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On my own, pretending he’s beside me
All alone, I walk with him ‘til morning
As Dorothea practices, she can hear Hanneman’s voice in her head: “Your voice is lovely as always, but there’s no passion behind it.”
The director is right, she knows, but even for a talented actress such as herself, it’s hard to act out passion when the object of her character’s affections is someone like Ferdinand Von Aegir. Sure, he’s unfailingly polite, and even seemed a little starstruck when he met her, but that just makes her resentment sting a little more.
How unfair, she thinks, that I finally get to play the role I’ve dreamed of since I was a little girl, but my Marius is a nepo baby.
While Ferdinand had recognized Dorothea with admiration when he met her, Dorothea felt only a sudden numbness that quickly turned bitter when she learned his name. In her sphere, the name “Von Aegir” was synonymous with massive, generous donations; his family had donated more money than Dorothea has ever had in her life to that one theater, with even more donations spread across the local performing arts scene. That the Von Aegirs would buy a role for a member of their family was a slap in the face to her and to every other actor who earned their roles through hard work.
And to make things worse, it quickly became clear that Ferdinand is an excellent singer and actor. In spite of herself, she has to admit that his performance of “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” is breathtaking.
She can barely focus on her singing anymore, and stops in the middle of a phrase. Before she can collect herself again, someone knocks on the door of her practice room.
“Who is it?”
The door swings open and a tall, lanky figure comes into view.
“It’s almost lunchtime,” says Hubert, the assistant stage manager.
Dorothea glances at the clock on the wall and frowns slightly. “This early?”
Hubert lets out one dry chuckle. “I think Hanneman is getting sick of watching Ferdinand completely fail at showing any affection for poor Annette.”
It’s a funny thing. Ferdinand, she begrudgingly admits, has a face and voice made to be a leading man, and the talent to match. But he falls short in one key way: he can’t perform romance convincingly at all.
“Then it’s a good thing he didn’t hear me practicing just now,” Dorothea sighs as she follows Hubert into the hall. She falls into a brisk pace to keep up with his long strides. “At least we’re just running the end of the show today so he doesn’t have to listen to me sing ‘On My Own.’ I feel like I should buy Hanneman some chocolates as an apology for putting up with us.”
“If you do, would you be so kind as to get some for me as well?” Hubert smirks. “Since I also had to put up with the two of you.”
Dorothea laughs, playfully nudging him with her elbow. “Poor, long-suffering Hubie, whatever will I do with you?”
“Eighty-five percent cacao or darker will suffice.”
Dorothea opens her mouth to retort, but a loud thud echoes from somewhere nearby, cutting her off. A timid “ Oh no ” follows.
“Did Bern try to carry too many bolts of fabric again?”
“It would seem so,” Hubert says.
Dorothea follows his gaze to see the shy costume designer surrounded by rolls of fabric longer than she is tall scattered on the ground. Before Dorothea or Hubert can make a move to help, the door to the rehearsal room bursts open, and Ferdinand Von Aegir rushes out in a flurry of orange hair.
“Bernadetta!” he shouts. “Please allow me to assist you!”
“Oh, um, th-thank you.”
Annette, the show’s Cosette, steps into the hall carrying her large, sticker-covered water bottle.
“Oh, hey, Dorothea! And Hubert!” she chirps.
“Hi, Annie!” Dorothea smiles at the younger actress. She likes Annette; they were in the same musical theater program several years apart.
“Yes, yes,” Hubert says absentmindedly. “I should probably help out with the fabric. Edelgard will never let me hear the end of it if Ferdinand overexerts himself with it again.”
“Again?” Dorothea asks Annette.
“Yeah, he’s been helping Bernie carry stuff a lot lately,” Annette says as she crosses the hall to refill her water bottle. “Ooh, do you think he might like her?”
Hubert snorts. “If he does, then he should try channeling that feeling into his performance. Isn’t that how acting is supposed to work?”
Annette playfully scolds Hubert, who leaves with a nod in the two women’s direction. Dorothea can’t really hear what they say over the strange twisting in her stomach; she absolutely refuses to examine that feeling further.
If her expression has changed at all, Annette doesn’t notice it. “Anyway,” Annette says, “Mercedes and I were going to get lunch at that new stir-fry place a couple blocks away. Do you want to come?”
“I brought lunch, actually,” Dorothea says quickly.
“I wish I could remember to pack lunch every day,” Annette sighs. She twists the cap onto her bottle. “I don’t even want to think about how much I spend on eating out…”
“Hmm.” Dorothea isn’t sure what to say. She knows she probably could afford to eat out more now that she has a stable income as an actress, but having enough money for little luxuries is still a foreign feeling to her, so she prepares the same sandwich every morning, just like she did when she was waiting tables to afford her schooling.
“Well, I should get going,” Annette says brightly. “I’ll see you in a bit!”
“Bye.” Dorothea forces a small smile as Annette leaves. Even though she was the one who turned down the invitation, it still stings to be left out when her castmates go out to eat.
Now alone, she heads toward the break room. Were it not such a rainy day, she thinks, she might take her sandwich outside and eat at a nearby park. As it is, it seems she must resign herself yet again to the hard fluorescent lights of the break room.
The room is empty except for Dorothea as she eats, the only sound a tinny monologue from the video essay she pulled up on her phone (a detailed comparison of Éponine’s character in the musical as compared to the original novel). But when she’s halfway through her sandwich, the door creaks open. She hastily exits out of the video before looking up to see who entered.
“Ferdie,” she says dryly. “I would have thought you went out to eat somewhere.”
Indeed, he’s carrying a bag and a cup emblazoned with the logo of a fancy—and unfairly delicious—cafe nearby. Dorothea has been there as a treat to herself several times, and the cafe is a far more welcoming environment than a simple break room in the bowels of a theater. Why did Ferdinand decide to bring his meal here instead of remaining at the cafe?
Perhaps there were no seats, she thinks.
“May I sit?” Ferdinand gestures at the seat across the table from Dorothea. She nods, stuffing another mouthful of sandwich into her face.
“Thank you,” he says as he settles in, pulling a toasted sandwich from his paper bag that looks absolutely mouthwatering. If sandwiches had feelings, Dorothea’s would be embarrassed to be in its presence. “Are you the only one here?”
“Yep, it’s just me.” Dorothea can’t decide if she’s upset that her time alone has been interrupted, relieved that she has company, or annoyed that the company is Ferdinand. “What brings you here?”
If her voice has an edge to it, Ferdinand doesn’t seem to notice.
“I thought it would be nice to eat with my castmates today,” he replies brightly.
Can anything dampen this man’s spirits?
“I see.” Dorothea turns back to her sandwich.
Ferdinand rustles in his bag again, removing a small box and placing it on the table between them. “I also wanted to give you this.”
Dorothea’s eyes snap to the box, then to Ferdinand’s face, and back again when his guileless amber eyes begin to feel too intense.
He pushes the box slightly closer to her without a word. Heart in her throat—for reasons she cannot explain—she opens the lid. Inside is an artfully sculpted pastry with a fruit filling. Her mouth waters.
“It’s a peach galette,” Ferdinand supplies.
Dorothea fights back the urge to snap, “I know” back at him; she’s learned all too well what it sounds like when people speak down to those who they deem below them, and she doesn’t hear that in Ferdinand’s voice at all.
“I hope you like it,” he adds. She notices that his hands are clasped rather tightly on the table.
“Did you know this is my favorite?” she asks cautiously.
Ferdinand beams at her. “I knew you like peaches so it was an educated guess.”
“But why did you get this for me?”
“Ah, well,” Ferdinand rubs the back of his neck with one hand, the other still rather white-knuckled on the table; it looks like all of the blood from his hand has rushed to his cheeks. “You seemed to be in a bad mood before we went to lunch.”
That strange twisting feeling has returned. To settle her stomach, Dorothea abandons her sandwich and takes a small bite out of the galette. The buttery pastry and delicate fruit melt in her mouth.
“It’s delicious, thank you.”
Ferdinand’s smile could almost make Dorothea forget that it’s raining outside.
~~~~~~~~
And you will keep me safe
And you will keep me close
And rain will make the flowers (grow)
“Well done, Dorothea and Ferdinand!” Hanneman crows. “Very well done indeed!”
Dorothea bows her head as much as she can while lying on the half-finished barricade, with a slight flourish of her hand toward the director as he gives a one-man standing ovation. She deserves to be a little cocky, she thinks, after all the work she put in to push aside her personal feelings about her costar; she didn’t even flinch when he’d gently kissed her forehead! (The galette had certainly helped too.) Ferdinand bows his head as well, a slight flush across his face.
“That is how all of our rehearsals should end,” Hanneman continues. “If anyone needs to speak with me before we leave please do, otherwise you are free to leave and I will see you tomorrow.”
The chairs groan as the other actors take to their feet and file out. Dorothea sits up straight, rotating her head to prevent the cramp she can feel coming on. She pushes herself slowly to her feet with a contented sigh.
Ferdinand makes no move to stand up.
“What’s up, Ferdie? Don’t want to leave yet?” she teases.
“Marius is such a fool for not choosing Éponine,” he says with a shake of his head. “Not to disparage Cosette, I know she also has her struggles, but Éponine is just more… real.”
“Exactly why she’s the one I’ve wanted to play for half my life.” Dorothea smirks. “But honestly, as I grew up, I stopped thinking Marius should have chosen her. You can’t call a story Les Misérables and then have everyone live happily ever after.”
“That’s very true,” Ferdinand chuckles.
“And you have to remember that just because you think they should have gotten together, it doesn’t mean you can stop playing your role as written.” Maybe it’s a low blow, but she figures that now that he’s explained why he’s struggled to perform the romance scenes with Annette, he’ll be able to improve.
Dorothea rummages through her rehearsal bag as Ferdinand gets to his feet. She can’t find her water bottle, and huffs in frustration.
At the same time, Ferdinand says, “I just meant—oh, never mind.”
“What was that?” she asked distractedly.
“Ah, nothing important.”
When Dorothea looks back up from her bag, she sees that Ferdinand is looking rather intently at a paint spot on the barricade.
“Well, Ferdie, I’d love to talk more,” she says, and surprises herself because she means it, “but I left something in the break room. No need to wait for me!”
She waves to him over her shoulder as she speeds from the room.
What was his intention for that conversation, anyway? Dorothea wonders as she retrieves her bottle. It would take more than sharing opinions she’d held at age thirteen for Ferdinand to endear himself to her.
A thought scratches at the back of her mind, trying to get in, but she shakes it off.
As she approaches the lobby, she notices that Ferdinand still hasn’t left the rehearsal space. His back is to her as she pokes her head in.
“Oh, Ferdie, I said you shouldn’t—”
He spins around to look at her, and she sees that he’s on his phone. His expression seems rather frazzled.
Dorothea mouths an apology as she retreats. Through the open door, she hears Ferdinand say the word dad.
She hesitates, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Yes, I know–but–fine. Yes. Yes of course.” Ferdinand sighs. He pauses for a moment, and the other person—his father, it seems—must be speaking.
“Talk to you later, dad. I should go. I love you.”
Dorothea has never heard Ferdinand sound so dejected. It’s disconcerting to hear his voice with none of its usual pride and enthusiasm.
“You can come in, Dorothea,” he calls.
He wears a blank expression as she approaches.
“Sorry for interrupting,” Dorothea says, stopping a few feet away from him.
Ferdinand sighs again. “Honestly, it was probably better that you did. I doubt my father would have let me go so quickly otherwise.”
If anyone asked, she would say she was simply curious to hear some tea on Ludwig Von Aegir when she said, “I don’t mean to pry, but it sounds like you want to talk about it.”
“You really don’t have to do that if you don’t want to,” Ferdinand says, not quite meeting Dorothea’s eye.
“I do want to,” Dorothea says truthfully; sure, her motives may not be entirely selfless, but she does want to hear what Ferdinand has to say. “It’s been a long week, I think we could both use the chance to talk about something other than Les Mis for a little while.”
“Very true,” he replies with a half-smile. “I’m starving, though, maybe we could go to that cafe down the street? The one with the peach galette.”
“Say no more, Ferdie,” she replies. “You had me at ‘peach galette.’”
~~~~~~~~
When they place their orders at the counter, Ferdinand insists on paying for Dorothea’s.
“It’s the least I can do for making you listen to my problems,” he explains. A little too quickly, he adds, “I don’t mean it as a date or anything like that.”
“I’m never going to turn down free food,” Dorothea replies with a breathless laugh. She wouldn’t have even thought it could be construed as a date if Ferdinand hadn’t said anything. Probably.
The silence as they wait for their food and drinks falls in the space between uncomfortable and companionable. After they sit down, Dorothea takes tiny bites of her sandwich like one might on stage—ones that are easy to chew and swallow quickly so she could be ready to speak at a moment’s notice.
“Where should I begin?” Ferdinand asks himself after a particularly long sip of his tea. Dorothea looks up at him as he continues, “I’m sure you already know that my father has made a lot of donations to local performing arts organizations.”
Dorothea nods.
“Well, he raised me to be a lover of the arts just as he is, of course. But me becoming an actor myself was never part of his plan.”
Whatever Dorothea expected to hear, it certainly wasn’t this.
“So he’ll support the arts, but still looks down on the artists? Is that it?” There’s a little more vitriol behind her voice than she intends to let out.
Ferdinand winces slightly. “I wouldn’t say it’s anything that demeaning,” he protests. “Ultimately what it comes down to is that he’s very protective of his business ventures and wants them to remain in the family. He thought acting would be a brief diversion for me, but I’d eventually get bored of it and go back to school for my MBA.”
“So he’s not disappointed you became an actor, he’s just disappointed that you’re actually good at it?”
“You think I’m good?” Ferdinand asks, immediately perking up at the praise.
Dorothea’s face grows hot. “Of course you’re good. You know you’re good, Ferdie. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Ferdinand cocks his head to the side.
“I…” She feels her cheeks grow redder. “I don’t know. It’s nothing.”
She’s not sure how to say, “I thought your father bought your role for you” tactfully.
“I highly doubt it’s nothing.”
“Well, if you really want to know,” Dorothea sighs, “when I first heard your name, I thought you’d only been cast because your father pulled some strings. I saw the way you struggled so much in the romance scenes, and I felt so angry that I’ve worked my whole life for an opportunity like this and you could half-ass it and still get a part just because your father donated so much money to the theater.”
She shakes her head, and her tone softens just a little as she continues, “But I watched you more, and you are good, and you’ve been getting better in the romance too. I just… still thought you were an ungrateful nepo baby who also happened to be pretty talented. Now I don’t know what to think.”
“Oh.” Ferdinand looks down at the table, and Dorothea is glad for it because she’s not sure she could stand meeting his eye right now. “I can certainly understand why you might have thought that but no, my father had nothing to do with my acting career. I only minored in theater, actually, because he was paying for me to get a business degree.”
He lets out a bitter, joyless laugh. “That’s what he was calling about; he was reminding me that if I applied to his alma mater for grad school, he’d guarantee that I get in.”
“I see,” Dorothea says quietly. It will take some time to adjust to this new view of Ferdinand, she knows, and to get over the embarrassment of misjudging him so harshly, but for now…
“I feel like we should just start over from the beginning,” she says with a half-smile, then extends her hand across the table. “Hi, I’m Dorothea Arnault. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ferdinand takes her hand and gives it a firm shake. “And I’m Ferdinand Von Aegir. I’m so honored to finally get to meet one of my favorite actresses.”
Dorothea bows her head modestly, the half-smile still tugging at her lips. “I’m flattered, Ferdie, especially since I know one of your other favorites is Manuela—”
“—Casagranda, yes.” He nods. “I can’t believe I get to act in a play with her! Her take on ‘Rose’s Turn’ was quite possibly the most entrancing performance I’ve ever had the honor of seeing live.”
“Oh, it really was, wasn’t it?” Dorothea sighs.
“And now you’re going to play her daughter for a second time!” Ferdinand enthuses; his geeky excitement is palpable, and Dorothea can’t help but feel charmed by it. “That must feel amazing!”
“It’s a dream come true, absolutely!”
Their conversation flows easily now. Dorothea loses track of time as they talk, discovering that she and Ferdinand have many shared interests even outside of theater. It feels like no time has passed at all when the baristas begin closing up.
As they step out into the chilled evening air, Ferdinand rubs a hand on the back of his neck nervously. “I, ah, had a great time with you, Dorothea.”
“Likewise.” Dorothea gives her best attempt at a carefree smile, but her heart has leapt to her throat. Is he—?
“I was wondering, um, if you might like to do this again sometime?”
“My, Ferdie, don’t you think that’s a bit forward?” Dorothea giggles. Ferdinand opens his mouth, but she holds up a finger to shush him before she can find out if he intended to apologize or protest. With a wink, she continues, “After all, we only just met.”
Ferdinand’s joyous, musical laugh rings in her ears long after they’ve parted, and when she finds herself singing “On My Own” in her apartment that evening, she’s pretty sure she’s never sounded better.