“Look familiar?”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I know we’re a bit early,” he says. “We can still make whatever changes you want. I just wanted to surprise you. Get everything ready so you could practice before tech week.”
“How did you know? How did you do it?”
I’m shaking. Actually shaking as I watch Hugo hop up onto the stage. Walk up to me, right up to me so he’s in close, so close I can smell the wood emanating from his body.
“What can I say, Miranda? You inspired me.” He smiles at me. “Also, I saw the video.”
I feel my face and chest catch fire. “The video?”
“Of your Edinburgh show. On YouTube? It seemed a lot like what you were describing. And the sets were just stunning, so I thought I’d give it a try. I really hope I didn’t fuck it up.”
I look at Hugo, backdropped by the French court, the painted blue sky.
“It’s perfect. I can’t even tell you how perfect.”
He grins. So genuinely pleased with my pleasure. “Probably a little rough though. I mean compared to what you had.”
I shake my head. “It’s better. Much better.”
He laughs. He steps in closer. He puts both hands on my trembling shoulders. I’m dreaming. Surely I’m dreaming.
“You were incredible as Helen, by the way. Bertram’s a fucking idiot.” His voice so soft, like a hand stroking my face. I feel his voice in the back of my neck, in my gut, down my back, between my legs. Making me vibrate. Hugo’s sea-colored eyes, which do not look to the left or the right of me but straight at me. Saying he wants to show me something else. Can he show me something more?
“There’s more?”
“Just wait right here, okay?” he says.
I watch him hop off the stage and run up to the lighting booth. He looks at me from behind the glass and grins.
“Close your eyes,” he says through the mic.
I close them. Smile at the red of my eyelids. My heart skips.
“Okay, open them, Miranda.”
All around me, the lights have dimmed. Above me the blue sky has darkened to a black sky bright with twinkling little lights. Music swells. Debussy’s “Clair de Lune.” Bubbles of light spin round and cascade down all around me like falling stars—a cheesy effect I love anyway. And I’m Helen. I’m Helen in my red dress. I’m on the stage under the fated sky, which gives me free scope, breathing a summer air perfumed with mountain flowers. Beyond the blinding lights, there’s a sea of captivated faces breathing in the dark.
Hugo runs back down to join me on the stage, breathless.
“What do you think? For Helen’s first soliloquy.”
I look at Hugo under the sea of stars. Paul. He looks just like Paul again. I rub my eyes because it’s a trick, it has to be. Just the light, surely. Just the shadow, surely. Still looks like Paul. Paul before he hated me. Paul before he was dead to the fact of me in front of him. Paul looking at me like he did that night we met in the Edinburgh theater. Later, he said he fell in love with me that night. During that first soliloquy, when I pined hopelessly for Bertram. What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye? And I heard something like a sigh from someone in the audience. The whole theater heard it. I remember I directed the rest of my speech toward the sound. During intermission, he sent a note to my dressing room, a note that simply read, Bertram is fucking lame. And then his number, the name of his hotel. But he was also waiting for me outside the theater, walking toward me when he saw me emerge from the doors. Paul walking toward me now. His golden hair. His grin that shifts now into an expression of concern. “Miranda, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I know this is kind of over the top, so listen, if you hate it, please—”
“I love it.”
He smiles. He’s looking at me with love, he still loved me then. No impatience yet, no anger yet, no coldness. Nothing but admiration in his green eyes. A little lighter than Paul’s. Hair’s the same. How long have I dreamed that he would look at me like this again?
“I’m so glad, Miranda. I—”
I kiss him. A charge in my lips when they touch his. He moans softly. It sends a charge through my body, lighting me up. All my cells electric and shimmering. His hands cup my face, stroke my neck. How does he know exactly how to stroke my neck? I feel his fingers grazing my flesh, and I shudder and shudder. I lick and tug at his ear with my teeth. I run my fingers through his golden-red hair. Oh, Goldfish.