Free The Confessions of Edward Day by Valerie Martin Page B

reverence and awe.
    It was nonsense, but entertaining, and Madeleine hadn’t heard it before, so we encouraged Teddy, over glasses of white wine and plates of grilled fish, to expand upon the struggle for existence and our part in it.
    “So according to your theory,” Madeleine observed, “actors are born not made.”
    “Exactly,” Teddy agreed. “There’s got to be something genetic going on. I mean, what is the attraction of a life in the theater? It’s certainly not the money. Yet look how many there are in every generation who are drawn to it.”
    “I thought it was something to do with exhibitionism,” I put in.
    “The common error,” Teddy said.
    “But I don’t want to blend in,” Madeleine protested. “I want to stand out.”
    “Of course,” Teddy said. “You want to be recognized as Madeleine Delavergne, the actress who can play all parts, from ten to ninety, male or female, aristocrat, cutthroat or tramp.”
    As Teddy ticked off this list, Madeleine made small adjustments in her expression and posture, her spine straightening at “aristocrat,” her eyes and lips narrow at “cutthroat,” her mouth ajar and eyes sultry at “tramp.”
    “She’s good,” I said and we laughed.
    “Now if you want to see an actor who only wants to be seen,” Teddy said, “check out Guy Margate in that Italian thing. I saw it last night.”
    I hadn’t thought of Guy in weeks and I found I didn’t want to think about him. “Has that opened already?” I said. “I’ve lost track of time.”
    “Is it any good?” Madeleine asked.
    “It opened last night and no, the play’s not good, though I’ve seen worse. Guy has a lot of lines and he’s in the altogether for the whole last scene, so it feels like there’s more of him than anyone else.”
    “He’s naked?” Madeleine’s eyes were wide.
    “Starkers,” Teddy said. “He has a towel around his neck and I kept thinking he was going to wrap it around, you know, but he never did.”
    “This I’ve got to see,” Madeleine was giggling like a teenager.
    “Haven’t you already seen it?” I snapped.
    “Darling, you don’t have to answer that question,” Teddy said, and Madeleine, frowning, replied, “Believe me, I’m not going to touch it.”
    “See that you don’t,” I said.
    “Children, children,” Teddy chuckled. “Play nicely.”
    I had no intention of going to see Guy’s play, but the next day he called Madeleine’s machine to tell us he had left two comp tickets in her name at the box office and Madeleine insisted it would be rude not to go. “Why us,” I complained. “Are we the closest thing he has to friends?” To which she replied, “I don’t understand this antipathy you have for Guy. After all—”
    “He saved my life,” I finished for her.
    “Well, yes, Edward,” she said. “He did.”
    I can hardly remember what the play was about. An Italian family, all staying at a beach house. Two brothers, one girl. Something like that. Or maybe it was a brother and sister, and the brother’s friend. The older generation included a doddering grandfather. Generational conflict, the changing world, expectations too high or not high enough.
    As Teddy promised, Guy had a lot of lines and in the last scene he appeared naked, save a thin towel across his shoulders which he used to pop someone, his brother or his friend, or maybe it was his father, someone who was shocked to find his friend/brother/son naked in the kitchen at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. Guy had a nice monologue near the end, to the effect that his family was smothering him and he didn’t know what to do with his life, which he delivered while holding a glass of milk.
    I watched halfheartedly, one eye on the stage, the other on Madeleine, who appeared to be enjoying it much more than Iwas. She laughed at all the lame jokes and she followed the actors closely as they moved about. Her eyes never left the stage. When the lights came up on Guy’s bare back at