Jeremy Jenkins looked smug. The telecast had gone great. All his rehearsed bits were over. The songs and dances, always problematic when done live, had gone smoothly. His monologue had scored, his ad-libs had gone over well, and he had nothing left to do but introduce the presenters of the final awards. He did so with a flourish, as if he were personally responsible for the star status of the celebrities he was introducing.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, to present the award for Best Actress, here is last year’s Best Actor winner, Richard Kessington.”
The handsome young actor, sporting the practically obligatory beard, walked onto the stage and stepped up to the microphone. He didn’t bother with a joke. There was no reason to run the risk of bombing, and due to his star status he didn’t need to.
“The nominees for Best Actress in a Motion Picture are: Viveca Rothschild, for Paris Fling . . .”
On a monitor behind him the square inset of Viveca sitting in the audience appeared. She was smiling and nodding, but she seemed clearly distracted and her eyes were stealing glances to her left.
As soon as Richard began to read the names, Bruce rose from his seat and edged his way out of the row toward the side aisle. His exit had been seen momentarily in Viveca’s headshot when the camera cut to her, as had the surprise on her face when he got up.
Bruce reached the far aisle. He plastered himself to the wall, worked his way toward the stage, and went out the side exit just as Richard read the name of the last nominee.
“And Tessa Tweed, for Desperation at Dawn.”
Bruce’s heart was pounding. He had to hurry. The damn actor presenting the award wasn’t wasting any time with it. He’d rattled through the names of the nominees as if he had a plane to catch. He was probably already ripping open the envelope. Any second he’d say, “And the winner is . . .”
Bruce pushed the fire door open and went down the stairs to the area under the stage. He couldn’t see a monitor, but the audio was on speakers everywhere so there wasn’t a chance that he would miss it. Any moment now the actor would say the winner’s name.
He prayed it would be Viveca.
Rachael Quigly had a lump in her throat. What the hell was going on? She was still in the greenroom watching the Oscars with the performers and production people, and it had been a lot of fun. The show was nearly over, at which point she would be able to sneak upstairs in her ball gown and mingle with the movie stars as the theater emptied out.
Suddenly it was as if she’d been kicked in the head by a mule. The presenter, Richard Kessington, had read the name of the nominee, Viveca Rothschild, and as the camera cut to her, the young man sitting next to her got up from his seat. It was just a second and he was gone. The camera, of course, stayed on Viveca.
Even so.
She recognized him. She was sure of it. The man sitting next to Viveca Rothschild was the electrical inspector she had shown around the theater.
She told herself it couldn’t be. Some people looked like each other, and she was dealing with the movie business where people were made to look like each other. She expected role-playing, make-believe, pretend.
She’d no sooner convinced herself she was mistaken than she saw him again, coming down the stairs.