Last Act by Jane Aiken Hodge Page A

pleased with the emphatic way it came out.
    Carl Meyer, she noticed, was sweating lightly. The lawyer, whose name she had failed to catch, looked mildly impatient. “Quite right,” he said. “I never expect the ladies to bother with reading the small print, but you are absolutely right, Miss Paget. Do, pray, read it at your leisure.” He looked ostentatiously at his watch and handed her the surprisingly long document.
    It was, at first sight, a fairly standard contract—printed, with spaces left for various facts and figures to be filled in. It certainly all looked reasonable enough, but she remembered Falinieri’s warning, and why was Carl so obviously tense? The salary offered was incredibly high for an understudy, but, equally, low for a principal. She looked at this clause thoughtfully, wondering if it was worth querying, her thumb marking the place.
Money I despise it
… But it would be pleasant to have enough money to die in comfort.
    â€œFräulein Paget”—the lawyer had seen where she had paused—“please, see here.” He turned the page to where an extra clause had been typed in, promising what struck her as a quite enormous bonus for each performance at which she actually sang. “We all know you will sing at each one,” he said. “It has been discussed … The Princess quite understands … She agrees … She asks me to say that she greatly looks forward to meeting you tonight.”
    â€œThe Princess?” She looked at him in amazement.
    â€œPrincess Alix.” He was surprised at her surprise. “You did not know?” He turned to Carl. “You did not tell her?”
    â€œI thought she knew.” Carl was still sweating.
    â€œYou mean, it’s the princess who has the contralto voice.”
    Anne was working it out slowly. “Her idea, the whole thing.” She turned to Carl. “I remember, you said Alix’s idea. But you never said she was a princess.”
    â€œShe prefers to be called Alix,” said the lawyer.
    â€œBut to give it up now,” protested Anne. “Such a chance! Such a part! She can’t!”
    â€œShe has,” said the lawyer. “She talked to her father, and then—she heard your voice. She yields, she says, to the greater singer.”
    â€œHeard me? But how?”
    â€œWe are well equipped here, Annchen.” Carl was not enjoying this interview. “You were taped, last night, when you delighted us so.”
    â€œOh, I was, was I?” Odd to be so angry. “Well, before you do it another time you will kindly let me know.” She dropped her eyes from his unhappy ones and went on reading the contract, and suddenly, there it was, the point she was supposed to have agreed on without noticing. First, the provision she had expected about keeping herself open for a star part in next year’s Lissenberg Festival, and then, an inconspicuous part of the standard printed contract, the unbelievable undertaking: “And I hereby agree that between now and this time next year I will keep myself free of all professional organisations that might in any way guide, control or inhibit my performance.” She looked up and met the lawyer’s shifting eyes. “This means,” she said, “that I would not be able to join Equity if I should get the chance.”
    â€œWe pride ourselves upon being amateurs here, Fräulein,” he said inadequately.
    â€œAll very fine for Princess Alix.” She reached over and took the gold pen from his hand. “For me, no.” She struck out the offending sentence and wrote her initials boldly in the margin, then handed the pen back to the lawyer. “If you will be so good as to do so too,” she said. “And you,” to Carl, who looked as if he wished the floor would open and swallow him.
    â€œHis Highness will not like it,” said the lawyer.
    â€œThen His Highness will have to find