“You as well.” They were lined up in the hallway. Each of the girls stood like a giraffe in her highest heels. Eleanor had shoved her feet into Rosie’s red size sevens. “What do you think we’re going to do today?”
Maggie shrugged. “I’ve been off book since I was called in to audition last time.”
“Last time?”
“I’ve been in for this role before,” Maggie said. “Made it to the final round last time. I’m sure they’ll have us sing from the show, read some lines. Do you know the music?”
Eleanor did know it but hadn’t thought about the script. She’d never even read the lines. “Will they give us copies of the script?”
“You mean sides?”
Sides? “I mean I’m not memorized.”
Maggie touched her arm. “I’m sure that’s fine,” she said. “I’m always memorized, but that’s just me. I like to be prepared.”
“And you auditioned for Charades before?”
“Sure. I audition for everything.” Maggie checked her lipstick in a compact mirror. “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to take my time before I go in there. I don’t want to mess this up.”
Eleanor should have been doing the same, especially if she didn’t even know the script. Maggie had made it to the final round before—did that mean she stood more of a chance or less? On one hand, they liked her. But she’d lost the part once. Eleanor scooted farther away and closed her eyes, hoping that calm would come over her. It didn’t. She had no music to review, no lines to memorize, nothing to ease her nerves.
Each girl was called into the theater for a different amount of time, but it was clear the longer, the better. A girl with stunning blond hair emerged after two minutes, in tears. Another did not come out for forty minutes and smiled at everyone, refusing to mention what she’d had to do inside. Eleanor’s adrenaline had prevented her from eating breakfast, and her nerves had a muting effect on her hunger. But by one o’clock, her stomach growled. Maggie had gone in an entire hour earlier.
When Maggie emerged, she looked exhausted but happy. The first real smile Eleanor had seen shone on her face. There was an innocence hanging over her as she glowed, happy with herself. “I hope we both get in, some way.”
She meant she hoped Eleanor would be her understudy. “Me, too.”
Eleanor waited to be called. After five minutes, the door to the stage opened. A man came out and glanced her way without saying anything. It was Harry Flynn. He passed her, slim legs taking him down the hall long before she mustered the courage to speak.
Eleanor looked around until she saw the young man with the clipboard who had supervised both of the auditions.
“Excuse me,” she said. “When is it my turn?”
He looked down at his papers. “Are you Eleanor?”
“Yes.” Eleanor clenched and unclenched her toes in Rosie’s shoes.
“I’ll bring you in when they tell me to.”
“I saw Harry Flynn leave.”
“Time for lunch.”
“So what do I do?”
“Whatever you want.”
Eleanor leaned against the wall. Five minutes went by that felt like twenty, and then another five. Then the door to the stage opened.
“Eleanor?”
Don Mannheim emerged.
Her mouth went dry.
He was wearing a gray sweatshirt. Apart from the audition the previous day, Eleanor had only seen him in photographs from the openings of his musicals, wearing a tuxedo. His body looked warm and masculine, his fingers drumming on his leg. His gaze was so intense she had to look away, but again, he didn’t quite meet her eyes, just examined her face and body. He would notice her hem had been let down.
“Come on in, Eleanor.”
“What about Mr. Flynn?”
“I called you in here myself.” He spoke in a crisp manner. When he met her extended gaze, he looked away, calling to mind a child uncomfortable in the company of adults.
She followed Don inside and he crossed the stage, his shoes making no sound on the floor. She felt goofy in her clacking heels. The house lights were on, so every empty red seat stared back at her. With the spotlights off, she could see down into the orchestra pit. The chairs were empty and haphazard, like the whole orchestra had abruptly stood up and left. The larger instruments had been left behind: a bass leaned on its side, a grand piano with its lid closed, a harp balanced on its stand. She stopped and breathed.
Don watched her. Eleanor waited for him to reply with something understanding, some appreciation of the empty theater.
“This is not a callback.” He sat behind the upright piano that had been wheeled onstage.
The thoughts flooding her head embarrassed her with their eagerness. Don wouldn’t waste time calling her in for no reason. What if he was as captured by her as she was by him? What if he was going to offer her the part, right here, right now?
“I like your voice,” he said.
Eleanor crossed the stage as fast as possible until she hovered by his shoulder. Sheet music was spread against the piano, with handwritten notes on the staff.
“You have an interesting sound. The Blitzstein was a good choice.”
“Thank you.”
“Did your teacher give it to you?”
“No, sir,” she said. “I haven’t had a teacher.”
“Good. Don’t get one. You have a rough sound. There’s that dangerous warble at the end of your phrases. No teacher could resist smoothing it out. You’d be a good student, too, wouldn’t you?”
Eleanor had no idea what he was asking.
“Don’t let them ruin your sound. It’s fascinating.”
“I do even better on the Gershwin,” she said.
“No. That’s not a good song for you.” He pointed to the music on the page, hit a chord with both hands. “Here’s the key, Eleanor. You read music?”
His handwriting was horrific. He worked in a felt-tip, so she couldn’t see whether some of the note heads were open or closed, and had to guess how long to hold them.
“Good sight reader?”
“Your handwriting—”
“Don’t worry about the words. Sing ‘la’ if you can’t read them. I want to hear you sing the music. Start at measure eight. I’ll play a two-bar intro. Follow along.”
He played a slow Alberti bass with his left hand, sustained chords with his right. It was a touch below walking tempo, slow enough that she could get her bearings. He played very loud, slamming the keys, in his customary dissonant style.