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A dog.
He is comparing Grace’s death to a dog’s.
My face is expressionless, I know—I’ve practiced the art of not giving a fuck for many years—but inside, I’m burning with rage.
“Please.” I raise a palm. “The story cuts too deep. Say no more. So you’re moving to New York?”
Archie, picking up on the sarcasm, looks flustered. “Well, yes, and see, Sadie is going to be so very bored here while I help Papa with that god-awful building he is trying to buy—”
“Bottom line, Archie.” I glance down at my watch.
“. . . and I heard through the grapevine—mates from Andrew Dexter who frequent New Amsterdam—that you’re in the market to sell that quaint little theater of yours. Calypso Hall, was it? Sadie always had a passion for theater—she loves the West End—and with The Seagull already a smashing success, I think it’ll give her something to do while she’s here. A sense of purpose, if you would.”
I stare at him, wondering idly what makes him the way he is—an abundance of stupidity, or privilege? Perhaps a combination of both. I’ve no doubt his family’s name is on Cambridge’s library, where he went for higher education. There’s no way this dimwit got in on merit.
I open my mouth to answer him, but he beats me to it.
“Before you say anything, I have an offer you cannot possibly refuse.”
“Sounds like a challenge.” I smirk.
“They say Calypso Hall is worth six point two.”
“They say a lot of things.” I play with the napkin on the table. Said rumor was started by me. In practice, Ralph told me, it is worth a lot less.
“I’m offering you eight million dollars if you sign this week.”
There’s a beat of silence while I digest his offer. It is unorthodox, maybe even a bit extreme, to bid so high on such a pitiful business venture. There’s no logic behind it, just the need to pacify his high-maintenance wife.
Every pragmatic bone in my body tells me to take it. A better offer won’t come, with or without The Seagull’s success.
Maybe it’s because Archie compared Grace’s death to that of an inbred dog, or perhaps it is because he didn’t even bother to make it to my fiancée’s funeral. Hell, it might even be the sudden, unexpected success of Calypso Hall these past couple of weeks, but I find myself in no particular hurry to sell it, whatever the sum.
“It’s an obscene number, indeed.” I look up to find his eager gaze clinging to my face.
“Told you.” Archie clucks his tongue, satisfied. “Shall I talk to my solicitor, then?”
“If you wish, and enjoy a pricey conversation.” I stand up, smoothing my cashmere sweater. “Unfortunately, Calypso Hall is not currently for sale. No deal.”
I dig through my wallet for a few bills and throw them in Archie’s general vicinity before making my way out of the restaurant. The air is no longer acidly hot, marking the first signs of fall. I let my legs carry me aimlessly around the streets. I’ve nowhere to go and no one to see.
There is something about my showdown with Archie that troubles me. I don’t normally let my feelings dictate my actions. I’m a pragmatist. Ordinarily, Archie comparing Grace to his dog would not be a reason for me to reject a perfectly good offer. I’ve always been able to successfully separate my feelings from my business decisions.
Until now.
Why?
It’s not like my love for Grace has grown in the past few weeks.
I come to a stop in front of Calypso Hall, surprised to find myself here. It’s not even on the way to my apartment.
It has been two weeks since Winnifred told me she’ll be in touch about our information exchange, and so far I haven’t heard from her. Seeing as she doesn’t know my number or my address, I’m not exactly shocked. Making myself available to her constantly is bad form, but a little nudge in the right direction wouldn’t hurt.
As long as you remember it is not infatuation—it is business. The woman is a bore. Naive, sweet, and beneath you. Remember that.
I step into the theater, strolling by the ticket booth and concessions. On a bad day—which is most days in Calypso Hall—the place is empty, save for a few art students and unenthusiastic tourists. Now, it is buzzing with families, couples, out-of-towners.
After pushing the door with my shoulder, I saunter into the theater midplay, leaning against the wall. I expect to see Winnifred, but instead, it is her replacement, who works twice a week when it’s Winnifred’s days off. A girl named Penny.
Fuck you, Penny.
She rushes across the stage, cries, wails, throws herself onto Trigorin. But she lacks that special Winnifred thing that turns Nina from a tragic heroine to a perilous creature. Penny’s Nina is simply tragic. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But Winnifred’s? She’s a force gaining power and speed.
