Manuela plopped gracelessly onto the edge of the wooden stage, letting her feet dangle in the air like a child. An exhausted, deeply sullen child. Tonight's performance had been bad, leaving her dissatisfied to the point it she had disappeared into her changing room the second the curtain had fallen without talking to anyone. She was feeling only slightly better now, face free from makeup, and contemplating the empty auditorium seats in front of her. They did not look half as terrifying in plain light as they did when the room was plunged into darkness and the very seats were filled with nameless silhouettes. She never really gave it too much thought, before. After all, she had started as a complete amateur. It had been normal for her to stumble over words, to make mistakes; none of this had ever stopped her from feeling confident with her ability to act. But she was older now, more experienced. She had no right to be only passable, she needed to irreproachable every evening, without fail. And she was far from it. At times, she wondered why she subjected herself to this nonsense. Tonight particularly, she could not for the life of her figure out why she had once believed she was fit for such a horribly taxing career.
Lady Windermere's Fan had premiered at the Temple theatre only a few days ago, and it had already been acclaimed by the audience and critics, from what she had heard. Manuela should have been content but, true to herself, she was feeling the exact opposite. Maybe she was losing her touch, or maybe she was not right for the character. Comedy was not her strong suit, she had repeated over and over again. Surely people could sense it? But as expected everyone, even Mr. Jensen, had gone out of their way to assure her of the contrary. Maybe they simply wanted to be gracious. Maybe they had no misgiving wallowing in mediocrity. Regardless, Manuela was finding it increasingly difficult to accept the praise, the pats on the back, the constant attention when she felt like such a fraud, and so inadequate these days that she regularly woke up with the urge to quit acting altogether. Elisabeth refused to hear any of it, brushing it off as one of Manuela's countless self-faith crises and arguing that if she was not fit to act, no one else in the company and perhaps in Broadway was.
Of course Elisabeth would disregard Manuela's insecurities when she was unable to even acknowledge her own. After what had happened at the restaurant, the actress had been resolute to cut to the chase and finally have this serious, overdue talk with Elisabeth. Naturally, she had been met with some vague excuse that had left a bitter taste in her mouth. Merely a bit of nostalgia, Elisabeth had assured. She was very happy here, of course, she was, she had promised. Feeling anger bubble deep within her, Manuela had nodded tersely before grabbing her coat and almost running to Ida's apartment, positively irate and demanding answers.
"Tell me what is going on with your sister. Tell me now, Ida, or I can assure you…" she had started, her fists clenching and unclenching angrily.
"Are you out of your mind?" the singer had asked, eyes rounding in outrage and hair pointing towards unusual directions at such an early time in the evening. At this very moment, and upon noticing her sister-in-law quickly tying the knot of her bathrobe, Manuela had realised she might have interrupted something, and she had had the delicacy of looking slightly apologetic for about a second before re-entering the fray with renewed fervour.
"What is it, then? You must know something…"
Ida had then taken a deep breath and ran a hand through her hair in an empty attempt to smooth it down.
"Listen to me very carefully. You and my sister are both…" she had started, almost snorting at Manuela's absolute trepidation. "So painfully pig-headed and stubborn! You deserve each other! And I will not be stuck in the middle of your pointless arguments ever again which, in passing, would have no reason to be if only you two decided to stop behaving like idiots for one second!"
She had concluded her inspired delivery by slamming the door in a flabbergasted Manuela's face, giving her no chance to argue.
Ida had been right, Manuela thought. Communication was key to most delicate situations, she knew this. What she also knew was that it was a skill she and Elisabeth were not very good at, as uncanny as it was for an actress and a teacher. There was a time where they did talk about anything, a time when Manuela knew she could turn to Elisabeth anytime, and would unmistakably be met with patient and wise advice, or even simply a good-natured smile that said so much. Where had these times gone? It was terrible and cruel, she thought, to miss someone so much, someone who was right there. Even Ida was shutting the door at her face now, literally and figuratively. Manuela felt trapped and lonely, and this was not something she took well to. She felt like a wreck –a sham of an actress that even the woman she adored did not trust enough to confide in. Again, the thought of her beloved Elisabeth, miles away from her, filled her with a fresh wave of helplessness and, soon enough, exasperation.
"Damn it!" Manuela cursed to no one in particular, letting her two clenched fists hit the wooden boards with a loud bang.
"There you are," a soft voice resounded in the otherwise silent theatre, and Manuela had to squint to identify its owner.
She almost sighed upon realising that the person who was now steadily walking towards her was Abigail, her most dedicated admirer. "Uh –I was just about to leave…" she ventured.
"Oh?" The girl's face fell at the words and she came to a halt in front of the stage, and necessarily, in front of Manuela. "Right. I simply wanted to give you this, since I couldn't get to you last time."
With that, she procured a bottle of whisky from her handbag and gave it to Manuela with a hopeful smile.
"Whisky," she commented, secretly impressed. "And the good stuff, too!"
"It's nothing."
Nothing? Manuela looked between the bottle and the girl's face with a certain amount of curiosity. This was probably worth more than a month of the girl's salary. If she even worked at all.
"You don't have to bring me presents all the time, you know. Especially not that expensive."
"Oh –I didn't buy it. I stole it from my father's cabinet," she admitted with a giggle at Manuela's scandalised look. "But don't worry, he won't notice a thing. He hates whisky, but he pretends not to."
Well, that explained it. She was a rich daddy's girl… Regardless, it was nice.
"In that case… thank you, Abigail."
The girl blushed deliciously upon hearing Manuela say her name, and she looked away.
"Don't thank me. You were quite frankly incredible tonight, as you always are. It was the least I could do."
"Right…" Manuela replied, her tone sharp and unconvinced. "Incredible."
"It's true," Abigail insisted, taking a step closer. "Surely you've read the critics? They are heaping praise on you!"
"Ah, what else is new? One day they worship you and the next, they are ready to nail you down to the ground."
"So you never read them?" the girl asked, agape.
Manuela hesitated for a moment, unsure if she wanted to open up about her insecurities to someone barely knew. "Let's say that they make me jittery, and not in a good way. Good or bad, I tend to get so nervous that the words have lost all meaning by the time I reach the end of the first column."
This made the girl chuckle, but she quickly grew serious again. "Well, I think you are amazing."
"And I think you are slightly partial. But thank you, anyway."
"Is this the reason you are sad?" the girl looked down timidly as if asking something forbidden.
"I –I'm not… I really need to go," Manuela muttered, pushing herself off the stage hastily.
"Oh, no, I'm sorry… I didn't mean to pry. But when I came in and saw you sitting here on your own, you looked like you could use a friend."
The actress studied the young woman standing in front of her. She had never noticed before, nor given it any sort of thought, but her pointed chin and the hint of mischief in her eyes made her look a lot like Yvette. Manuela sighed and looked down at the bottle she was still holding.
"Fancy a drink?" she offered, and then winced. "Wait. How old are you?"
Abigail blinked, obviously not expecting the sudden change in topic. "23."
"Oh that's… alright then," Manuela quickly muttered, wary not to divulge that she herself was a year younger. "Stay there. I'll get glasses for us."
"But he did realise before walking onstage, right?"
"That's the thing! He went out there without a care in the world and noticed only at the end of act 2. Might have felt a breeze down there at some point or something," Manuela guffawed, downing the rest of her drink in one go.
She had come to the conclusion, halfway through the bottle, that leaving such fine whisky to a man incapable of appreciating it would have been a crime. This girl had been nice to talk to, in the end. Woman, she mentally corrected herself.
"I really should head home," she said, glancing at her watch.
"I had no idea it was so late," the blonde smiled, obviously disappointed but willing not to show it. "Thank you for tonight… I had no idea you could be so funny. I mean, I knew it, but I am happy that I got the chance to witness it."
"I'm guessing the whisky might have helped, just a tad."
"Probably, yes."
"I truly must dash, my wife will be waiting for me," Manuela half-mumbled as she attempted to put her arm through the sleeve of her coat with visible difficulty. "Are you okay to get back on your own?"
There was a sound that sounded like a gasp, followed by a moment of silence before the girl jumped to her feet to help Manuela with the garment. "Yes, yes. Go on," she assured.
"Good night then."
"Manuela, wait!" the girl yelled.
The actress whirled around gracelessly upon hearing her name, eyelids half closed already.
"Hm?"
"I… I like you a lot," the blonde in front of her blurted out, and even through her blurry vision, Manuela could tell that her cheeks were aflame. This made her laugh, and she waved her hand in a dismissive move.
"Ohh Yvette, I like you too."
From what Manuela could see, which again, was not much at that point, she noticed the thin line of the girl's mouth turn slightly downward and this was when she realised her mistake.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," she quickly apologised. "You look like someone who was very dear to me and –to be frank, I think I might be drunk. Will you forgive me?"
The blonde nodded vigorously, which vaguely relieved Manuela until she noticed that the girl seemed to be drawing closer to her. And closer. She opened her mouth to enquire about the sudden and quite unwelcome promiscuity but, before she had a chance, a kiss was being pressed against it.
Note: I know. You hate me.