, chatter filling the air. After all, they were New Yorkers, and New Yorkers were not taken in by celebrity. Still, Ivy could feel one eye on her at all times.
She sat down, her dress making the process even more awkward.
"Ivy." he said, without inflection, emotionless.
You look nice." he managed. She was overdressed and she knew it.
"Benefit." she explained. Actors would often lend their voices to concerts supporting a good cause. He nodded.
"I didn't know you were going to be here." he replied, habitually unintentional in his insensitivity. She grown used to it long ago although she felt sorry for the young actresses who had obviously been assaulting him before she had arrived. She doubted they'd been as understanding.
"Neither did I." And indeed she hadn't. She'd toyed with the idea of playing hooky even as she had knocked on the door. Just by being here, she was committing to a course of action, one that she knew wasn't entirely wise to take.
The conversation lulled. There was nothing but them, alone in a room full of staring strangers.
Ivy excused herself after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, leaving an open invitation for him to follow if he so wished. It was entirely his decision.
She stepped out onto a tiny little balcony overlooking the city. Lyle's place wasn't overtly large, not what you would expect of someone making as much money as he was. Ivy leaned against the railing, allowing the autumn air to fill her lungs. The weather was unseasonably cool for this time of year, enough to make her shiver, but the privacy was well worth the temperature. Derek had always believed theatrics belonged in the theatre. Not that they would be causing a scene, at least she hoped not.
Really, Ivy wasn't sure what to expect. It had been so long since they had last had a proper discussion, if they'd ever had one at all. She wouldn't pretend she could predict his behaviour. If she could, she never would have got in as deep as she had.
Still, she couldn't help but smile when a vodka soda landed in front of her a minute later. Her favourite.
"Enjoying the view?" he asked, his accent just a touch stronger than it had been before. He was nervous. Or maybe it was just a side effect of his return to England. She couldn't tell.
"Enjoying the peace and quiet?" she returned, gazing up at him. They hadn't been this close in years. Ivy studied his face in the dim lighting. A few more wrinkles here and there, frown lines deeper, hair peppered with just a little more grey. He was older but so was she.
"I don't know where he got them all. Twenty odd and not a single decent resume among them." he remarked, shaking his head lightly.
"He takes acting classes. To keep on top of things." she replied, examining the bottom of her glass.
"I think he finds them refreshing." she added. His face contorted in mild disgust.
"Irritating, more like." She let out a short laugh. He'd never been fond of children. She wasn't partial to them herself. Her mother had left her with a less than savoury impression of preforming parents.
"I used to be one of them." she commented, intending to lighten the mood.
"You were never that idiotic." he assured her.
And she hadn't been. Sure, there had been mistakes and missteps but she couldn't remember ever being quite so green. She'd grown up in the theatre world, been a veteran before she'd ever set foot in an audition room.
"No. I wasn't." she said, almost wistfully. Maybe life would have been a little easier if she had been like Karen; a midwestern girl with a dream. Archetypes might be cliche but at least there was a niche for a bubbly dumb blonde.
"You were very professional." he added.
There is was again. That word. Sacred to him, anathema to her. It meant sleek, polished, seasoned, competent. All very well and all very fitting, but what about passionate, entrancing, magnetic? It was stupid to obsess, she'd gone on to have a relatively successful career, but she couldn't help it.
She just has something you don't.
"Is that all?" she asked, looking over her shoulder.
He hesitated.
Derek had never been good with words. To verbalize something required a belief in what he was saying. He'd never been able to lie to Ivy, not properly anyway. It was merely a matter of her accepting his dishonesty, allowing them both to play at being in a healthy relationship. Truthful words spoken aloud, especially about emotions, were few and far between. But now she was putting him on the spot, expecting a response. Expecting him to gather whatever confusing things he may have felt, might still feel for her, and condense them into single utterance.
He was sweating and she wasn't moving, her eyes locked with his.
"You wanted it more." It didn't really answer her question but she softened a bit when he said it.
"That's true." she replied, half scoffing as she turned around to face him, her arms crossed over her chest. Silence ensued as she waited for him to continue.
"You loved it more." He wouldn't deny it. The Cartwright girl had been in it for the fame. She had certainly enjoyed performing and she'd been very good at it, but she wanted stardom. Fame-hungry, charismatic and out of her depth, she had personified Norma Jeane to a tee. Marilyn less so, but it was much easier to move forward than to move back. Anyone who had lived at all could tell you that.
Despite his verbiage, Derek had never associated dispassion with Ivy Lynn. Quite the opposite actually. Ivy lived her life in a heightened state of reality, an actor through and through, often at the expense of her personal life. Ivy was theatrical in every sense of the word, on and off stage, annoyingly so at times. But then there were the quieter moments, the odd sense of solemnity that surrounded her when she read through a script, or the way her eyes had flickered to her mother after every number in the workshop. There were layers there, a desperate loneliness hidden by a formidable strength. It was what had first intrigued him; the reason she'd gotten the part in the first place.
"But you weren't right for it." He paused, giving her time to argue but she didn't.
"Why?" she asked calmly.
"The truth." she added, quickly as if it was a second thought.
"You were always too grounded, too sure of yourself when you were playing her. There was no mystery, no enigma. That's what made Marilyn famous. Not skill, though she did have that, but the puzzle of her."
"You couldn't have told me that during the workshop?" she shot back, not missing a beat, though he noticed she didn't look particularly surprised. He thought it quite likely that she had already examined these shortcomings herself; she had just wanted to hear it from him. As if confirmation would make it all better.
"Would it have mattered?" he asked quietly. No response. She knew he was right. As much as she searched for acceptance, for recognition, she wouldn't have been willing to compromise the integrity of her character in order to mold to his vision. Headstrong, yes, but also intelligent. She had remained her version of Marilyn to the end, never attempting a Karen Cartwright impression even after it was clear which girl he partial to. Derek had always respected her for that.
"It certainly doesn't matter now." she finally said after about a minute of silence, not particularly convincing in her delivery although the sentiment was fundamentally true. They'd moved on, at least he'd thought they had. But in a way, little had changed. They were both living alone, both facing lulling careers. Life had a funny way of coming full circle.
And as for second chances, well, he hadn't had cause to believe in them. In theatre you had, or you had not. You were what he wanted, or you weren't. His penchant for sleeping with his leading ladies was borne out of this notion, but Ivy had never quite fit into this scheme, defying his opinions of women, especially actresses, on more than one occasion.
She had gone back to her previous position, leaned against the railing, her eyes concentrated on something on the horizon. Following her gaze, he found what she was looking at. A theatre, not too far in the distance, dark despite the fact most shows got out at around this time, with a half-stripped marquee hanging off it.
If he squinted he could make out the image strewn across the metal. A group of people dressed in twenties garb. At the forefront was a lanky redhead, giving him a toothy grin. Beside her, a blond gentlemen, equally happy. Then, a few steps behind the happy couple was Ivy Lynn, decked out in a blue flapper dress, a martini glass in one hand and a smirk on her face. Any other cast members, and he assumed there were more, had been ripped off, along with the title of the show.
Derek looked back to Ivy, who was looking away from him, tears rolling down her cheeks, completely independent to the rest of her face. If not for the slight smudging of her makeup he might not have noticed they were there. His hand went up instinctively, then jerked back. They had always been highly physical people, communicating best through actions. This was how they had started the first time and look where that had gotten them. But, contrary to popular belief, he didn't enjoy watching people, especially Ivy, cry. So he pulled her towards him, rather awkwardly, her head tucked under his chin.
It was idiotic, really. It wasn't as if it was her first broadway flop. It hadn't even been the worst. They'd had a decent run, four months if she was remembering correctly.
But the ending of that show had marked the first time in her career where Ivy had absolutely no idea where she was going. She'd always been a compulsive show jumper, finding work before the show she was in inevitably closed. It wasn't horribly difficult. She was talented, easy to work with and knew just about everybody there was to know. Even when the parts had started to dry up, she'd had the chorus to go back to when money was tight. Tom somehow always found a place for her. But you could only dance for so long and Ivy was well aware that, at thirty five, she was reaching her expiry date. Maybe two years more if she was lucky. Decades worth of injuries started adding up and all the physiotherapist could suggest was rest, and she couldn't very well do that, could she? Not if she wanted to keep a roof over her head.
To be perfectly honest, it was terrifying. And, in that moment, Ivy would have done anything to go back a few years, even if it meant being dragged through the mud all over again. Even if it meant having to contend with the little Iowan that could. Because, at the end of the day, nothing was harder to surmount than time.
Maybe that's why she did what she did.
They were already close together, her head pressed into his chest and his hand stroking her hair absentmindedly. It was just a matter of leaning up and pressing her lips to his. She pulled away a second later, neither angry nor pleased with herself, patiently waiting for his reaction.
At first, there was none. Then, he slowly turned his back to her, reaching for the handle and sliding the door open. Ivy felt her face reddening, a pit forming in the base of her stomach. What was it about him that made her humiliate herself again and again? Stupid to think he might still feel that way about her, if he'd ever felt that way at all. Averting her eyes, she whirled back around, looking anywhere but at him.
"Are you coming?" He was standing, one foot on either side of the screen, staring at her, his palm outstretched. Nodding, she took it and followed him inside. He quickly spotted Lyle, and made his way over to him. She watched as he whispered something into the boy's ear. The two men exchanged handshakes and then Derek was leaned against the wall nearest to the door, his arms crossed and his foot tapping soundlessly on the carpeted floor.
Somewhat dazedly, Ivy walked over to Lyle.
"I think I'm going to head out now. I'm dead tired, but we're still on for lunch later this week, right?" she said with a smile, feeling bad for ducking out on his party, especially having come late.
"Wouldn't miss it." he replied, although she could already see suspicion playing in his eyes.
"Happy Birthday." she told him, pulling him in for a hug before she and Derek made their escape.
The cab ride, which might once have been a chance for an extended make out session, was now rather calm. Short bits of dialogue were exchanged, mostly about mutual contacts, but all in all the conversation could have just as easily been between her and Sam. The only signifier that they were not merely two coworkers cutting costs after a late night was the set of intertwined hands lying on the middle seat.
The drive was shorter than Ivy would have liked, but it was just as well. If she'd had time to think, she might have stopped. He had offered his place, and she hadn't disagreed.
It surprised her when she learned that he had moved, though it probably shouldn't have. His new place was smaller, not miniscule like hers, but smaller. He handed her another drink, which she gratefully accepted, getting himself one as well.
Sitting down on the couch, that, along with the rest of his furniture, seemed to have made the trip from his old apartment, she looked around. The decor was much the same, a few additions here and there. A new chair, cushioned and bulky, and a couple more posters adorning the walls. Bombshell, she noticed, had been relegated to a secluded corner of the room, just beneath the stairs. She smiled a bit at that.
"What?" he asked, throwing himself down beside her, one arm wrapping around her shoulder in a way that should have been uncomfortable but wasn't.
"Nothing. Just admiring the new house." she said.
"Yes, well it's not ideal but finding a decent apartment in Manhattan is absolute murder." he replied.
"I like it. It's cozy." she explained, snuggling in a bit closer.
Derek pondered her comment for a moment. Though he loathed to admit it, he had grown fond of his latest living quarters. While his large penthouse might have been more suitable for a rich and famous director, this slightly smaller area was more conducive to actual work. Fewer places to lose his million sheets of paper, less space to have to lug his models. Besides, what had seem debonair when he was younger, had become outlandish, even uncomfortable. With five bedrooms to one person, the place had practically echoed. This was, if not cozy, than at least less lonely.
He gave a gruff half nod, which she seemed to accept as an answer.
"How was England?" she questioned, eyes shifting to her left as his fingers absentmindedly began drawing patterns across her pale skin.
"Cold. I didn't do much work, just a bit of regional theatre. I visited-" He cut himself off abruptly; he hadn't been planning to talk about that.
"Your family." she finished. They had never spoken about his parents, or hers for that matter. He knew she didn't get along with her mother. He didn't blame her, Leigh Conroy was a shrew of a woman. She similarly knew he wasn't on good terms with his folks. It was something they had agreed never to talk about for fear of upsetting the tenuous balance of their relationship. But now they weren't in a relationship, they weren't even definitively together.
"Yes." he managed. Her eyes, which had been shut, popped open at his answer. She hadn't been expecting a proper response.
"I've never been." she told him.
"My mom used to go but she never took me." she added, subtly enough that, had he been anyone else, he might not have noticed the trade off.
"That's a shame. There's so much to do there." he said, diverting the topic. The discussion quickly drifted towards West End shows and their opinions on them. The current subject of choice was the inclusion of the latest radio sensation in a new West End musical, an act he was for, and she was against.
"There are a thousand theatre actors who would have killed for that part and they give it to a pop star. God, it's like Rebecca Duvall all over again!" she announced, slamming her glass down on the table with more force than strictly necessary.
"The difference is that they knew she can sing." he remarked with an eye roll. What a godawful mess that had been.
"How did that happen anyway?" Ivy asked, as she lay back, tucking her legs up onto the couch.
"Miscommunication. General lunacy. The usual." She laughed. A moment passed.
"Derek." she said, looking up at him, suddenly solemn.
"This is a mistake." Her voice was firm, leaving no room for arguments.
"I know." And with that, she pulled herself onto his lap and kissed him. Mouths opening, arms circling, everything touching. Despite the time elapsed, it all felt strangely familiar, bodies remembering things minds had long since forgotten. There was certain element of safety to it although they both knew it was anything but.
She let out a small moan as his teeth grazed her jaw. He pulled her up onto her feet and half carried-half dragged her towards the nearest bedroom.
When Derek woke up the next morning he was alone, but the warmth of the spot next to him indicated Ivy couldn't be too far. Hearing the sound of water running he ventured out into the kitchen, putting a pot of coffee on as he waited for her to finish. She stumbled of the bathroom a few minutes later, her hair coiffed as best as she could manage with the aid of feminine hair products, and last night's dress clinging to her skin. Upon noticing him, her shoulders drooped a bit, giving him the impression that, while she hadn't gone out of her way to avoid him, she had probably hoped to sneak out before he woke up.
"Morning." he called out hesitantly.
"Hey." she replied, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"Sure. Thanks." she said, accepting the mug and sipping it in a way distinct to someone who made a living off their voice, her lips gripping the brim, testing the temperature before letting any of the hot liquid pass into her mouth. When she finally brought the cup down to rest in her hands, there was a ring of pink lipstick circling the rim.
"I used your shampoo. I hope you don't mind." The words seemed distancing, such a formality. Strange to think that, at one time, their belongings had been nearly interchangeable. He shook his head. She cleared her throat, running her free hand through her hair.
"Anyway, I have to go. Audition in an hour. I'll be lucky if I get home in time to change clothes." she said. Perhaps she was lying but it hardly mattered; she would've left either way.
Setting the mug down, Ivy picked up her bags and walked over to him, pressing her lips to his cheek and letting them linger, probably longer than she'd intended.
Then she was gone.
He spent the remainder of the day removing evidence of her presence; the other set of glasses, the mascara stained pillow, the way he would with any other one night stand.
Except that this was Ivy and it wasn't quite so easy. Despite not being present during the first saga of Ivy and Derek, the house seemed to have taken a liking to her. Try as he might, the left cushion on the couch still smelled vaguely of her perfume and her lipstick persistently refused to be removed from the coffee mug.
Even the door seemed to be waiting for her to walk back through it.
And she would. But not just yet.
