"HALF HOUR... JANIE?"

"YEAH?"

"IS GILLIAN IN THERE?"

"NOT YET. I HAVEN'T SEEN HER."

David walks off muttering.

 

 

THUMP!

Gillian's fist makes contact with a bathroom door—from the inside, where she paces (three steps to, three steps fro) restricted to its confines.

She pounds again.

THUMP! THUMP!

"This is ridiculous. MICHAEL! FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME, LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

She kicks the door.

THUMP!

"YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A FUCKING ADOLESCENT!"

THUMP!

She turns her back and leans against the partition, slumping to the floor.

Using the back of her head, she bangs in frustration.

THUMP... THUMP... THUMP...

"I don't BELIEVE this is happening."

She checks her watch; it is 7:30 pm.

"FUCK!!!"

She lurches up.

"MICHAEL, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YOU'VE GOT TO LET ME OUT OF HERE. I'M LATE! THEY'VE CALLED HALF HOUR! MICHAEL! Goddamn fucking maniac; I'll kill him. MICHAEL, DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

A voice comes calmly from the opposite side.

"I've stated my conditions."

Gillian rolls her eyes, teeth clenched. Precious time is passing. The world of professional theatre does not accept excuses; at eight o'clock the curtain rises; actors are in place; ifs, ands, buts, regardless, the show goes on. She grabs a shampoo bottle.

SMASH!

It cracks the frosted window, plastering the pane with drooling globs.

"ARE YOU GOING TO LET ME OUT?"

Her jailer does not answer.

CRASH!

The medicine chest—mirror downward—lies in the tub, screws stripped, plaster clinging, its contents spilled and rolling in a rush to the unplugged drain.

"NOT ONLY DO I PROMISE I WILL NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN, BUT IF, BY CHANCE, I DO, I'LL BREAK YOUR GODDAMN NECK!"

She tears a towel rack from its fixtures.

"MICHAEL!"

CRACK!

Paint chips fly.

"MICHAEL!"

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

She stops, out of breath. The makeshift bludgeon slips from her irate grip. She listens... to silence... then hears a car, a Porsche, as it grumbles down the driveway... roars... grows steady distant... faint. Resignedly, she leans against the door—which opens of itself.

 

 

"We'll hold, we'll hold! Just call that cab!"

David disconnects the backstage phone, heaving a huge sigh. Janie passes.

"Find her?"

"Yes. She's on her way. WE'RE HOLDING!"

Anxious cast and crew prepare to wait.

 

 

"What the fuck?"

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