Once In A Blue Moon. Kristin James

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      Three

      Isabelle took the script Tish handed her and quickly perused it to get a sense of her scenes the following week. All around her in the lounge, other actors and actresses were doing the same thing. She sneaked a glance at Ben Ivor. He was running his forefinger down the pages, counting under his breath. She cut her eyes toward Felice McIntyre, sitting beside her. Felice, who played the sweet, perennially martyred Townsend sister, Christine, on the show, put her hand up to stifle a giggle. Ben Ivor’s obsession with the number of lines he was given per week was a running joke between them. He played one of the minor regular characters on the show, the resident bartender who also got up now and then to sing on the nightclub’s small stage.

      “Fourteen lines!” Ivor exclaimed in disgust. “I can’t believe it. I thought last week was bad enough, but fourteen!” He jumped up, slamming the script shut and started out the door. “I’m going to talk to Karen.”

      He stalked out of the lounge to find the head writer of the show. Felice pulled a cigarette out of the pack on the table before her and lit it languidly. “If Karen’s smart, she’ll have left the building already.”

      Isabelle chuckled. “I heard that last week she was forced to resort to hiding in the women’s rest room to escape him.”

      “I heard. Poor Ben. Since they wrote Selman out, he hasn’t had anyone to compare lines with. He has nothing else to do except harass Karen.”

      Felice flipped through the pages. “Oh, God, they’re going on with this hypnosis thing. I can’t imagine what else Christine could possibly dredge up from her past. She’s had every illness and tragedy known to man.”

      “There’s incest,” Isabelle pointed out. “They’ve never dropped that on her.”

      “Incest? In the saintly Townsend clan? Get real. Besides, they just did the incest thing with Lena last year.”

      “That’s right. I’d forgotten. Oh, well, that’s never stopped them yet.” Isabelle thumbed through her pages. “Hey, you and I get into a cat fight on Wednesday.”

      “Really?” Felice looked delighted. “What page? Is there any physical stuff? I always like a real knock-down drag-out.”

      “Mmm. I slap you, and you turn a bowl of soup over my head.” She made a face. “Great. Why is it that I’m always the one who gets drinks thrown in her face or food dumped in her lap?”

      “Because you always have to get your comeuppance in some form, my dear. After all, Jessica always manages to slither out of the consequences for the nasty things she does.”

      Isabelle continued flipping through the script while Felice perused the fight scene. When Isabelle reached the following Friday’s filming, she froze. Both hers and Michael’s names jumped off the page at her. She began to read, and with each line she grew stiffer and tauter.

      “No! I can’t.” She looked up and glanced around the room, even though she knew it was useless to seek out one of the writers there on the day they handed out the scripts. They were usually out of the building, leaving the head writer to deal with the actors’ complaints.

      “What is it?” Felice glanced up at her, startled by the note of real panic in Isabelle’s voice. “What have they got down for you?”

      “They have me trying to seduce Curtis Townsend.”

      “Michael Traynor?” Felice grinned. “What are you complaining about? Most of the actresses on this show are panting for a chance to do a love scene with him. I’m just sorry I play his sister. I heard Sally was in Carol’s office the other day trying to persuade her that her character was a much better one to pair Michael with than Lena’s. Of course, he and Lena haven’t exactly lit up the screen. I hear Danny is really disappointed with the lack of interest the viewers are showing in their couple. They get tons of letters about Michael, but most of them think he and Lena together are a yawn. That’s probably why they’re trying to spice it up by having you seduce him.”

      Isabelle hardly heard Felice. All she could think of was the scene on the paper before her. She simply could not do it!

      Naively, she realized now, she had been congratulating herself on how well she had handled Michael’s presence on the show. Most of the time she had avoided the snack area and lounge, the place where she was most likely to run into him. If she did happen to find herself in the same room with him, she had made sure that she stayed on the opposite side of it. When she met him in the halls, she gave him a nod or a terse hello in greeting. Fortunately, he had not attempted to talk to her again, other than their stiff, formal greetings. She had, finally, grown accustomed to seeing him, so that it was not the same shock to her nervous system whenever she came upon him unexpectedly.

      Their first scene together had come two weeks after he arrived, and Isabelle had been stiff and nervous, mentally braced to ward off his charm. After they shot it, she had almost cried in her dressing room, sure that it had been the worst performance she’d ever given. But when she’d looked at it later, she had seen that it hadn’t been bad. The edginess and faint atmosphere of hostility had worked well. Michael’s character was, fortunately, written as her enemy; he was about the only male in the fictional town of Lansfield who saw through her beauty to the wicked character beneath. They had had a few scenes together since then, and Isabelle had found it easy to portray the antagonism between them. She was beginning to believe that everything would work out all right. She could handle the intermittent, hostile scenes with Michael, and the rest of the time she could avoid him.

      But now this....

      Isabelle stood up abruptly. “I have to talk to Karen.”

      Felice gaped at her. “Are you serious?”

      “Of course I am. I don’t want to do this. It—it isn’t right.” She glanced down at her friend and, seeing her astonished expression, added hastily, “For the part, I mean. They’re enemies. There’s no way Jessica would make a play for him.”

      Felice shrugged and said wryly, “Then he’d be the only one in town.”

      Isabelle grimaced. “Well, she’s a slut, of course, but she isn’t stupid.” She turned and started for the door.

      Just at that moment, Michael Traynor, sitting across the СКАЧАТЬ