“I’m not worried about the costumes and sets holding together,” he said, “as much as I am about the play holding together. I suppose it’s just first-night jitters, but I have the terrible feeling that the whole play ought to be rewritten from beginning to end. But Mal won’t let me change so much as one single word now.”
“Randy! The play is beautiful,” Peggy said, “and I don’t think there’s a word in it that should be changed. Besides, you shouldn’t say things like that out loud, even if you feel them. Some of the cast might hear you, and they’re already nervous enough, without having to worry about the quality of the play.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Randy said moodily. “And anyway, it’s too late. How are the actors holding up? Are they really nervous? You look as cool as an orchid on ice.”
“I’m not,” Peggy said, “but if I’m going to fool the audience into thinking so, I have to start by fooling myself. The rest of the gang seem all right, too, except that their good-humored kidding around sounds suspiciously on the edge of hysteria!”
“How’s our leading lady?” Randy asked cautiously. “She looked a little strange when I saw her last, about an hour ago.”
“I don’t know,” Peggy said slowly. “She seemed ... strange ... to me, too. She wasn’t nervous, and she wasn’t kidding around with the rest of the cast, and at the same time, she didn’t seem cool and calm. She just looked sort of distant and detached. I think she’s collecting her strength, in a way—preparing herself to be Alison, rather than just to play her.”
“That’s the way it seemed to me,” Randy said. “It’s as if she has written a sort of pre-play ... you know, the action that takes place before the play begins. She’s figured out what Alison’s frame of mind must have been before she arrived at the resort, and that’s the part she’s playing now.”
“That’s just what it is,” Amy said. “I know, because I talked to her about it last night, and she told me that the hardest part of acting for her was what she had to imagine for herself before ever coming on stage. I’ll bet by now she’s completely forgotten that she’s Paula Andrews and an actress, and that nothing is real for her but the character of Alison. That’s what makes her so good.”
“She is good,” Randy agreed, “and she certainly is Alison. I only hope she doesn’t completely convince herself that she’s living this rather than playing it, or she might start making up her own lines! And, at that,” he added gloomily, “they’d probably be a lot better than the ones I wrote.”
With a theatrical gesture of mock despair, he backed through the doorway and gently shut the door.