Olivia debates facing the concession line to order whatever passable red wine the theatre is serving: she has to admit she's a little on edge. But Margaret isn't the kind of person to indulge just because there's an opportunity, and so for tonight, neither would she. She adjusts the long wool coat bunched up under her lap, wonders why she didn't spring for the coat check, it's not like she's destitute. She also wore the wrong shoes for the unexpected snowstorm, magical until it soaked through her red court heels, her favourites.
She wonders how long there is left in the intermission. Not that she's exactly excited for the film to resume. It's a bit flimsier than she remembers; she's seen Barry Lyndon before, but thought it was richer, more weighty than this. Margaret is the real fan, and they are celebrating her tonight. The theatre is nearly full, and she loves the sight of big coats, rosy cheeks, and heads bowed together in gossipy conversation. It seemed to her that the room reflected her approvingly. It buzzed a bit with the specialness of the occasion; it was nearly Christmas, and with its red velvet curtains and gold proscenium arches, the theatre glowed festively.
Olivia watches two ushers in black suits and red ascots, early twenties, talking to one another in the alcove under one of the theatre's boxes, the one emblazoned with the word COMEDY. Something is indeed amusing to them; they're both grinning as they watch the crowd. One of them meets her eye. She looks down at her phone and sees an email notification from a newsletter she keeps forgetting to unsubscribe to: "VISIONS WORKSHOP: RELEASE YOUR…" It cuts off. The lights dim briefly. She's missed her window for wine, which is too bad because she still feels oddly uneasy. She didn't get much sleep last night, and her thoughts are a bit frayed. She had found it hard to get to the page this week; something always pulled her focus away. It was fine, there was still time.
The room is filling up, the din getting louder. She looks over her shoulder and scans the entrances, but can't see Margaret. She'll show up right before it starts, with her knack for timing. She is always, almost uncannily, at the right place at the right time. Earlier that week, Margaret learned she'd received funding for a new project, a book on the history of body doubles in film, how their imperfect forms absorb the physical and psychic blows so the star can stay unscathed. It's a good topic, brilliant actually. It's one of those ideas that you would have never thought of but seems so obvious, almost fated, when you hear it. And although Margaret didn't seem to care what other people were interested in, she always seemed to land on something that people actually cared about, seemed to care about a lot, actually.
The lights flicker again. She turns again to scan the room. Margaret's pushing it. The intermission music, a portentous and dry piano trio, written right before the composer's death, or so said Margaret, is starting to wear on her. It seems the room has gotten louder. Her shoulders were tight; the week has been stressful. She was so excited for this night out, after days of near panic over her own manuscript, progress on which had stalled once more. But now that she's here, she can't seem to relax. Her mind is elsewhere.
"She'll show up right before it starts, with her knack for timing. She is always, almost uncannily, at the right place at the right time."
Finally, she sees her. Margaret makes her way down the already full aisle, awkwardly squeezing past. She's not apologizing. Olivia smiles as she approaches, ready to chide her for cutting it so close. But Margaret seems upset; her face is sallow and drawn. She sits down but doesn't make eye contact.
"I guess you decided to get the wine after all," Margaret says.
There's an awful evenness to her tone. She's always composed; you rarely get the feeling that she is reacting to something, but rather that she already knows what is going to happen, what you're going to say. But the coolness in her voice now isn't from self-possession, but self-restraint.
Olivia thinks that she may have misheard or that maybe this is a joke. She laughs, but Margaret's face doesn't change.
"No, I didn't," Olivia says and glances down at her hands, as if there might, somehow, be a glass of wine in them. But, of course, there isn't. When she looks up, Margaret is watching her.
Olivia's voice comes out a little more urgent than she means it to. "I've been here the whole time."
She gestures around her at the bunched-up coat and purse on the ground as if in explanation. Margaret continues to stare, and Olivia starts to worry, her arms frozen in mid-gesture in what she realizes is a pantomime of a shrug.
"What? Margaret, what is it?"
"I saw you out there. When I was in the bathroom line."
Olivia laughs, this time from relief. "Oh, is my doppelganger here?"
Margaret fixes her. "A doppelganger wearing the same outfit as you."
Now there is something in her face, a bolt of anger. Olivia has never seen Margaret angry before and considered for a moment crawling under her seat. "That's so odd."
"It was. I was just in the never-ending bathroom line reading an email, and when I looked up, you were there at the end of the hall."
Olivia tries to smile. "What was I doing?"
"You were just standing there, completely still, just glaring at me. I thought to call out to you, but... your expression, it was so intense, like you despised me. There was something…" she labours over the next word, "wrong with your eyes. I can't explain it. It reminded me of… you know the last scene in Black Narcissus. "
Olivia wants to laugh again at this; of course, she knows the scene. It's her favourite film, the topic of her own dreaded book. She wants to point this out to Margaret, but she also wants to say: "I didn't leave my seat, I swear to you, Margaret, not for a second!" But when she opens her mouth:
"Then what happened?"
Margaret pauses a moment. "You were saying something to me, your mouth moved, but I couldn't make it out. And then I had to look away; I was… honestly, I was frightened. The line moved, and when I turned back, the lights flickered, and it seemed like you got, I know how this sounds, but absorbed into the darkness. Your face went black, and all I could see were your eyes."
She turns away and fixes her gaze on the screen, maybe afraid to see that stare. Olivia tries to think of something reassuring to say. She tries to mount the evidence in her favour.
The lights dip, and a muted tone fills the room. Someone is shushing.
"It wasn't me!" Her voice sounds slightly strangled, like a child.
Margaret turns to her. "How could it not be you?"
Olivia feels a crick in the centre of her back, and then the desperate need to get up and walk. She actually does stand up, but Margaret pulls down hard on her sleeve, and Olivia sits back down.
"The movie's starting."
She's right, the lights are dimming. And suddenly, Olivia is receding, sucked slowly into a pinpoint at the back of the theatre. The music fades out, and Margaret's face swims in front of her, bright then dark.
Olivia debates facing the concession line to order whatever passable red wine the theatre is serving: she has to admit she's a little on edge. But Margaret isn't the kind of person to indulge just because there's an opportunity, and so for tonight, neither would she. She adjusts the long wool coat bunched up under her lap, wonders why she didn't spring for the coat check, it's not like she's destitute. She also wore the wrong shoes for the unexpected snowstorm, magical until it soaked through her red court heels, her favourites.
She wonders how long there is left in the intermission. Not that she's exactly excited for the film to resume. It's a bit flimsier than she remembers; she's seen Barry Lyndon before, but thought it was richer, more weighty than this. Margaret is the real fan, and they are celebrating her tonight. The theatre is nearly full, and she loves the sight of big coats, rosy cheeks, and heads bowed together in gossipy conversation. It seemed to her that the room reflected her approvingly. It buzzed a bit with the specialness of the occasion; it was nearly Christmas, and with its red velvet curtains and gold proscenium arches, the theatre glowed festively.
Olivia watches two ushers in black suits and red ascots, early twenties, talking to one another in the alcove under one of the theatre's boxes, the one emblazoned with the word COMEDY. Something is indeed amusing to them; they're both grinning as they watch the crowd. One of them meets her eye. She looks down at her phone and sees an email notification from a newsletter she keeps forgetting to unsubscribe to: "VISIONS WORKSHOP: RELEASE YOUR…" It cuts off. The lights dim briefly. She's missed her window for wine, which is too bad because she still feels oddly uneasy. She didn't get much sleep last night, and her thoughts are a bit frayed. She had found it hard to get to the page this week; something always pulled her focus away. It was fine, there was still time.
The room is filling up, the din getting louder. She looks over her shoulder and scans the entrances, but can't see Margaret. She'll show up right before it starts, with her knack for timing. She is always, almost uncannily, at the right place at the right time. Earlier that week, Margaret learned she'd received funding for a new project, a book on the history of body doubles in film, how their imperfect forms absorb the physical and psychic blows so the star can stay unscathed. It's a good topic, brilliant actually. It's one of those ideas that you would have never thought of but seems so obvious, almost fated, when you hear it. And although Margaret didn't seem to care what other people were interested in, she always seemed to land on something that people actually cared about, seemed to care about a lot, actually.
The lights flicker again. She turns again to scan the room. Margaret's pushing it. The intermission music, a portentous and dry piano trio, written right before the composer's death, or so said Margaret, is starting to wear on her. It seems the room has gotten louder. Her shoulders were tight; the week has been stressful. She was so excited for this night out, after days of near panic over her own manuscript, progress on which had stalled once more. But now that she's here, she can't seem to relax. Her mind is elsewhere.
"She'll show up right before it starts, with her knack for timing. She is always, almost uncannily, at the right place at the right time."
Finally, she sees her. Margaret makes her way down the already full aisle, awkwardly squeezing past. She's not apologizing. Olivia smiles as she approaches, ready to chide her for cutting it so close. But Margaret seems upset; her face is sallow and drawn. She sits down but doesn't make eye contact.
"I guess you decided to get the wine after all," Margaret says.
There's an awful evenness to her tone. She's always composed; you rarely get the feeling that she is reacting to something, but rather that she already knows what is going to happen, what you're going to say. But the coolness in her voice now isn't from self-possession, but self-restraint.
Olivia thinks that she may have misheard or that maybe this is a joke. She laughs, but Margaret's face doesn't change.
"No, I didn't," Olivia says and glances down at her hands, as if there might, somehow, be a glass of wine in them. But, of course, there isn't. When she looks up, Margaret is watching her.
Olivia's voice comes out a little more urgent than she means it to. "I've been here the whole time."
She gestures around her at the bunched-up coat and purse on the ground as if in explanation. Margaret continues to stare, and Olivia starts to worry, her arms frozen in mid-gesture in what she realizes is a pantomime of a shrug.
"What? Margaret, what is it?"
"I saw you out there. When I was in the bathroom line."
Olivia laughs, this time from relief. "Oh, is my doppelganger here?"
Margaret fixes her. "A doppelganger wearing the same outfit as you."
Now there is something in her face, a bolt of anger. Olivia has never seen Margaret angry before and considered for a moment crawling under her seat. "That's so odd."
"It was. I was just in the never-ending bathroom line reading an email, and when I looked up, you were there at the end of the hall."
Olivia tries to smile. "What was I doing?"
"You were just standing there, completely still, just glaring at me. I thought to call out to you, but... your expression, it was so intense, like you despised me. There was something…" she labours over the next word, "wrong with your eyes. I can't explain it. It reminded me of… you know the last scene in Black Narcissus. "
Olivia wants to laugh again at this; of course, she knows the scene. It's her favourite film, the topic of her own dreaded book. She wants to point this out to Margaret, but she also wants to say: "I didn't leave my seat, I swear to you, Margaret, not for a second!" But when she opens her mouth:
"Then what happened?"
Margaret pauses a moment. "You were saying something to me, your mouth moved, but I couldn't make it out. And then I had to look away; I was… honestly, I was frightened. The line moved, and when I turned back, the lights flickered, and it seemed like you got, I know how this sounds, but absorbed into the darkness. Your face went black, and all I could see were your eyes."
She turns away and fixes her gaze on the screen, maybe afraid to see that stare. Olivia tries to think of something reassuring to say. She tries to mount the evidence in her favour.
The lights dip, and a muted tone fills the room. Someone is shushing.
"It wasn't me!" Her voice sounds slightly strangled, like a child.
Margaret turns to her. "How could it not be you?"
Olivia feels a crick in the centre of her back, and then the desperate need to get up and walk. She actually does stand up, but Margaret pulls down hard on her sleeve, and Olivia sits back down.
"The movie's starting."
She's right, the lights are dimming. And suddenly, Olivia is receding, sucked slowly into a pinpoint at the back of the theatre. The music fades out, and Margaret's face swims in front of her, bright then dark.