A Night at the Theater

Adrian Stoddard devoted his deductive skills to the figure ahead of him with an intensity that rivaled that of Sherlock Holmes during his most critical investigations.  Unlike the conclusions invariably reached by the famous detective, however, Adrian’s were, in this case, altogether favorable.  There was, to begin with, a tidy, red-belted waist; compact, gym-exercised hips; a dress only slightly-and certainly forgivably-short; and clean-shaven, bare legs supported on sensible platforms.  Her blouse suggested JP Penny, but her seductively-bouncing, spiral-curled auburn hair bespoke an expensive coiffure.  After but a moment’s contemplation, Adrian resolved the apparent contradiction to his satisfaction.  Assuming (he could not be sure) that she was as attractive fore as aft, then whatever was required to frame her face to its best advantage was money well spent.  And being a practical girl of limited means, she sensibly elected to forgo expensive blouses on the grounds that her bust line could speak for itself.

There remained the crucial question of her looks and time was running out.  Only two customers remained between the girl and the ticket seller’s window.  On the spur of the moment, all Adrian could think of was patently ludicrous, but years of experience introducing himself to women had taught him that content generally mattered little.

“Excuse me.  I’ve been too busy to read the reviews.  Business here in the city, you know.  Thinking about going to see ‘In the Heights’ instead.  It’s that new musical.  Know anything about it?”

She looked back and studied him with a relaxed, bemused expression.  Apparently she was not overly impressed by the tall, forty-fiveish man behind her nor was it the most inventive pickup line she had heard.  “This line is for The Phantom of the Opera,” she said coolly.

“Yes, of course.  And I don’t mind seeing it again, but I thought if the…”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said, cutting him off coolly.  The fact that he had been rebuffed was secondary to his discovery that her figure had not lied.  She was lovely.  And when he overheard her order a single ticket, his imagination raced ahead to their running into each other in the lobby during intermission as they, laughingly, again found themselves in a line, this time in front of the drink counter.  A few minutes of conversation would ascertain that their views of the performance were virtually the same and that, given more time-dinner after the show, perhaps-they would no doubt discover much else in common.  A bit clumsy, perhaps, but Adrian could recall affairs that had proceeded out of flimsier circumstances.  His fantasies soared, but then were dashed as quickly as they had arisen.  The girl apologized to the agent for not explaining at the outset that she meant the ticket for tomorrow night.  Tomorrow night he would be in London.  Then, as if consciously hastening what was for Adrian a tragic breakup, the girl bought the least expensive seat available and stepped smartly out of his life forever.

Subsiding more slowly than had events on the ground, Adrian’s sharpened senses triggered a second fantasy to replace the first.  And by the time he shuffled to his place at the window, it had crystallized into a plan of action.  It helped that he was, for the time being, the last in line.

“Can’t imagine a stunner like that going to the show alone,” he blurted out before the balding agent could begin his routine questioning.

“Happens all the time.  Working girls are sent into town for training-new software, maybe-and the theater is a safe, entertaining way to spend the evening.  Not cheap but it’s something to tell the boy friend about when she gets home.  Nothing wrong with that if you ask me.  And what night will you be seeing the show, sir?”

“Tonight.”

The ticket seller eyed Adrian’s expensive tie and custom-made suit.  “Orchestra’s sold out, I’m afraid,” he apologized.  “All I’ve got left are a few seats in the rear mezzanine.”

“Just what I was looking for.  Two tickets please.  Together, of course.”

“Yes, sir.  They’re off to the side, you understand.”

“That will be fine.”  Adrian paid for the tickets and glanced back.  There was still no one behind him, so he had no problem lingering at the window.  “Hate to spend my last night in town alone, you know what I mean?”  So saying he tore off one of the tickets and handed it back to the agent.  “Just in case another good looker needs a single for tonight, hand her this one.”

The agent looked offended.  “I can’t be giving away tickets,” he complained.  “It would look funny.”

“Don’t give it to her.  Sell it and pocket the money.  Nobody will be the wiser.”

The agent paused for a moment before carefully returning the ticket back into its proper cubicle.  “No promises you understand, sir.”

*    *    *

Adrian congratulated himself on his little ruse and, as an afterthought, magnanimously gave partial credit for its success to his ticket-seller confederate.  The brunette seated to his right-the product of his creativity, as it were-may have been slightly older and a bit harder looking than the unblemished beauty he had beheld in the ticket line, but, no question, she would do.  She was a handsome woman, delicately perfumed, and tastefully dressed in a black pant suit topped by a beaded, velvet vest.  No out-of-towner she, he thought, and wondered at her lack of a male escort.  But the explanation, whatever it was, could wait; he hadn’t much time before the curtain rose.

There would be plenty of time for lies later.  The objective now was to establish credibility framed in genteel amiability.  The item he had come across this morning on the Internet would do nicely.  “You never know what goes on in theatrical circles,” he began.  “Did you hear what happened in Toronto just a few days ago?  About one of Lloyd Webber’s close associates?  I just got wind of it myself.”

Whereas she evidenced no sign of interest, Adrian did not detect any indication of annoyance either.  So, confident of his material, he shouldered on.  “Yeah, this forty-six year old musical director-worked with Webber for years-had some young man confined somehow in his hotel room.  Report didn’t say how.  You gotta be curious about that.  Whatever it was, it caused this kid-young man, whatever-to escape by jumping from the balcony.  Landed on the patio of a restaurant.  Can you imagine eating dinner there then, all of a sudden, ‘plop!’ and there’s this guy on the deck!’”

The girl could not help herself.  “Was he hurt?”

“The blurb didn’t give any details.  Makes you wonder about that, too.  All I know is that they’ve arrested this friend of Webber’s for ‘forcible confinement and assault.’  Personally, I wouldn’t venture into any musical director’s hotel room, on a bet.  Unless it’s on the first floor, of course.”  He paused for a moment, then added generously, “I’m sure you wouldn’t either.”

“Not even if it’s on the first floor,” she confirmed with a slight smile.

Now that they had established the beginnings of a conversation, Adrian judged it safe to introduce himself now that he clearly had her attention and, in return, was successful in obtaining her first name.  Eleanor, she said quietly, almost whispering.

After that, it was simply a matter of weaving more words into the ties that would strengthen their acquaintance-a routine with which he was well familiar.

He casually mentioned that he was on business in the city.  Tomorrow he was to fly to London.  Couldn’t see spending a night in town without taking in a play.  Had seen the Phantom before and liked it immensely, so despite all the other choices, decided to play it safe and see it again.  A real Andrew Lloyd Webber fan.

“Do you realize how many hits this guy has put together?  I’ve seen most of them, I guess.  Evita, Cats, Bombay Dreams, Starlight Express.  Enjoyed them all despite what some of my snotty friends call ‘watered-down Puccini.’ ”

The phrase merited a second smile that Adrian interpreted as permission to launch upon an authoritative discussion of Webber’s opus.  The dimming house lights forced him to break off his exposition with a promise that he’d finish it during intermission.  He interpreted her barely perceptible nod as implying acceptance of an invitation to join him for a drink in the lobby.  With that fait accompli, Adrian settled comfortably back in his seat to enjoy the show.  Thus far things were going satisfactorily indeed.

*    *    *

Chatting in the foyer during intermission, he voiced pleasure at her choice of Pinot Noir.

“Why do women always order Chardonnay?” he asked.

“I haven’t any idea,” she answered then added self-consciously, “to tell you the truth, I don’t know why I always drink Pinot Noir.  I guess because it sounds sophisticated.  I don’t know the first thing about wine.”

Her naiveté aroused his curiosity.  How could a woman grow up in one of the great cosmopolitan centers of the world and remain so unsophisticated.  But he knew better than to ply her with questions.  He would continue to divulge information about himself confident that, in time, she would follow suit.

Taking care to understate his responsibilities, he told Eleanor of his job in Human Relations for a international oil company.  Yes, it might sound exciting to jet from one country to another and, in fact, there were times when he enjoyed it.  Like looking down on KL from his client’s office in the Petronas Towers.  Noticing her perplexity, he apologetically added, “Kuala Lumpur,” before going on to confide that his job had its downsides as well.  Including, he added wistfully, long periods of separation from his family that had culminated in his recent divorce.

The awkward pause that followed was an open invitation for the girl to do her part in carrying on the conversation.

“I planned to attend the play with Helen.  We’ve been close friends ever since high school.  We try to come to the city a couple of times a year.  We’d do it even more often if we could afford it,” she admitted.  “We take in a show, and then have dinner together at a favorite restaurant.  It’s a little out of the way-off the beaten track and not swanky, you know, but I’ll swear it’s the best Italian food in town.  This afternoon, when I came home after work, here’s this message on the phone from Helen.  She couldn’t make it.  Why she didn’t say.  Big mystery but I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.  Meanwhile I’d made a big deal out of promising my kids to tell them all about the show.  So I had to go.  Can you imagine disappointing a whole class of fourth graders?  Don’t try it, believe me.  Anyway, I’ve been so looking forward to seeing this that, to tell you the truth, I would have come regardless.”

“I hope you’ve not been disappointed.”

“Are you kidding?  I’ve loved it so far.”

That got them chatting about the relative strengths of the performers which gave Adrian an opportunity to compare the voices of various members of the cast with those he had heard previously.  But when she responded by complimenting him on his apparent knowledge of opera in general, he claimed no particular expertise.  Attending a lot of opera enabled him to pick up bits and pieces, here and there.

“The only reliable conclusion I’ve come to after all this exposure,” he said, “is to count on a good meal afterwards.  Believe me, it makes up for a lot bad singing.  Where’s this favorite restaurant of yours?”

“It’s a little complicated.  Women never pay attention to street names, you know.  But if you go left one-maybe two-blocks…”

“Sounds like you better show me the way yourself.”

“Oh no.  I couldn’t.  I mean, there’s lots of other good Italian restaurants around and…”

“You must.  Enduring watered-down Italian opera, is one thing.  But forcing me to put up with watered-down Italian food is like…like…”

“No, really…”

“I’d never forgive you.  You’d never forgive yourself.”

“I don’t know about that,” she smiled.  “I’ll think it over during the Second Act.”

“Me too.  To tell you the truth, I’ll think about little else.”

Eleanor smiled again.

*    *    *

He awoke the following morning, sprawled on the floor of his hotel room, with a splitting headache.  As he emerged from the haze, he gradually began to reconstruct the previous night’s events.  After dinner they decided to walk the few blocks rather than take a cab.  As they strolled amicably along, his expectations rose in inverse proportion to the distance remaining to the hotel.  These had to be put on temporary hold, however, for no sooner had Eleanor walked in the door to his suite,  than she said she needed calming down.  This sort of thing was all new to her.  He pointed to the minibar where she confidently selected a single malt among the three scotches available and prepared their drinks.  Had he been more alert, he might have wondered that her ignorance of wine apparently did not extend to all things alcoholic, but his mind was elsewhere.

“Let’s just talk for a few minutes, okay?” she said handing him his drink and putting hers down on the coffee table before them.  Eleanor snuggled up to him on the couch, putting her head on his shoulder and allowing their knees to touch.  She begged him to help meet her commitment to her class.  All she had come up with so far was a portrayal of the opera house, the chandelier hanging above it, and the catacombs lurking below.  Her problem was how to meld these into a plot suitable for ten-year-olds.  But try as he might to assist, the longer he sat sipping his drink, the more the solution seemed to evade him until it faded out of reach altogether.  He then vaguely remembered her slipping away to the bathroom assuring him, with giggles, that her emergence therefrom would surprise him.  As indeed it would have, had he still been awake.

How long had he slept?  Instinctively, he shifted his arm to eye level, but the gesture proved futile when he saw his wrist no longer contained a watch.  He had to stare sleepily at the bare stretch of skin for a few moments before its significance sunk in.  He had not bought the watch himself-it was a birthday present from his wife-but he knew it to be an expensive one.  Around eight grand surely.  But Eleanor-or whatever her name was-would get only a fraction of that from her fence.  Meanwhile he would now have to find an exact duplicate in London or think up some excuse to tell his wife.  A damned annoyance either way.

Adrian’s next concern was for his wallet which lay on the floor within arm’s reach.  He was relieved to see that his credit cards were still in place.  Relieved, but not particularly surprised.  Professionals, he understood, found them too dangerous to fool with.  Fortunately, he kept most of his cash and passport in the room safe, so all she got was-he didn’t recall exactly-maybe a couple of hundred dollars.  So between the watch and the cash, she did not leave empty-handed.  On the other hand, by the time she split her take with her confederate, she probably ended up with little more than she normally earned for a night’s work.  Whatever it was, he did not begrudge it.  The little bitch was  a better liar than he was.

Then suddenly, with a start, his original interest in the time reasserted itself.  With effort, he managed to focus his eyes on the radio clock next to the bedside and made out twelve-after-ten.  Twelve-after-ten!  There was no time to call the police if he had any hope of catching his plane.  Besides it was a terrible idea to begin with; his wife would not take kindly to calls from the company relating to the incident.

It would be a struggle but, the pain in his head or no, he had to toss everything in his suitcase, hurry out door, and grab a cab as fast as possible.  With a plan of action now fixed in mind, he struggled to his feet and studied himself in the full length mirror.  On the positive side, he needn’t waste time getting dressed.  True, tossing around in his suit all night had turned it into a mass of wrinkles, but nobody cared what people looked like on planes these days.  On the other hand, they could well object to his smelling of vomit, so he had to do something with his shirt front and tie.  He hadn’t remembered throwing up overnight, but evidently he had.  A quick mopping with a damp washrag would be the best he could do.  Water first, followed by a generous application of shaving lotion.

Not the best outcome in the world, he thought as he rushed out of the room, but instructive.  He would not try that ploy again in New York, that’s for sure.  On the other hand, it was too ingenious to discard entirely.  Thankfully, England still had standards and, he had no doubt, more trustworthy ticket sellers.

*    *    *