Still with me after that first whopper? Much obliged. Warning's fair: this one will have my fingerprints and agendas ALL OVER IT.
BELFAST
Assumpta slid out of her black leather character heels only when the rest of the actresses had already done so. As they busied themselves taking off costumes and putting on street clothes, she surreptitiously opened the tiny stainless flask in her handbag. She put a splash of vodka in each shoe, to kill germs and odours, then one more in her mouth to kill the nagging in her mind.
She killed time, too - unpinning her hair as the others packed up, waiting as always for the last to leave. She never had found communal changing easy, never taken to strutting about topless whilst her makeup and hair set, the way some others did. Tonight, though, she was growing impatient. It was as if Caitlin, the ingenue, meant to dawdle as long as possible.
Caitlin paused between coats of lip gloss. "You'll join us at the cast party, Maire?" It was the name Assumpta had taught herself to answer to, had paired with her mother's maiden name. Everyone uses a stage name, she had assured herself on arriving in Belfast three years ago. Even people who aren't supposed to be dead. It was no less fitting than her real name. Blessed Virgin. Blessed Mother. Assumpta was hardly either.
Caitlin was staring, waiting for a response.
"Hadn't decided," Assumpta bluffed. "Where is it?"
"Same as last show. Pub down the road."
"Ah. No, no, I'd better turn in early tonight, I think."
"Suit yourself. Was that a knock?"
"I didn't hear anything."
The young, svelte blonde sighed and rose to her full willowy height, opening the door to a floral delivery girl. Assumpta gave her bare-bulb-framed reflection a wry grin. She had thought for certain all Caitlin's admirers had already made their feelings known by curtain time this final matinee, but sure there was always one more. Especially since she'd been in the TV advert for a local fast-food spot. As if this girl had ever eaten a cheeseburger in her life...
The courier retrieved a pen from her shirt pocket. "Delivery for Maire Mellon?"
Caitlin spun on her heel and gave Assumpta a surprised grin. Assumpta stepped forward on her bare feet and signed for the bouquet, perplexed, uneasy. She cradled it against her with one arm as she pulled the card free from its plastic brace.
Maire, it read,
Please ring when you get a chance. Urgent.
Dr. Michael Ryan
"Got yourself a fan?" Caitlin purred, the way an adult congratulates a child for tying her own shoes.
Assumpta felt her heart pounding, and suddenly worried that the whole isle could somehow hear it, could know she still had a heartbeat. "Something like that," she muttered.
The stage had been, in an odd way, the perfect hiding place. She never looked like herself; wigs and period costumes and contouring Ben Nye makeup saw to that. Assumpta Fitzgerald had done theatre in college and, once, in Ballykea; life-enhancing works of art, pivotal leading roles. Maire Mellon's career, on the other hand, would have proven untraceable - if only anyone ever researched it, which they never did. They wanted to know about the ingenue, the male lead, the soap opera has-been making a "special guest appearance" in a three-line cameo - but they were never terribly curious about the chorus singer, or the dinner guest who was poisoned before Intermission, or the leading lady's shrewish older sister.
She told herself it had to be expected as a woman neared the end of her twenties, though she noticed the leading men were as often pushing forty as they were any younger. She told herself she couldn't expect those leading roles when the audition pool always averaged a head taller and a stone lighter, but in truth she sometimes missed Niamh and Siobhan telling her how slim she was, or missed getting roles on her talent's merits instead of her "type." She told herself steady work was a miracle in and of itself; she told herself that it was for the best that an adult runaway with an assumed name wasn't getting top billing. Still, these one-note walk-ons were beginning to wear thin. And this place was hardly The Lyric; its shallow parodies and door-slamming farces were far from high art. Forget Playboy of the Western World. This place couldn't secure the rights to Dancing at Lughnasa. Wouldn't even want to. Not full-time, not professional, not even aspiring to be.
She told herself that was show business.
She also told herself after all this time that she had done the right thing. That she wouldn't be missed. Fionn was surely still a happy pet to Kevin O'Kelly; Fitzgerald's was surely still the best pub in County Wicklow under Niamh's careful watch; Peter was surely still a good priest - parish priest by now, even.
All as it should be. The only way it could. Surely.
What on Earth did Michael want, then?!
She had one more nip from the flask.
She shrugged off the ridiculous, ill-fitting chambermaid costume and hung it on its hook. She pulled on her socks, then jeans, and finally her ages-old black t-shirt with its faded silkscreen of Raphael's cherubs. At last, she dipped her fingers into the cold cream and began to massage away the stranger's face she'd been wearing.