"No, stop!" Treville cries, and waves his arms at D'Artagnan and Anne, who let go of each other's hands and drop character dispiritedly. "No, it's wrong, it's off, it's just – " He checks his watch.
"Damn. I have a meeting. Athos, fix – " he makes wild circular motions around his two leads. "All of this." He lets the stage door slam behind him. Anne flinches.
"What does that even mean?" she asks, sounding as annoyed as a woman as polite as her could probably ever sound. D'Artagnan throws his arms behind his head and groans, glaring at the ceiling. Athos studies the pair.
"I think…" He checks his notes. There are so many his script looks like an underpass in a bad neighborhood. He selects two sentences at random.
"D'Artagnan, I'm not feeling the urgency in the first half of the scene. And Anne, it's too stiff, too… stoic. I need emotional, I need naïve, I need…" He is fully aware that he sounds just as vague as Treville.
"Younger?" Anne supplies coolly. Younger. She's right, of course; they need Anne to match D'Artagnan's exuberance and impetuosity – they need her to be a teenager.
Athos, of course, says none of this. First rule of directing – never insinuate to an actress you wish she was younger/prettier/softer.
They never take it well.
He's waited too long to answer and Anne has turned away. She's lifting her long honey-colored hair off the back of her neck and fanning herself. Even in this nearly unconscious movement she's extraordinarily graceful, and Athos remembers once again why they cast her. She looks like a woman made of glass: regal, beautiful, unaffected, but capable of crumbling to pieces at the softest touch. It's pretty appealing, if you're into that sort of thing.
And she really is a wonderful actress. There is depth and humor in every tiny character decision she makes, even though Mabel isn't a particularly complex role. Still, Athos' trained eye can tell she's holding something back, and it frustrates him. She doesn't throw herself into the scenes the way D'Artagnan does, and it's messing with their chemistry.
Athos leans back in his chair, cracking his neck.
"I think we've just about beaten this to death for today," he says. "Anne, we need you at music practice with the rest of the General's daughters in thirty."
She nods, relaxing somewhat, and heads backstage. D'Artagnan watches her retreating figure enviously.
"I'm guessing you still need me for the scene with the policemen?" He sounds mournful.
"Just as soon as they're back from their lunch break. Tired already?" D'Artagnan's brow furrows.
"No," he says stubbornly.
"Well, good," Athos says brusquely, "because after the policeman scene we're going over the opening scene with Ruth and the pirates, and then you've got music… then dinner – " D'Artagnan sags against the wall in relief – "and after that Porthos wants you for fight training –"
"Fine, fine!" D'Artagnan interrupts, waving his arms in surrender. Athos stops, feeling smug. "Yeah, I'm tired. I'm tired."
He rubs a hand roughly across his eyes, and Athos takes pity on him.
"Come and have a seat," he tells D'Artagnan, gesturing at Treville's vacated chair. "Do you drink coffee?"
"Nah, I tried in school during exams, but – "
"You do now." Athos does something he considers to be the ultimate in compassion, and hands his mug of the finest French Roast available in any of the cheap supermarkets over to D'Artagnan, who takes a sip and makes a strangled noise.
"Its… good, yeah," D'Artagnan says, far too unconvincingly for an actor of his caliber. Athos tries very hard not to take offense.
"You'll get used to it," he says. "It'll help. And I'm sorry, but you've got to be disciplined right now. No pub crawls, or clubbing, or staying up all night on the Internet or whatever it is the youth are doing these days." He finishes this sentence in a deadpan that makes D'Artagnan chuckle.
"Oh come on, you're not that much older than me."
Yes, thinks Athos. Yes I am. But he just shrugs, saying nothing.
D'Artagnan puts his feet up on the desk and adopts a cocksure grin.
"Okay, so what else have you got for me?" he asks, with only a touch of sarcasm. "Tricks of the trade, how to stay on your toes, all that."
Athos raises his eyebrows.
"Accept every audition you're offered," he begins, settling into the professorial role. "Do your blocking while you memorize your lines, you'll connect the motion with the right words. Never get involved with a costar, at least not during the production. I knew a director on Broadway who used to say, 'When in doubt, stop acting!' which is good advice, if the actor is–"
"Wait," D'Artagnan cuts in. "You worked on Broadway?" Shit. Shit.
"Briefly," Athos says, through gritted teeth. D'Artagnan seems to realize he's hit a nerve, but there's something in his eyes now, something Athos has seen way too often. It's the obvious thought:
If you were on Broadway, then what are you doing here?
A fair question, and one he has no interest in answering.
Luckily, he's saved by the arrival of Constance, who barrels in with a determined look on her face.
"No, Constance."
"Five minutes, or he's going on stage naked."
"He's busy!"
"Five minutes! I'm nearly done! I've put the rest of my stuff on hold for this!"
It's going to be longer than five minutes. Athos knows it's going to be longer than five minutes because those two lose track of time whenever they start talking. It is not "heartwarming" and "adorable," no matter what the rest of the cast has to say. It is wasted time.
But D'Artagnan is giving him the most pitifully hopeful look on the face of the earth.
"Fine, go," he says, weakening. "But seriously, be back when the policemen get here." D'Artagnan is out of his chair before Athos even finishes the word 'go'.
"And I'm taking my coffee back!"
The practice accompanist at the Garrison Theatre is, in fact, Treville's mother. This is an arrangement that works out well for everyone; she is a complacent woman, perfectly willing to repeat the same four lines a hundred times, and they don't have to pay her.
But there's always at least one day a week she has a doctor's appointment, or a bridge tournament, or a distant cousin's wedding to attend, and they are forced to resort to their backup pianist: Aramis.
Aramis doesn't mind helping. Music is the reason he got interested in show business the first place – he does consider himself sometimes to have been sidetracked by acting. But he's not as patient as Madame Treville, and he definitely has favorites.
They do not include the ragtag crew of actors, ranging in age from 14 to 57, who are supposed to be his dashing troupe of pirates.
The third time Lucien's teenaged voice breaks on the highest note and the ensemble dissolves into laughter, Aramis slams his head down on the piano keys.
"Aw, come on Aramis. That's funny!"
"Shut up, guys!" Lucien shouts, forcing his voice unnaturally low.
"Ah, happens to the best of us, Lucien!"
"Everybody's fourteen once!"
"Only once, luckily!"
"Could somebody please tell me," Aramis says, lifting his head dejectedly, "who I'm supposed to have next?"
"It's Mabel and the other girls for 'Poor Wand'ring One'."
"Oh, thank God." Aramis drops his head back onto the piano. "Send them in here and go bother Porthos with a fight scene or something."
The pirates trickle out, still laughing at Lucien's squeals of protest, and Aramis replaces his sheet music, feeling renewed. Mabel, or rather Anne, is one of his favorite people to work with. She's an accompanist's dream, always right on cue, and near perfect pitch. Her voice is marvelous, clear as a bell but unexpectedly rich and full, just like her laughter, and her intellect, and her conversation, and Aramis is getting away from himself.
So he might have a crush. It's not like he plans to do anything about it. Athos would kill him, and Aramis would let him because he's done this far too often before. First it was Isabel, when they did West Side Story; then Marsac, during Guys and Dolls; then Adele, Oklahoma; then Marsac again, last summer during Jesus Christ Superstar, because apparently he's a glutton for punishment.
All of them left the theatre eventually (Isabel even quit acting, which he thinks was a touch excessive), due to "artistic differences" with Aramis' commitment phobia. Not phobia exactly – commitment insecurity. The loving part comes easily to him; it's the being with that causes problems.
Porthos reckons it's chronic.
"You've got to stop being obsessed with beginnings," he said once. "You think it's not worth it if it doesn't stay as exciting as it is in the beginning the whole way through. But you have to appreciate the middle bits. The middle bits, y'know – that's life."
"Well, thanks for the tip, Nora Ephron."
"AND you can't take anything seriously, jackass."
Aramis is more inclined to say that he simply hasn't found the right person yet.
Not that Anne, who's coming in now trailed by the three women playing Mabel's sisters, is necessarily the right person. But he's never been one to fail for lack of trying – except in this case, he is categorically not going to try because again: the theatre's best interests, Athos' murderous impulses.
He makes it through the entire rehearsal without being too flirtatious or looking too much in her direction. But Anne lingers after the other actresses depart, resting her crossed arms on the piano and smiling at him.
"How are you, Aramis?" she asks. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."
"It's a busy time," Aramis replies lightly. "I've been filling in for the Madame and you've been with D'Artagnan practically every minute of every day."
"Oh yes, D'Artagnan," she says, crinkling her nose. "He's great, much easier to work with than Louis, but…" she lowers her voice, "he makes me feel old."
She looks childishly put out when she says this, and the contrast makes Aramis laugh out loud.
"Old?! Anne, you're not even thirty!" Anne shoots him a teasing look.
"I'm ancient for an actress, you know," she retorts. "I've only got a few good years left before I'm stuck playing villains and housewives for the rest of my career."
She sighs mournfully, adding, "And I'd make a terrible housewife. I can't cook at all."
"I wouldn't worry," Aramis says, before he can stop himself. "You don't have the kind of beauty that fades."
Her face loses its mischief at this statement. She looks puzzled and too pleased so he adds quickly, humorously, "And everyone can cook a little, if they're really trying. If I can, you can."
"Can you?" Anne hums skeptically. "You might have to prove that to me."
She isn't a natural coquette by any means, but her intention is clear, and Aramis is too charmed to refuse her.
"I'm always happy to cook dinner for a culinarily-challenged friend," he says, emphasizing ever so slightly the word 'friend'.
"Tomorrow at 8?" Anne suggests smoothly, unfazed. "I'll bring the wine."
"That sounds… good."
She smiles softly, and gasps a little when she catches a glimpse of the wall clock.
"Until then, Aramis."
Aramis watches her go, and as soon as she's out of earshot, he lets his head fall flat onto the piano again.