She stood just outside the periphery of the stage, listening to the soft chatter of the people slowly filling the room beyond her line of vision. It was dark where she was, but she knew, beyond the barrier of curtains, there was a warm yellow light, setting the atmosphere, inviting people to sit, to expect a sense of intimacy and grandeur, romance and tragedy, all simultaneously. The thrum of life was punctuated by the sounds of the orchestra tuning up, below the proscenium, in the line of sight of the audience, but not where they would be a distraction from the action on the stage.
Rachel was early. Standing in the wings, she couldn't help but feel that she might be getting in people's way, but she couldn't stand her tiny dressing room any longer and staring at herself in her vanity mirror was not helping calm her nerves at all. Not to mention the bouquet of white gardenias sitting there, with a note saying: "Break a leg. I'll be watching" from some unknown personage. The note was typed, so no clue could be ascertained from the handwriting. Rachel's insides boiled with frustration, anticipation and nerves; who would do that? Who would leave a note, only not to identify themselves? Why would they even bother? Rachel never had had the patience for secret admirers. She needed public displays of affection; it was the only way to know whether she was truly appreciated or not.
The noise from the theatre grew louder as more people filled the red seats. It was supposed to be a full house tonight - not unusual for the show, but one of those seats belonged to the person who'd sent her those flowers, and Rachel was itching to find out who it was.
Her mouth tasted of the tang of alcohol, and she took another swig of the rum in her hand. To those people who'd paid to come see the show, it was would have been considered bad form to be drinking so close to the opening number, but those who worked in the theatre industry knew better; no actor ever went on stage completely sober. They didn't drink much, just enough to help steady their nerves; definitely not enough to seem as though they had been drinking. Now that would have been bad form, and Rachel, if nothing else, was a great performer, dedicated to her art and perfecting it. Usually she avoided rum, preferring to go with something lighter, but her nerves were tenfold what they normally were, therefore requiring something stronger. Not that it was helping much, anyhow.
Who had sent the flowers? She'd asked the person who'd delivered them, but the best they could do was shrug and say they couldn't give the details of their customers due to their company's privacy policy. Her hands shook, holding the glass of rum while the faces of a million different people raced through her mind; surely it had to be one of them.
But then again, Rachel was a Broadway star; like all celebrities, she had her admirers - the sender could just well be some crazed person she'd never met before. Unlikely, because she'd asked security to not allow deliveries to her unless the sender could irrefutably prove that they personally knew her, but it was always a possibility that someone had faked an acquaintance just to get through to her. She could never be too cautious. She'd had her fair share of obsessed fans over the few years she had been acting in small plays, and she didn't wish repeat performances of those times; unpleasant wasn't a strong enough word to describe them.
Gardenias. White gardenias. She knew what those meant, and she knew it very well. She could never forget her junior year in high school, years ago though it was, and how, asked by a boy what kind of corsage to get his girlfriend for prom, she had said gardenia, hoping, with the small pulse of hope which beat in the recesses of her heart, that the girl would realise what a gardenia signified in the secret language of flowers. Secret love. Rachel's message went unheeded. Now she was tortured by the knowledge of what those flowers represented and not knowing who they were from. Was it karma? It was, she was sure it was; she'd done some terrible things to some people in her life, and now the universe was mocking her. It didn't care that she was famous, a Broadway star, it was intent on paying her back for all the horrible things she'd done. Someone tapped on her shoulder, and a head came into view, headphones covering ears and microphone positioned near mouth.
"Ms Berry, show starts in five," the young man said. She nodded at him, and ducking his head in acknowledgement, he spun away, footsteps clacking on the black linoleum floor. She sighed, put down her glass, and straightened her costume. She spared a moment to scratch at her underarm, where the seam of the costume bit into her skin, wishing that someone would fix it, but knowing that they wouldn't, and that it was her duty as an actress to put up with the discomfort; she'd had worse to deal with in the past. She watched the people bustle around her, the stage crew, rushing to their positions, ready to transform the stage into eighteenth century Paris, the sound crew, double checking the microphones on the costumes, and the director, patiently waiting to the side, relaxed as ever. He flashed Rachel a smile.
"Break a leg, honey," he grinned, the same good luck words he used before every performance. She smiled back, despite the anxious thoughts about the sender of the flowers chewing her mind. She loved working with David; he was, in her opinion, the apotheosis of directors. She only wished that she could work with him forever, but she knew, like any actress, that she wasn't destined to play this role forever.
Abruptly, the orchestra stopped its tuneless twanging and a hush fell over the theatre, both in the audience, and backstage. Every single person held a collective breath, hearts thudding in sweet anticipation. David nodded and one of the production crew pressed a button. And so it began, exactly as it began every other night, and Rachel was caught in it, throwing herself tirelessly into this new world, this new life, becoming a person so unlike herself, caught in troubles she herself had never herself personally faced. Tonight, she was Christine Daae. Tonight, and each night, she fell in love, over and over again with Raoul, and each night, she felt her heart break as she said goodbye to her mentor, the shattered, lonely Erik, the Phantom of the opera. Yet tonight, she didn't forget to look out discretely into the audience, and search for the sender of her flowers. The faces blurred, those close enough to be seen clearly, in love with the performance, and further away, the faces became too distant to see properly.
By the end of the performance, she had no clearer idea of who the sender might be, and despite a cast and crew overjoyed by another sold out performance, congratulating one another, and their unlikely, but marvellous star, Rachel Berry, she, the star in question, retired to her dressing room, where she stared mutely at the gardenias for a long time before changing out of her costume. Someone had come and cleared the half finished glass of rum from her dresser during the performance, and Rachel found herself wishing that they hadn't. A knock on the door startled her. David entered, still smiling in the afterglow of another successful performance, but there was an unmistakable air of worry about him as he gently shut the door behind him. He half sat, half leaned against the edge of her table, long legs stretched out, crossed, supporting his weight. He looked at her, the smile fast fading.
"What is wrong, my little star?" he asked, ever aware of Rachel's emotions. It was one of the things she loved about working with him, he always paid attention to how those he was working with were feeling, and tried his utmost to cheer them up; if there was one thing David made sure of, it was that everyone he was working with was happy and content. Nothing wounded him more than seeing someone unhappy. Wordlessly, Rachel pointed at the bouquet. David looked at them, read the note still nested among the flowers, and returned his gaze to Rachel. He shrugged, palms outward, a confused expression gracing his face.
"They mean secret love. David, someone out there tonight told me in their flowers that they are in love with me, and I have no idea who it is! It's so infuriating!" she exclaimed, distressed. "And it's someone I must know, because I've told security to not allow any gifts from anyone unless they can prove that I know them. What am I supposed to do, David?"
"This worries you?" he noted, questioning, though he knew the answer. With a confirming nod from Rachel, he continued, "let me tell you a story. One year ago, I held auditions for a key role in a famous Broadway play. I saw hundreds of hopeful girls, young women, some with talent, some who could hardly hold a note, and as I sat there, the hours whittling past, I thought to myself, 'am I ever going to find the right actress?' And then, just as I thought it, this young lady comes in, all courage and confidence, and she gives us this big smile and says 'Hello, I'm Rachel Berry, and I'm going to be your next Christine Daae,' and then she proceeded to astonish us with her rendition of Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again. I knew straight away, she was the girl I wanted to cast, but the other people on the panel fought me. 'She's too short,' said one. 'She doesn't look like a Christine,' said another, and to them I said, 'No, but inside, she is Christine, and has a voice to match.' So I cast her anyway. Four months after opening night, she is one of the most loved young women to ever play this role, with hordes of people falling down at her feet to please her, and yet, here she sits, upset and hiding, because someone sent her flowers. Honey, don't you know what the flowers mean? They mean you made it! After this, you won't have to fight to the death for another role, they'll be handed to you," he said, smiling at her, "you shouldn't let something like bouquets of flowers from a mysterious sender get you down. You should be leaping for joy that someone loves you enough to send them in the first place. You're a Broadway actress, baby, it comes with the job description."
"I know, and I love you for casting me, and I love the job, and I love that I'm here, living my dream, but it still bothers me. Yes, I have fans who clamber for my autograph, waiting outside the stage doors for a glimpse of me, but despite that, David, I still go home alone. I still turn on the lights to an empty apartment, and go to sleep in a cold bed. It doesn't bother me most of the time, but there's someone who says they're in love with me, and I'm lonely. Can you blame me for wanting to know who it is?" she replied, her voice full of sadness. It was funny, her voice was full of sadness everyday on stage, but this sadness was different, this sadness touched her, made her feel its presence within her chest; this sadness hurt. David was still smiling at her, but his smile drooped a little at the edges, pity filled his eyes.
"I know honey, I know. But don't go throwing yourself at the first person who says I love you. Half of them don't mean it, a quarter of the rest say it because they're afraid of being alone, and nine-tenths of them say it only because it means they'll get into your pants. Only one person is ever going to truly mean it, so you have to make sure that you're listening. Choose who gets to break your heart, Rae, because only one person is ever worth it," David advised, walking over and kneeling on the carpet, coming eye to eye with Rachel. She sniffled.
"I hate it when you call me Rae," she muttered, crossing her arms and hugging herself. David grinned.
"I know. But why do you think I do it? If not me, then who? Now, c'mon, I'll take you home. I'm guessing you won't want to go out with the rest of them for a couple of drinks," he said, gently lifting her to her feet. As she steadied herself, he grabbed her bag, and then led her out of the theatre.
Few people still lingered at the stage door, eager for a chance to see the stars of the performance. To her immense credit, Rachel pulled up a smile and was as friendly as ever with them, making small talk as she signed their playbills and posed for badly lit photos taken by tiny digital cameras. David stood by her side, assisting her all the while, without making it look like she needed help. Just as they went to leave, they were stopped by a man in his early thirties, wearing a beaten leather jacket. He held his playbill out, smiling at Rachel. She took his offered pen and signed, casting furtive glances at his face, wondering where on earth she might have seen him before. He stirred a memory deep within her, and she could feel it struggling to rise to the surface; she knew she'd seen him before, but couldn't quite place him. He caught her staring and grinned.
"Can't quite remember, can you? I didn't think you would. Mark," he offered, "we met in Ohio, when you were still in high school. A mutual friend introduced us."
That was it, she remembered now. The struggling memory broke free, and suddenly her mind was flooded with hazy images of dim lighting, a pool game, a sliver of flesh and an exhilarating feeling. Of course. She'd buried those times so deep, they were almost foreign to her. But she offered her hand, smiling as Mark shook it.
"Of course, Mark, I remember now. The House of Chaos. How could I have forgotten?"
"I didn't expect you to remember. It was a long time ago, and you've come a long way since then. But as soon as I saw your name in the newspaper, I knew I had to come see your play. Quinn always said you were going to make it big one day," Mark smiled. Rachel's heart hammered in her chest at the mention of Quinn, the girl she'd left behind.
"And," Rachel began, but found her mouth dry. She swallowed, and tried again, "and how is Quinn?"
"Well. She went back to school the year after you graduated. Not McKinley, because that damn principal wouldn't accept her back into the school, but she finished her education. Then she was an English major at Columbia, and she never moved away."
"She still lives here?" Rachel asked, feeling her breath catch in her throat. Mark nodded.
"Sure. She still visits home a lot, but she's got herself an apartment up here, and she's working with a publishing company, and trying to write her own book. She's doing well."
"Oh. Well, that's nice for her," Rachel murmured, forcing a smile to hide the strange feeling which had leapt, unbidden, within her. "Um, I have to go, but if you see her, you should say hi from me," she added, hoping that he didn't hear the reluctance in her voice. He nodded again and smiled. Rachel tugged at David's sleeve, urging him along. As they walked away, she did her best not to break into a hurry, keeping her stride in check.
"Nice seeing you again, Rachel!" she heard Mark call to her as they disappeared around a corner. As soon as they were out of sight, she let her shoulders slump, losing the composure she had been struggling to maintain. She shook her head at David when she saw him open his mouth to ask the million questions which she was sure were racing through his mind. Adhering to her want of silence, he led her to the car, opening the door for her.
She spent the ride home wrapped in her cocoon of quiet, letting the thoughts run through her mind as they would. First gardenias and then Mark; this night was just full of things which she linked back to Quinn. She shook her head slightly and drew a deep breath. A coincidence, it was all just a coincidence, she told herself, battling her imagination as it tried to convince her otherwise. She was lonely and had just heard that her ex-girlfriend was in New York, the very same city she was living in, that's all it was, this feeling which left her breathless and exhilarated, and painfully worried. New York was a big city, she justified to herself, there was no reason to think that she would ever run into Quinn; there were millions of people here that she'd never met and never would, who would live their entire lives in this jungle city full of lights and yellow taxis. She released the breath she'd been holding, letting her worries melt away with it. Staring out of the windshield, she brought herself back to her calm centre, where thoughts of Quinn couldn't rattle her. She smiled at David, who had been shooting her concerned glances the whole car trip.
"I'm ok, I promise," she acknowledged. He grunted.
"What I saw was not someone who was ok. It's none of my business, and if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but I've never seen you react that way to anything," he said, and Rachel almost cringed. Of course he'd noticed; it had been a year, but he knew her so well already, better than some of her close friends. "Hun, if you need to talk about what happened, you know I'm listening. Also, I need to know these things if they can upset you so easily. I can't have my star worried sick about something else when she should be immersed in the production."
"You're right," she agreed as he pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex, "come up. I think I need to talk about it, and you're willing to listen, and you volunteered, so you're the one who's going to hear it."
They took the elevator ride in silence, and it wasn't until Rachel had poured them a drink, tea for herself and black coffee for David, which he cringed at slightly, but drank anyway, that she settled down on the leather sofa next to him and began to talk. She told him of Quinn, and their relationship, how it had begun, how it had ended, and how, up until this very night, she hadn't considered that Quinn might be in the same city; all this time she had assumed that Quinn stayed in Lima.
"Do you regret things ending with her?" David asked, sipping from his still steaming mug. Rachel shook her head vehemently.
"Gosh no. Maybe the way I handled it, but not that it ended. I did what was right for me, and I can't regret that. I let her abuse my trust and that's not fair. Besides, that's not the way to have a healthy relationship. You're supposed to tell the other person things, not keep millions of secrets. No, I don't regret things ending with her. But I do wish I'd done it in a way to have more closure. I still feel guilty about the way I brushed her off, and then the way I yelled at her at graduation. I even knew the only reason she'd come was to see me, but it made me angry, rather than flattered. I hope I don't see her around the city. I love life here, and I don't want it ruined by being afraid of seeing her every time I go out," she said. David made an amused sound.
"And yet, Rae, you're going to look for her everywhere you go now, aren't you? Ah Rachel, my poor little Broadway star, so naïve, so inexperienced. I don't know if you can see it, but you're still in love with her," he smiled. Rachel was taken aback, shocked by his saying so.
"What?" she cried in outrage, leaping to her feet, "after everything I said to you, you still think I'd be in love with her? Weren't you listening? I'm not in love with her, I don't regret breaking things off, and I really wish I don't see her again."
"Ah, but your body lies. You're a great actress, but terrible at hiding your feelings. Yes, you're angry, but you still love her. Tell me, how many relationships which lasted longer than six months have you had since her?" he asked. Silence was his only answer. He smiled again. Rachel shook her head.
"No, that doesn't mean anything. None of those people were right for me. Ryan was misogynistic, Roger was too much of a control freak and Lily was too possessive. I couldn't be with them. And then there was James, who was jealous, and I think he was only with me because he thought he could get famous off my fame. That doesn't mean I'm in love with Quinn; it just proves that I haven't found the right person for me yet!"
David shook his head slightly, and sipped at his coffee, smiling into the mug. On the surface, they all seemed like legitimate reasons for those relationships to fail, but he was sure, if Rachel looked deep enough, and was honest with herself, she would find that the reasons those people weren't right for her was because she kept comparing them to Quinn. From what he'd heard about the girl, it seemed she was Rachel's balancing half.
"Well, ok, if you say so, Rae," he shrugged, knowing that even if he kept arguing, she'd still be convinced she was right, "but no more looking into the audience to find your secret admirer, and definitely no looking out to see if Quinn has come to watch your show. I want you fully committed to the performance."
Rachel blushed. "You noticed?" and when David nodded, she flushed an even deeper red, "I'm sorry, it won't happen again. That was a lapse on my part, and I should have known better. I thought it wasn't obvious," she apologised. David chuckled.
"It wasn't obvious. But I'm the director. It's my job to see the things the audience doesn't, and make sure that they're corrected. However, apart from that, congratulations on another flawless performance, Ms Berry," he laughed, "and don't worry, tomorrow I have a bone to pick with George and his inability to wear his bowtie straight. I know for a fact that's not costuming's doing," and even Rachel giggled at that. The older man was in the habit of playing with the bowtie between takes, always skewing it, sometimes deliberately. He claimed it gave his character flair. Everyone else said it made him look like a drunkard.
For a little while longer, they spoke of inconsequential things, of this actress or that, and which shows they were leaving, or coming into, and of things they'd done or seen over the past few weeks. Eventually, with time whittling away, the antique clock on the wall showing that it was nearing one in the morning, David decided it was time he went home. So with a friendly kiss on each cheek, indicative of his European upbringing, and a farewell of "Sweet dreams, darling," he took his leave, letting Rachel alone to spend the rest of the night with ghosts and memories in her cold, empty bed.
A/N: so there you have it, the beginning of the second half of this story, an insight into Rachel's life in New York. It's set about 7 or 8 years after graduation. Hopefully, I haven't proceeded to disappoint any of you!