A Well-Behaved Woman || Marie & Annette
As soon as she stepped off the stage, Annette wasnāt as popular as some of her patrons might imagine. On stage she carried the weight of a performerās charisma, but off itā¦ She maintained a sort of blank dullness. It was deliberate and it drove away friends. It was as she wanted it to be, lonely though it became. In a parallel universe, perhaps she would even have befriended the other performers. They were talented, all of them, and bright individuals; unlike herself, Annette, the quiet one. Some thought she was entirely boring and without personality, some that she was simply snooty, but either way Annette very much doubted that any of them held a soft spot in their hearts for her. She had, after all, made no effort to reach out to them. Why should they do so for Annette?
Of the regular performers at The Stingray, Marie was probably the one that she was least likely to ever befriend. Where Annette had grace and poise, Marie had inappropriate remarks and wild gestures; where Annette was tranquil, Marie consumed every room she entered with the velocity and passion of a hurricane. That was the largest difference between them, perhapsā passion. Annette struggled to care for much at all, particularly in so outward a fashion.
Still, she was never one to rock the boat. If she was asked to work with Marie, then Annette would oblige. After all, distasteful though she may find the woman, she was undeniably a wonderful musician. Her music was upbeat and wild and perfect for dancing. Not that Annette ever didā but she enjoyed sitting in the wings of the stage, sipping coffee and watching the customers dance. The practice session of the day had even been going quite well, she had thought. The rhythm was faster and more modern than Annetteās smoky, melancholic cadence was accustomed to but the challenge was satisfying. Marie didnāt seem interested in catering to Annetteās style, so Annette took it upon herself to do so.
She wasnāt sure why she was surprised when the bolshy voice rang out, forcing all on stage to stop in their tracks. Of course Marie had stopped them. Allowing the trombonist to pull her aside with the reassurance that it was easier this way (Annette didnātĀ want it to be easy, but not nearly so much as she didnāt want to cause a scene), she furrowed her dark brows. The song that Marie began to draw out from the bright piano keys wasnāt familiar, but the shuffling and the laughter of those around them made her uncomfortable. It felt like a joke at her expense and catlike, she bristled.
For all the world, Annette couldnāt understand why they should all be laughing at a song about a dentist drilling teeth. The subtext was lost on her, and she only stood there blankly while Marie sang. Her voice was less polished than Annetteās own, though it held a sort of rough enticement within it, and she concentrated on that rather than on her confusion. The last few notes rang out around the room, musicians on either side laughing or smirking, and Annette took a step towards the centre of the stage, the shadowy sides behind her. āMarie,ā she said, confusion and embarrassment hidden beneath the thick, porcelain mask of uncaring, āIf you want to sing on the stage then ask it of Mister Oxford. But I was invited to this rehearsal to sing, and you to play the piano, no? āAve you decided after all that your calling is in your voice?ā
Though the words laid claim to a challenge, Annette had scarcely meant anything by it. The challenge certainly wasnāt apparent from her tone, nor her face, both of which betrayed nothing but a faint boredom with the proceedings. She didnāt much care whether Marie wanted to sing or play the piano, or doĀ both, but Annette hadnāt come here to stand on the sidelines while people laughed at her because of a joke she couldnāt understand.
'It speaks,' she thought derisively. She supposed the girl was due some credit for standing up for herself, more or less. But it mattered little to her what Annette thought of herself, or even what she thought of Marie. "No, I haven't," she answered coldly. "But first, let's get something straight, okay, doll?" She looked back at the trombone, stressing the endearment he'd used for Annette. Maybe it was petty, but if nothing it served as a reminder that she hadn't missed his little quip about not needing to mind her. He sighed, muttering a gruff "Whatever." She turned towards Annette again.
"I don't have to ask 'Mr. Oxford' for anything," she said, stretching out the word 'Mr.' in a cruel but accurate imitation of the younger woman's accent. "If I want to sing, I'll sing. If I want to play the piano, I'll play the piano. If I want to dance stark naked in front of the entire Chicago White Sox to the tune of Take Me Out to the Ball Game I will, and there ain't nothin' Ollie Oxford can do about it." The boys laughed, saying how they'd pay good money to see such a sight.
"Secondly," she went on, ignoring their snickers, "you weren't invited here to sing. If you think anyone here gives a crap about your voice, you got another thing coming. You were brought here to entertain." she stood up from her piano, and started slowly walking towards Annette. "Of course, if you had enough brains or guts you might argue, couldn't the same thing be said for me?" She wasn't so much talking to Annette anymore, than giving a performance. Her monologue might have been better suited for a theater stage, but she carried herself in that larger-than-life kind of way that made you forget it wasn't real.
Marie could've found her fame through acting had she never found music, but she would have hated the intimacy of working with another actor. Yes, there was a certain level of intimacy between her and the musicians she played with, but her passion was entirely hers and hers alone. They were the back-up. She was the sun, they were the moon and the stars, a weak reflection of her light. "But you would be wrong," she went on, not losing focus. "As my music alone attracts more people than your voice ever will."
"So," she said, finally stopping in front of the singer. "That is what I bring to the table." 'What do you bring to the table?' was the unspoken question--or was it an accusation?--that hung in the air.
She'd always been tall, taller than any of her female friends--not that she had many, they were all so proper and fragile--and even some of the men, and in her high heels she towered over the girl, looking down at her in every sense. "And if you're here to entertain, I suggest you get on with it, because I. Am. Bored."
