The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [267]
I laughed, and finished my drink as a voice boomed over the P.A. system, “Would the audience please take their seats for the second act? The curtain is about to rise.”
“We ought to be getting back,” Anna said, placing her empty glass on the nearest window ledge.
“I suppose so,” I said reluctantly, and led her in the opposite direction to the one in which I really wanted to take her.
“Thanks for the drink,” she said as we returned to our seats.
“Small recompense,” I replied. She glanced up at me questioningly. “For such a good ticket,” I explained.
She smiled as we made our way along the row, stepping awkwardly over more toes. I was just about to risk a further remark when the house lights dimmed.
During the second act I turned to smile in Anna’s direction whenever there was laughter, and was occasionally rewarded with a warm response. But my supreme moment of triumph came toward the end of the act, when the detective showed the daughter a photograph of the dead woman. She gave a piercing scream, and the stage lights were suddenly switched off.
Anna grabbed my hand, but quickly released it and apologized.
“Not at all,” I whispered. “I only just stopped myself from doing the same thing.” In the darkened theater, I couldn’t tell how she responded.
A moment later the phone on the stage rang. Everyone in the audience knew it must be the detective on the other end of the line, even if they couldn’t be sure what he was going to say. That final scene had the whole house gripped.
After the lights dimmed for the last time, the cast returned to the stage and deservedly received a long ovation, taking several curtain calls.
When the curtain was finally lowered, Anna turned to me and said, “What a remarkable production. I’m so glad I didn’t miss it. And I’m even more pleased that I didn’t have to see it alone.”
“Me too,” I told her, ignoring the fact that I’d never planned to spend the evening at the theater in the first place.
We made our way up the aisle together as the audience flowed out of the theater like a slow-moving river. I wasted those few precious moments discussing the merits of the cast, the power of the director’s interpretation, the originality of the macabre set and even the Edwardian costumes, before we reached the double doors that led back out into the real world.
“Goodbye, Michael,” Anna said. “Thank you for adding to my enjoyment of the evening.” She shook me by the hand.
“Goodbye,” I said, gazing once again into those hazel eyes.
She turned to go, and I wondered if I would ever see her again.
“Anna,” I said.
She glanced back in my direction.
“If you’re not doing anything in particular, would you care to join me for dinner …”
Author’s Note
At this point in the story, the reader is offered the choice of four different endings.
You might decide to read all four of them, or simply select one and consider that your own particular ending. If you do choose to read all four, they should be taken in the order in which they have been written:
1. Rare
2. Burnt
3. Overdone
4. À point
RARE
“Thank you, Michael. I’d like that.”
I smiled, unable to mask my delight. “Good. I know a little restaurant just down the road that I think you might enjoy.”
“That sounds fun,” Anna said, linking her arm in mine. I guided her through the departing throng.
As we strolled together down the Aldwych, Anna continued to chat about the play, comparing it favorably with a production she had seen at the Haymarket some years before.
When we reached the Strand I pointed to a large gray double door on the other side of the road. “That’s it,” I said. We took advantage of a red light to weave our way through the temporarily stationary traffic, and after we’d reached the far sidewalk I pushed one of the gray doors open to allow Anna through. It began to rain just as we stepped inside. I led her down a flight of stairs into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk of people who had just come out of theaters, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.
“I’ll be impressed