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“Oui,” Jean-Claude answered.
“Hi, Jean-Claude?”
“Deandra’s telephone—” Jean-Claude enunciated carefully in his heavily accented English.
“Could I speak to—”
“—who is speaking?”
Goddamn delay on the line.
“Eddie, darling?” Peter called from the auditorium. “Are we ready for our auditions?”
No, they damn well were not. Not in this lifetime. Eddie wasn’t clear on what the effect the Scottish play would be on the hell gate exactly, but Dee had definitely mentioned catastrophic and irreversible in the same warning.
“Gimme a minute, Peter,” she yelled back. Eddie dashed through the sound lock on stage right and into the institutional looking passage behind the stage door. The front of the Paradise Theatre was all bygone era glamor, the back—pure utilitarian of the hospital variety.
“It’s Eddie,” she whisper-yelled into the phone. “Can I speak to Dee?”
“Eddie?” Jean-Claude’s tone brightened in delight. “It is so good to talk with you. Dee, she is not here.”
“Look it’s rather urgent. Do you—”
“—she is getting the cocktail—”
“—know—”
“Pardon?”
“Could you maybe, find—”
“Eddie?” He yelled down the line. Clearly a raised voice would overcome any time lag or spotty connection.
“Yes, it’s Eddie.” She forced a constipated smile for the small group of hopefuls clucking together in the greenroom and held up her hand to indicate five minutes. “And I need to—”
“Dee is not ’ere.”
Eddie’s Converses squeaked on the beige vinyl-tiled floor as she paced to the rehearsal room. Barrie looked up from his script sides and raised a questioning brow.
She shook her head and waved for him to carry on.
Barrie took a deep breath and intoned. “Ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, ma, maaaaaah!”
Mouthing sorry to Barrie, she ducked into the coat annex, blocking out the smell of sweaty feet wafting up from the motley collection of shoes and boots. “Yes, I heard you but—”
“Dee is having the cocktail,” Jean-Claude bellowed. “Cock. Tail.”
“Excuse me…um…Edme?”
Eddie whirled at the tap on her shoulder, her autocorrect on her name faster than Google. “Eddie.”
“Oui, Eddie.” Jean-Claude shouted happily. “Dee, she is not here.”
“Eddie.” Whitney’s pretty face folded in consternation. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone.” Regret swam in her treacle eyes. “But is the audition going to start soon?”
“Dee is having the cocktail with friends.” Jean-Claude declared in the tone of a man unveiling the newest and brightest creation. “She is making so many friends, and they invited her to have the cocktail. I did not want the cocktail. So, I am here in the cabin.”
“A couple of minutes.” Eddie managed a smile for Whitney.
