Alyse was in a state of awe. As she'd gotten ready for the audition that morning, it hadn't quite sunk into her, where she was going, what she was about to do. She'd just gotten ready, toiled over picking out a dress to wear, finally settling on blue once again, as it was a good colour on her and brought out her eyes. She'd fussed with her hair, unsure as to what to do with the mess of it. Growing up, she'd been taught by her parents, "a proper lady has long hair but wears it up." She'd grown so sick of piling it all on her head at home that she decided for the audition, she'd leave it all down. It spilled down her back in a blazing blonde shower that she tried, without luck, to calm a bit. Her hair never wanted to do what she wanted it to do, and she gave up, resolving herself to leaving the curls the way they were. She'd put on a bit of makeup, inspected herself in the small mirror, and decided she was fit to leave the room. She'd found her handbag, stepped out of the room, glanced across the hall at her neighbor's, walked down the steps, and out of the building.
And stood still for a few moments, unable to move.
There towered the Moulin Rouge, in all of its glory. She wasn't imagining, she wasn't dreaming--she was really standing across the street from the Moulin Rouge. For the last few years of her life, all Alyse had dreamed about was coming here, becoming famous, lighting up the stage. And here she was, about to cross the street and walk into that theatre, and attempt to win a role in a play there.
What on earth was she thinking?
Fear shot through her, strong and pure, and she stepped backwards a bit, intending to turn around and go back inside her apartment and forget she'd ever thought about auditioning at the Moulin Rouge. She made it about 6 steps before she heard a voice in her mind.
You don't really want to prove your family right, do you?
She kept walking and shook her head, trying to ignore that niggling voice of her conscience.
If you don't cross that street and go inside, and at least try, you'll hate yourself forever.
Alyse had almost reached the door of the building, but those words made her stop. She'd heard people talk before, of having their conscience speak to them, but this was mad! Would her conscience really taunt her like this? She put a hand to her temple and thought. Well, her conscience had a good point. Yesterday, she'd been so determined to prove herself, to show that she could make it. And here she was, with a golden opportunity, and she was ready to pass it up, because--because she was scared? She shook her head at herself again. Well, that is just silly, she thought. If I want to be an actress, I have to be able to handle rejection, and I have to be willing to try…or else I will hate myself. And there's no way, she thought fiercely, that I am going to leave here without trying for my dream. She squared her shoulders, stepped away from the building and crossed the street.
She entered the Moulin Rouge, trying her very hardest to not look as amazed as she felt. It was extravagant--bold colors, beautiful artwork--everything she'd ever imagined. And there was quite a line of people waiting to audition. Not too many, she hoped, that she wouldn't get her chance. They didn't have to wait very long before Harold Zidler came out to collect the group of aspiring stars, drawing gasps and giggles. He began talking--shouting, rather--and pulling them inside to the theatre itself, instructing everyone to take seats and they would start. Alyse sat down next to two girls about her age, and now here she was, watching with rapt attention as Zidler explained a bit about the play.
"It's not quite finished yet, but I guarantee it will be a smashing, wonderful, exhilarating story! This show will make its stars fabulously famous and spectacularly well known!" he bellowed in a jovial voice. "Our writer here has quite the talent and I assure you all it will be fantastic!" Just as Zidler turned to motion towards the writer, Alyse felt the burning of eyes on her. She turned her head, along with the rest of the crowd, to see where Zidler was pointing.
"Our writer! He's written for us before--some of you may remember 'Spectacular, Spectacular'--" the crowd stirred a little as those old enough to recall murmured their recollections, and something inside of Alyse began to flutter. "--well, he's come back to the Moulin Rouge, and aren't we so lucky to have him writing this play! Christian, stand up, my boy!"
Everything went fuzzy for an instant for Alyse, as she watched the writer rise up out of his chair, briefly, and nod his head at the crowd of people. It was him, she thought dizzily, as his green eyes met hers and he sat back down. The one she'd met yesterday, the one who lived across the hallway. He was the writer of this play...he was the writer of 'Spectacular, Spectacular'...that meant...
He's Christian. The Christian from the book. The Christian who wrote the book.