Should he have sent a car? Timing subways' caprices was a mug's game. Porter Mallory sipped jasmine tea, refrained from looking again at his watch. Perhaps the female prerogative of lateness would never die.
Ah – there she was. Speaking with the Palm Court host, looking about her rather bemusedly. Porter stood, beckoned, and Karen crossed the bright room.
"Miss Cartwright!" He took her outstretched hand in both of his. "I am so glad." A waiter seated Karen, Porter seated himself. Poured tea into his guest's cup. Did not shudder as Karen doused the delicate brew with milk and sugar.
"Sorry I'm late, the G train broke down. This is so nice of you." Nervousness as well as curiosity under her words, Porter noted.
"My pleasure entirely. I've ordered us the Fitzgerald Tea, it seemed appropriate. And, clever girl, you've dressed for it. A lovely frock." Another 20s-style, loosely fitted, low-waisted dress. Apple green. She should, Porter thought, avoid the color, it made her skin very sallow.
"Why," Karen began, but the first round of fare was arriving – lobster salad with apples, deviled quail eggs, more.
Dishes arranged, assurances given that nothing else was wanted for the moment, the waiter effaced himself.
Karen swallowed a bite of lobster,. "This is really good. I've never been to tea before. It's really nice of you." She was repeating herself, she knew. And not asking what she wanted to know. "I mean, I appreciate it. Your taking an interest in me. But – why?"
He sidestepped her question. "I understand you are much in demand for demo recordings, my dear. I can't imagine you find it very rewarding, though. Do tell me if I am wrong."
He wasn't, of course. "I miss the audience. Don't get me wrong, I love singing, but studios aren't the same."
"Of course they aren't. And you should have an audience. You've an exceptional gift – and not just your lovely voice. But it must be experienced live, it does not can well. I have heard a few of your demos, and I saw your film."
Ouch. But she knew he was right. So many had called Karen "magical," but on film, whatever magic she had disappeared like a vampire's reflection. She hadn't been able to sit through "Hit List." Derek had warned her. Did he hate her for defying him? Did her lousy reception in Hollywood tarnish her in his eyes? Would she ever know?
And it wasn't likely she'd get a live audience anytime soon. Not with Jerry Rand against her.
Porter nodded. "Yes, I've heard. Unfortunate, of course. Not one of nature's noblemen, is he? But there are opportunities for a singer of your gifts in areas where he wields far less influence than he does in theatre."
She wasn't just a singer, she was an actress. And he hadn't answered her question.
"Miss Cartwright, at the benefit, I saw in you two things I hate to see. Waste and pain. I hoped perhaps I could help."
She was nonplussed at his frankness. And what could Porter Mallory know about pain, anyway? Two Tonys, six nominations, pretty much whatever work he wanted when he wanted it. She said as much.
Porter looked down. Spoke quietly. "My dear Miss Cartwright, I am a gay musical theatre performer. My family are conservative Roman Catholics. No, they've not disowned me, they love me, and I them. What I am, what I do, are never discussed. But in their world, sodomy and murder are much equivalent – I do not exaggerate – they believe I am on track to burn in hell eternally. This pains them greatly, and their pain pains me greatly. And there is nothing to be done about it."
He looked at her, now. "We can only be what we are, Miss Cartwright. I am sincere when I say you've an exceptional gift. But – forgive me, my dear, but believe me, too – your gift is not for acting."
Karen objected. The Boston reviews for "Bombshell." Her "Hit List" notices (for the stage version, anyway). Her Tony nomination.
He smiled. "My dear, you are, or were, a fresh face, something new. And you've a marvelous glamor, you know, you cast a spell with your voice. You are a true siren, in fact, but time breaks such spells as yours, when there aren't talent and technique to sustain them. With regard to acting, you have neither to offer. Singing is another matter entirely. There, you have everything and more. Why not focus on that – by your own choice, before the choice is forced on you?"
"I can't. I just can't. I want to act, it's all I ever wanted, to act in musicals. How can you ask me to give it up?"
His eyebrows lifted. "I ask nothing, Miss Cartwright. I point out that, if one wants to conquer the world, it is best to ensure one has proper artillery for the battle. Pick a world you can conquer with the weapons at your disposal."
"So you think I'm not as good as Ivy." Oh, no, had she really said it? Open mouth, insert foot. Damn it.
"You are not Ivy Lynn, and Ivy is not you. Ivy is an actress, a greatly gifted, well-trained one. When Ivy sings, it is in the service of her character and the song. When you sing, my dear, it is in the service of your own mystique. This is not a bad thing, it is merely unsuited for theatre. I've friends, contacts, not just in New Orleans, who can offer you outlets for your genuine, exceptional abilities. I've said I hate waste – you won't deny, I think, that you are at present wasted upon studio recording. Your gift needs an audience, and you know this."
Karen looked away; the waiters were clearing the table, she had a minute. She was shaken by the words, so horrible to hear, so gently, so kindly offered. He had to be wrong. He had to be . . . didn't he? She wanted to resent, to be angry. Once she might have managed, but she couldn't, now..
She looked across the bare tablecloth. Heard the words as she spoke, without planning them. "Mr. Mallory, maybe you're right. Maybe. I don't know, I don't know anything anymore. Except that acting is what I have always wanted to do. Singing is just part of that. I can't, I can't stop trying. Maybe I'll fail. But I can't not keep trying. I just – I can't."
Porter Mallory nodded, smiled a little. "Miss Cartwright, I understand – believe me, I do. The offer is open, you have my card. Thank you so very much, my dear," as they rose, "for taking tea with me. I know what I've said cannot have been easy for you to hear; I hope you will believe it was offered out of a sincere interest."
Karen acknowledged, thanked her host in turn. And they parted.
She needed a drink.