Read Online Molly Fox's Birthday by Deirdre Madden - Free Book Online

being the most intelligent man in the world, something he brought up himself on that first day and didn’t deny. ‘I hope you’re not going to ask me about my theory of acting or anything,’ he said to me. ‘I don’t know how to talk about it, I just sort of do it.’ Why, that wasn’t a problem at all, I told him; that made perfect sense: he just sort of did it. Once I was out of the force field of his allure, however, I did begin to worry, because intelligence is something I particularly appreciate in an actor. It comes through in performance, but it’s important in rehearsal too. If David failed to see what was required of him, would it be possible to explain to him? Would he understand?
    Working with him, then, was a revelation. David was a deeply instinctive actor, more so than anyone I had known up to that point in my career or indeed in the years since then. He was a gift to any writer because, not having the wherewithal to question a text, he trusted it implicitly. He took a play at face value and went straight to the heart of it. His innate understanding of any given role more than made up for any lack of conscious knowledge and the inability to explain what he was about. It simply didn’t matter. ‘It’s like footballing intelligence,’ Ken remarked to me one day as we watched Molly andDavid rehearsing a scene together. ‘All that counts is that you can put the ball in the back of the net. Whether or not you can explain afterwards how you did it is neither here nor there.’
    Ah yes, Ken. I became very close to him very quickly, and we were a couple by the time the play went up. There was a kind of perfection about that period in our lives. We all brought out the best in each other, both professionally and personally. Molly and David hit it off particularly well in spite of their being so different. He had none of her emotional complexity, her depth; and she was happy to let his sunny good nature set the tone. It was an invigorating experience, that production, in spite of the play itself being so dark. Contrary to popular belief, the spirit abroad in the rehearsal room does not necessarily mirror the genre of the play in question. Working on a comedy can be a fractious, ill-tempered affair; and Molly claims she has never laughed so much as when she was rehearsing Phèdre . We got great reviews and the run was extended. I never worked with David again after that, more’s the pity.
    I did work again with Ken, and that’s a pity too, because it ruined what there was between us personally. We were together for a few years and I almost married him, but the more intimate we became the more professional rancour came between us. It was I who, like a fool, insisted that we work together once more. Ken knew that it was a mistake but I forced him into it. I couldn’t see until it was too late that even given the circumstances of our initial meeting and it having been a good experience, it could never be like that again. Other people now saw us as a couple. To disagree with one was to risk upsettingboth; and for Ken to disagree with me before other people was something I couldn’t handle; I took it personally. All kinds of resentments and rivalries infested our life together and eventually brought our relationship to an end. And it was all my fault.
    I stood there in the morning light with Molly’s copy of The Duchess of Malfi in my hands. Why was I remembering all of this now? It was all so long ago, but it was still painful to think of it. As I replaced the book I noticed a volume of Chekhov short stories, and in spite of myself I lifted it out to look at it. Before I knew what had happened I was on a jetty in Yalta, then the clock on the stairs was sounding ten o’clock and the untouched coffee was cold beside me in the polka-dot mug. In my defence I must say that this was most unlike me. Usually I am a most disciplined writer. When I am at