thirty-one

“Hello, Nina,” Brooke said. “Are you feeling better?”

Nina’s glance fell on the younger woman. A flash of some emotion I couldn’t quite identify crossed her face and then was gone. “I am, actually,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

“Do you know what was wrong? I certainly hope it’s not contagious,” Brooke continued.

“I shouldn’t worry, dear. The doctor thought it was food poisoning,” Nina said.

Brooke’s eyes opened wide. “Food poisoning? How terrible!”

Nina grimaced. “Yes, it was most unpleasant. But I survived.”

Brooke leaned forward and placed her hand on Nina’s arm. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. The play just wasn’t right without you.”

Next to her Mark nodded. “I have to say I agree with Brooke,” he said to the surprise of no one. “Your understudy, Molly, is a good actress, but her scenes with Brooke just didn’t seem to click the way yours do. It’s funny how you just get a certain connection with some people, isn’t it?”

Nina stared at Mark a beat and then said, “Not really. It’s called acting.”

Mark gave an awkward cough and then said, “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

A young woman in a waitstaff uniform suddenly appeared next to Nina. In her hands was a small silver tea tray. She politely cleared her throat and said, “Your tea, Ms. Durand.”

Nina glanced over at the woman and smiled. “Thank you, dear. Please just set it on the bar.”

The young woman nodded and set the tray down as indicated. “Shall I pour for you, Ms. Durand?”

Nina shook her head. “No, thank you. I prefer to do it myself.”

“Still a control freak about your damn tea, I see,” Fletcher’s voice suddenly boomed out from behind me.

Nina turned and leveled Fletcher with an icy stare. “Still an egotistical jackass, I see,” she countered.

Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “It takes one to know one, darling.”

Nina let out a laugh. “What are you, ten years old?” she scoffed. “But I suppose on a certain level, it makes sense. Your sense of humor is just as underdeveloped as”—here she paused letting her gaze drop before adding—“other parts of you.”

Brooke began to cough into a napkin. “Sorry,” she wheezed when Fletcher glared at her. “I have horrible allergies.”

“Really,” intoned Fletcher slowly. “What a coincidence. So do I.” He glanced from Brooke to Nina and back to Brooke. “However, mine act up in the spring rather than early September. Odd, don’t you think?”

Some of the color left Brooke’s face, and her eyes darted to Nina. Nina crossed her arms and regarded Fletcher with a bored look. “So let me see if I’m following you correctly,” she said. “Since you get allergies in the spring, the entire allergy-suffering world must also get them at the same time. Tell me, Fletch, is your physician aware that you suffer from narcissistic delusions?”

Fletcher stared at Nina a beat and then turned and walked off without another word.

“I hope it was something I said,” Nina called out after him in a saccharinely sweet voice.

Fletcher’s response was brief, nonverbal, and crystal clear. Nina smiled.

Brooke did not.