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“Actually, Barrie, respectfully, it was the USS Enterprise NCC-1701-D, or Enterprise-D in The Next Generation.” Matt looked pained. “And you really should see Patrick’s Macbeth.” He chef-kissed his fingers. “Masterful.”
Barrie pressed his forefinger and thumb into his eye sockets. “I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do, Bazzer.” Lillian stroked his arm. “You just don’t know that you care yet. You haven’t processed your resistance to our exploration of the traditional dynamics between Macbeth and his lady.”
“I tell you what I’m processing.” Barrie yanked his arm away. “I’m processing the Huge Burrito with extra beans from Fat Bastard that I had last night.”
Ooh, Fat Bastard burritos. It had been a while since Eddie had eaten one of those. And still she had basement hell hounds and a grumpy lighting technician. “All right, then.” She clapped her hands and pulled another Cesar Millan—say what you will, that shit had worked on the hounds. “Lighting is due in any minute, and we don’t seem to be reaching resolution.” Summoning her inner calm dominance, she pointed. “Greenroom.”
Lillian teared up, and Peter turned on her. “Really, Eddie, this is not your place—”
AWROOO. ARH-ARH-ARH-AWROO.
Everyone on stage and in the auditorium froze.
“I fucking love dogs,” Patty muttered as she changed needles. “We need more dogs around here.”
“Edme.” Rodney popped up from the dim back of the auditorium like the ghost of Hamlet’s dad. “Is there a dog on the premises?”
“Of course not.” Eddie met him eye to eye. There wasn’t, in fact, a dog on the premises at all.
“Because I feel I need to remind you”—Rodney continued as if she hadn’t spoken—“that other than service animals, pets are not allowed in the theatre.”
“Oh, Rodders,” Lillian purred. “We should get an emotional support dog.”
Eddie didn’t think any dog was up to that task. Or deserved it. “I can assure you, Rodney.” And she honestly could. “There isn’t a dog in the theatre.”
Two hell hounds, totally. Dog, absolutely not.
A flicker of movement in the flies caught her attention as Yesterday popped his swollen duckling-yellow mug out from behind a light. He made urgent gestures at the basement, as if she hadn’t already assessed the problem quite nicely, thank you. “I think the house down the road just got a pit bull,” she said. “It must be upset.”
“The house down the road?” Rodney frowned and reached in his pocket for his iPhone. “As far as I know, that property is still vacant.”
“Such a lovely house.” Lillian sighed and clasped her hands under her chin. “So moody, and atmospheric.”
“It would make a fantastic venue,” Matt gushed. “We could stage an Agatha Christie there, or some late-night theatre.”
“Oh.” Lillian’s mouth made a perfect oval as stars glittered in her eyes. “Theatre in the dark.”
“I need to program the lights,” Dean, their resident lighting technician said. “Need the theatre.” A tall, slim man with the tortured face of a Goya subject, Dean strode across the stage and took the stairs to the lighting box.
“Hello, Dean.” Lillian, always conscious that every actress needed to befriend the lighting guy, simpered and fluttered. “It’s so lovely to see you.”
“Surprise Pink,” Dean yelled from the stairwell. “Use it to light you. Got it.” He popped onto the gantry above them. “Makes you look younger.”
“Well.” Lillian almost frowned through her Botox. “Not that I need it, or anything.”
“Absolutely not, poppet.” Peter rose to the occasion with a scoff. “You are a vision. A vision of youth and beauty.”
“Fifty-three if she’s a day,” Patty said.
“Not only is she physically beautiful.” Matt made his bid for more lines. “She portrays youth and loveliness every time she steps on the stage.”
“Matt.” Lillian giggled and slapped his arm. “You’re such a flirt.”
Aroogah. Peter brayed his positive spaces laugh. “Are you flirting with my lady, Stripling?”
“Peter.” Matt drew himself up and looked censorious. “I’m gay. You know I’m gay.”
