So between the Culloden and Bothwell Gardens and girls she had known from Kincoppal days, Justine had quite a lot of friends, and was a good friend herself. She never told them all her troubles as they did her; she had Dane for that, though what few troubles she admitted to having didn't appear to prey upon her. The thing which fascinated her friends the most about her was her extraordinary self-discipline; as if she had trained herself from infancy not to let circumstances affect her well-being. Of chief interest to everyone called a friend was how, when and with whom Justine would finally decide to become a fulfilled woman, but she took her time.
Arthur Lestrange was Albert Jones's most durable juvenile lead, though he had wistfully waved goodbye to his fortieth birthday the year before Justine arrived at the Culloden. He had a good body, was a steady, reliable actor and his clean-cut, manly face with its surround of yellow curls was always sure to evoke audience applause. For the first year he didn't notice Justine, who was very quiet and did exactly as she was told. But at the end of the year her freckle treatments were finished, and she began to stand out against the scenery instead of blending into it.
Minus the freckles and plus makeup to darken her brows and lashes, she was a good-looking girl in an elfin, understated way. She had none of Luke O'neill's arresting beauty, or her mother's exquisiteness. Her figure was passable though not spectacular, a trifle on the thin side. Only the vivid red hair ever stood out. But on a stage she was quite different; she could make people think she was as beautiful as Helen of Troy or as ugly as a witch.
Arthur first noticed her during a teaching period, when she was required to recite a passage from Conrad's Lord Jim using various accents. She was extraordinary, really; he could feel the excitement in Albert Jones, and finally understood why Also devoted so much time to her. A born mimic, but far more than that; she gave character to every word she said. And there was the voice, a wonderful natural endowment for any actress, deep, husky, penetrating.
So when he saw her with a cup of tea in her hand, sitting with a book open on her knees, he came to sit beside her.
"What are you reading?"
She looked up, smiled. "Proust."
"Don't you find him a little dull?"
"Proust dull? Not unless one doesn't care for gossip, surely. That's what he is, you know. A terrible old gossip."
He had an uncomfortable conviction that she was intellectually patronizing him, but he forgave her. No more than extreme youth. "I heard you doing the Conrad. Splendid."
"Thank you."
"Perhaps we could have coffee together sometime and discuss your plans" "If you like," she said, returning to Proust. He was glad he had stipulated coffee, rather than dinner; his wife kept him on short commons, and dinner demanded a degree of gratitude he couldn't be sure Justine was ready to manifest. However, he followed his casual invitation. up, and bore her off to a dark little place in lower Elizabeth Street, where he was reasonably sure his wife wouldn't think of looking for him.
In self-defense Justine had learned to smoke, tired of always appearing goody-goody in refusing offered cigarettes. After they were seated she took her own cigarettes out of her bag, a new pack, and peeled the top cellophane from the flip-top box carefully, making sure the larger piece of cellophane still sheathed the bulk of the packet. Arthur watched her deliberateness, amused and interested.
"Why on earth go to so much trouble? Just rip it all off, Justine." "How untidy!"
He picked up the box and stroked its intact shroud reflectively. "Now, if I was a disciple of the eminent Sigmund Freud . . ."
"If you were Freud, what?" She glanced up, saw the waitress standing beside her. "Cappuccino, please."
It annoyed him that she gave her own order, but he let it pass, more intent on pursuing the thought in his mind. "Vienna, please. Now, getting back to what I was saying about Freud. I wonder what he'd think of this? He might say . . ."
She took the packet off him, opened it, removed a cigarette and lit it herself without giving him time to find his matches. "Well?" "He'd think you liked to keep membranous substances intact, wouldn't he?" Her laughter gurgled through the smoky air, caused several male heads to turn curiously. "Would he now? Is that a roundabout way of asking me if I'm still a virgin, Arthur?"
He clicked his tongue, exasperated. "Justine! I can see that among other things I'll have to teach you the fine art of prevarication."
"Among what other things, Arthur?" She leaned her elbows on the table, eyes gleaming in the dimness.
"Well, what do you need to learn?"
"I'm pretty well educated, actually."
"In everything?"
"Heavens, you do know how to emphasize words, don't you? Very good, I must remember how you said that."
"There are things which can only be learned from firsthand experience," he said softly, reaching out a hand to tuck a curl behind her ear. "Really? I've always found observation adequate."
"Ah, but what about when it comes to love?" He put a delicate deepness into the word. "How can you play Juliet without knowing what love is?" "A good point. I agree with you." "Have you ever been in love?"
No.
"Do you know anything about love?" This time he put the vocal force on "anything," rather than "love."
"Nothing at all."
"Ah! Then Freud would have been right, eh?"
She picked up her cigarettes and looked at their sheathed box, smiling. "In some things, perhaps."
Quickly he grasped the bottom of the cellophane, pulled it off and held it in his hand, dramatically crushed it and dropped it in the ashtray, where it squeaked and writhed, expanded. "I'd like to teach you what being a woman is, if I may."
For a moment she said nothing, intent on the antics of the cellophane in the ashtray, then she struck a match and carefully set fire to it. "Why not?" she asked the brief flare. "Yes, why not?"
