Byron’s Short Skirt ANDREW GROPED HIS way in a dark passage. Was he in the right place? Was it the right hour, even the right night? Andrew scarcely knew anymore which door led to which place. What set of rules governed him. Who he was. He pushed open the door. Color, people, steamy warmth enveloped him. “Lord . . . Byron,” announced a heraldic voice. His eyes adjusted. Speech Room lay before him. “You’re fifteen minutes late,” snapped the same voice. “For the first rehearsal. My God, what an ego. Go on, take a seat. You’re not the last, for what that’s worth. No one, not even title roles, are to be late for rehearsal, is that understood? Those are my ground rules. We’ll have enough trouble pulling together this production without prima donnas. To start, it would be nice to have a script.” Andrew stood there. Speech Room was warmer, cozier at night.
