Encore Encore (11 page)

“Maybe you need to talk about it sometime.” Freddie’s spoke quietly, for Francis’s ears only. “You tried to drink it away, you tried to screw it away, and now you’re just bottling it up.” There was one last avuncular embrace. “Don’t let the bastard spoil your whole life, Francis. He wasn’t worth it then—and he sure as fuck isn’t worth it now.”

London, May

Another Saturday night, another cast party. There’d been one for the reviews, another when Francis and Freddie had appeared on The One Show. Now there was one down in Chelsea, and for some reason no one was letting on. Time to loosen up and let off a bit of steam, perhaps? Even Freddie had taken off the tie and grey suit he’d been wearing the last couple of months, and
80 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

gone back to the old brown chinos he’d loved so much before he became a “successful West End producer.” Maybe he was cultivating an image of eccentricity, although who was supposed to be benefi ting from it Francis wasn’t sure.

He was hovering by the drinks trolley, feeling unusually out of sorts. As soon as he saw Freddie making a beeline for him he guessed what it was going to be about. “It’s a Saturday night, we’re six weeks into the run and the takings look solid for the next twenty.” Didn’t they say attack was the best defence? Or was it “get your retaliation in fi rst”? “Can’t I let my hair down for once?” He eyed the bottle and the glass, possessively. He’d just had the one and the second was looking pretty inviting, unpoured and calling his name.

“Nobody’s stopping you having a couple. You look nice.” Freddie rubbed his knuckles along Francis’s sleeve.

And you look shifty.
Freddie didn’t usually pay him compliments about how he looked, certainly not when Francis was in anything like drag. He always commented when he wasn’t, praising a shirt or the cut of a pair of pants. When they’d been on The One Show, he’d hardly shut up about how good Francis’s suit was, and how sexy it would look under the lights. Well, he was hardly going to sit opposite Adrian Chiles in his best evening gown, was he? The last thing he wanted was comparisons with Lily Savage.

“Thanks.” Francis let the collar of his trouser suit play through his fi ngers. Indigo velvet, feminine enough to count as drag—just about—but not so much that you were guaranteed to get beaten up by football fans when the pubs turned out. “Just a little thing that I ran up in between performances.” The imitation of Juliet the dresser’s tones was immaculate. And it wasn’t a million miles from the truth—she’d taken the suit in, making it even more fi gure hugging. Francis had slimmed down, toned up, a lot over the last few months, with all the dancing and less of the drinking.

Freddie’s laugh seemed sincere enough. “I’m glad you’re on form. We’ve got this bloke looking in, over from the States.” He spoke airily, as if “this bloke” was just anyone. He clearly wasn’t.

ENCORE! ENCORE!
81

That’s why you’re glad I’m not in a dress.
“From the States?

Basketball player, is he?”

“Nah.” Freddie must have been nervous, not to feel the piss being taken out of him. “Owen reckons he might be to do with one of the production companies on Broadway.” The producer’s voice was hardly above a whisper now, hissing from the side of barely moving lips as if he was a vent with no dummy. “He’s going to want to see you at the top of your game.”

“Can’t he come to the show? That’s when I do my stuff.” Francis’s voice was deliberately loud. Shaking away the hand Freddie had laid on his arm, he wrested the last drip from his glass. “I don’t think I should be on parade the rest of the time.”

“Owen says…”

“Owen says. Owen reckons. But does Owen actually know?” He’d found a bottle—why did the bloody thing have to be empty?

“Remember the bird in Manchester who said she was something to do with Fox? Got you lot dancing attention on her for ages, your Owen wetting his pants over possible fi lm versions. And all she turned out to be was some sort of a groupie.”

“She was a PA, Francis. To one of the marketing men.” Freddie glanced around, then looked relieved. Clearly “this bloke” hadn’t arrived yet.

“Yeah, I believe it, thousands wouldn’t. I bet she was just a secretary with a decent suit she nicked off her friend and plenty of good chat up lines. They see your Owen coming a mile off. I get the perverts, he gets the con men. Or women.” If Miss Otis wasn’t going to be allowed to forget things, neither was the guy who’d nearly got stung. Luckily it had only cost the company a couple of bottles of champagne and a lot of pleasantries before the tart had been rumbled. “I just want to enjoy myself without having to watch my p’s and q’s all evening. And don’t look at me with the puppy eyes, Freddie, I’ve worked fucking hard for you these last few months. Sod it, I’ve worked hard these last few years. Don’t I get one evening off?”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
82 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

Freddie’s puppy dog eyes weren’t going to work this time.

Francis would be buggered if he’d let himself be browbeaten again. Maybe it was mid-run blues talking—although it was early for them—but he felt like he’d spent all his life obliging other people who “wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.” Why didn’t they think what he wanted was important? “I can’t help you.” The puppy looked as if it had been slapped. “Seriously, Freddie,” Francis’s voice softened. No matter how hard he tried to play the tough guy with his old friend, the tart with a heart always won through. “I’m really no advert for the show, the way I feel tonight. Just tell this bloke I’ve got a sore throat, that I need to rest it. Say that my aunt died and I’ve had to rush away and I’ll meet him over lunch one day in the week. Anything, just let me have a break tonight, eh?”

There wasn’t going to be a fi ght. Maybe Freddie’s heart had softened or maybe he was wary of having a stand up row with his leading man, and “this bloke” walking in on the middle of it.

“Okay, okay. I’ll get Owen to ply him with the decent champagne, and give him a couple of tickets for the third row of the stalls.

You look swell from the third row. But do me a favour in return—

promise me you’ll wear a suit for that lunch.” Francis found himself being drawn into a long, sentimental hug. Freddie always was a soft sod. He was on the verge of saying he’d changed his mind—that if Freddie wanted him to stay then of course he would, although just for half an hour—when Graham sidled up. “Sorry to break up the tender moment, but I’ve heard a rumour that the man from the BBC is going to be here, and I wonder whether he’d like me to do him a song?”

“Not the BBC, Graham. The jungle drums let you down on that one. I’m going to see what our guest requires when he gets here. Perhaps he’ll just want to meet people as they are, not with the metaphorical greasepaint on.”

At other times Francis would have appreciated his old friend’s diplomatic skills, the way he kept everyone in the company happy and gave them all the impression
they
were really the top dog.

Now he couldn’t see past the hypocrisy. If he stayed, he bet he’d ENCORE! ENCORE!
83

be expected to be something he wasn’t, while everyone else could revert to type. Sod that. “Well, if you lot are all sticking around I can get that early night.”

Graham’s immaculate teeth —Francis would have put money on them being dentures—gleamed. “Not staying for the fun?

Not like you to miss a party, Francis.”
Not like you to miss the chance at a barbed remark, Graham.
“I can take them or leave them, and this time I’m leaving.” He spoke through clenched teeth, desperate now to be anywhere else than here.

“Please yourself, Francis. Start the car and fi nd a whoopee spot.”

He wasn’t such a queen that he couldn’t lay another bloke out with a bunch of fi ves, but Francis kept his fi sts in check, enjoying the sensation of power deliberately restrained. “Oh I will. Where the gin is cold and the blokes are hot. Hotter than here.”

“Well, you know about that. What’s the line? ‘Marry Harry and mess around with Ike?’ Only you never got to marry Harry, did you?” Graham had never looked so spiteful—he was clearly enjoying every moment of this. “Or should I say marry James?” Spinning on his heels, Francis didn’t even hear what Freddie said in reply, although he knew he’d never heard him so cross with one of the company. Ignoring the pleas from other cast members to stay, to make things up, he shook his head, got his things and went. Although not without registering that Graham was being reminded—all traces of directorial diplomacy laid aside now—that Billy Flynns were two a penny, but guys with the legs and voice to play Velma were like gold dust. And that Freddie knew which one he’d choose.

Francis almost sent Owen fl ying as he careered past the men’s bogs and headed onto the pavement, gulping down the fresh air as if it was vintage champagne. He sashayed down the street, anger hanging around him like a black cloak, swishing in the darkness at his heels. Sod the lot of them. Sod their neat little cocktail parties and kissing both cheeks. Sod all the “dahlings”
84 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

and “loves” and all the rest of the sycophantic drivel. He knew what he wanted tonight and it wasn’t what they had to offer. He wanted a beer—and some bit of rough trade to share it with would be a bonus, although he’d drink it alone if need be.

How the hell had Graham found out? Only the director had known him at the time he’d been living with Mannering. It had been pre-Owen, while Freddie had a company playing a tour of M25 land and Francis was playing Evelyn Oakleigh. Freddie wouldn’t have told—he had to cling to that thought—so Graham had done some digging. Some silly cow out of the chorus of
Anything Goes
had told, maybe. One of the girls who’d been chasing James when he’d been hovering about, and was sore at not getting anywhere. Forget about it for now.

Francis was drawn like a homing pigeon to a bar with a rainbow fl ag outside, but quickly passed it by—there were two large and loud trannies grabbing a fag by the door, and he really didn’t want to be bothered with them tonight. He wanted subtlety and somewhere he’d stand out a bit. Next to those two queens he’d have looked more like Gene Kelly than Grace.

There was a similar fl ag fl ying just down the road, encouraging him to saunter along a bit into territory unknown. This place looked more promising, two blokes in jeans and shirts chatting to the doorman, all three standing aside to let him get in, although not moving so far away that they didn’t rub elbows in passing. It wasn’t terribly busy inside, not for a Saturday night, just enough to eye up the possibilities, and be seen in return. Francis ate up the admiring glances like canapés. He grabbed a Peroni at the bar, took a long cool swig and waited for the fun—he was sure there was plenty to be had here—to start.

“Are you looking for someone?” An incongruously quiet voice sounded beside him.

Hardly the most original chat up line. Francis eyed the stranger warily at fi rst. He’d got past the point of being impressed by smooth Lotharios sporting smarmy clichés, although this bloke didn’t actually seem like one of them. If Francis had been a betting man he’d have put twenty quid on the remark being ENCORE! ENCORE!
85

genuine and heartfelt. “Not really.” Francis used his huskiest tones, ones belying the clothes he wore, tones intended to impress. Whoever or whatever the bloke with the clichéd lines was, he had a stunning smile to accompany them. And an honest, fresh face—as complete a contrast to James fucking
don’t trust him
as far as you can throw him
Mannering as you could get.

“Sorry, you just looked a bit lost.” The stranger turned face on, his smile becoming shy and losing some of its lustre.

“Maybe I am. Not sure I know anyone here.” Francis heard a bashful voice coming out of his gob but he couldn’t believe he was actually uttering the words. He was used to being the confi dent, pushy one, in these sorts of joints. Or at least he’d been good at acting the part once Mannering had gone. He’d had to learn to make the running, determined not to let that poncy sod ruin any more of his life than he already had done. So why was he now admitting to some beddable bloke that he was anything less than Mr. Confi dence? Especially tonight when a beddable bloke and a bottle of beer were top of his shopping list.

“You do look a bit out of place.” Another devastating smile.

Why the fuck did beddable bloke make him feel like he’d never been in a bloody gay bar before? “It’s not your average pub, this place.” Beddable bloke’s come-to-bed eyes gleamed. “Most of the team hang out here, and it’s coloured the atmosphere.”

“The team?” Francis cast a quick glance around. The rainbow fl ag over the door might well have been false colours, given the butch, well built appearance of the bar’s clientele. It looked more like your average suburban local than a haunt of the spenders of the pink pound. Perhaps the fl ag had actually been fl ying over the brasserie next door and he’d missed it in his foul temper? No, the looks and nudges he’d had were genuine enough, and he wasn’t so dragged up that he could really be mistaken for a bird.

“Yeah, Sunbury Meteors. Maybe you’ve heard of us, I reckon we’ve got to be one of the top gay rugby clubs in Europe.” The pride, almost an adolescent hubris, in the bloke’s voice was touching. “Got a few good ex semi-pros.” He swept his arm—a nicely toned, muscular arm—vaguely in the direction of the bar
86 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

where three blokes, built like brick outhouses, were attacking a row of beers. “We’ve been playing a Charity Sevens tournament, end of season bash.”

“Okay, I get you.” Francis relaxed. No mistake made, then, just the wrong type of gay bar. And maybe not that wrong—the guys at the bar were a lot better looking than the trannies had been. Perhaps venturing into territory unknown hadn’t been such a bad idea.
Thank you, Freddie and your bloke who said he was
from Broadway and forgot to say he meant Hammersmith.
Francis took another swig of Peroni and proposed a mental toast.