Encore Encore (15 page)

“You say you are what you are but that’s me as well. I am what I am.” Tommy took the fi ngers from his face and gripped them in the sort of clasp that must have made grown men’s eyes water if applied on the rugby pitch. “Imagine what my advert would be in the
Kindred Spirits
‘men seeking men’ section of the Telegraph.

Non-scene. Architect. Rugby player. Bit boring. Straight acting. Dull. Seeks
a nice bloke to fall in love with and take to restaurants. Trannies need not
apply.
And then you come along and it’s like, I don’t know, it’s like I suddenly want to support Wales after all these years of slagging them off and calling Gavin Henson a fat tart with bad hair. Don’t you laugh.”

“You’d make a cat laugh.” Francis rescued his hands before they turned blue. “I
am
what I am, Tommy. Yes, it’s a bloody cliché so don’t you laugh, either. Let me be what I have to be.”

“I think you want to be Queen of the fucking clichés, for a start. ‘I am what I am.’ Yeah, right. That line went out with new wave fashion and nineteen eighties yuppies, didn’t it?” Tommy shook his head. “You are what you want to be, that’s all. You make your life what you want. I don’t believe you have to dress
108 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

up any more than I have to play rugby. There’s other things to do, other ways of feeling good.”

“Fuck all you know about it.” Francis fumbled in his pocket, pulling at the seams in an effort to get his hands on the Miss Sporty lipstick. “This is what makes me feel good, better than anything else. Better than the booze or the rough trade or even a hand job with a posh architect in a posh fl at.” He drew the lipstick over his mouth, making a crude imitation of the classic bow, the sort Juliet the dresser would have killed him for producing. “I’m not giving it up for you or for anyone.”

“I’m not asking you to give it up. Not completely, just…”

“Yeah, yeah, just sometimes. That’s how it would start, just wearing it onstage or for special occasions. You’d end up just like James, telling me what to wear and what to say. Fucking dictator.” Francis ignored the voice in his head which was trying to tell him that Tommy wasn’t James Mannering. That he was a nice, sensitive bloke who’d got out of his comfort zone and didn’t know how to negotiate his way back to safety. “I saw you on the way back here, Tommy boy. As soon as those tossers outside the pub started yelling, you knew you were ashamed to be seen out with me.”

“I was confused.” Tommy’s cheeks fl amed crimson red, as red as the rugby shirts on the Sunbury Meteors photo. “I never did drag, I’ve never got into that ‘tits and tackle’ stuff. I’m not comfy with it.”

“Then there’s no point in me staying, is there?” Francis dragged himself off the settee, last bit of energy forced into making a dignifi ed exit, the sort he hadn’t managed earlier.

“Don’t go walking home. Ring for a cab from here, I’ve got the Yellow Pages by my desk…”

“I’ll call for a taxi from outside. I wouldn’t want you getting embarrassed because the cabbie saw you with me.” Better to make a break here and now, leave with regrets and no more arguments.

Francis was too tired to face another scene.

ENCORE! ENCORE!
109

Tommy shadowed him to the door, not speaking until they were both on the landing. “I’m sorry, Francis. Honestly. I’m sorry I was such a prick.”

“Yeah, well.” Francis fl icked open his mobile, concentrating on his phonebook rather than risking a look at Tommy’s sad, crestfallen face. “Too far apart to get on, aren’t we? I enjoyed the hand job, though.” He set off down the stairs before he caught the reply— he couldn’t afford second thoughts.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

“Have a good evening?” Freddie eased into Francis’s dressing room bearing hot black coffee and a blueberry muffi n. It had become a bit of a ritual, an hour before the fi rst performance of the week. The carbs would soup up the energy levels for “All That Jazz”, and Velma could nip off the stage for a pee while Roxie was giving it welly.

“Last night? I was washing my hair.” Francis used his best

“east end barmaid” voice, more
Carry on Matron
than
Chicago
.

“Saturday.” Freddie laid down his offerings on the dressing table, then took his place on a stool like a worshipper at Miss Kelly’s shrine. “You knew I meant Saturday anyway, you cantankerous bitch.”

“It was all right. Actually, it was bloody good. Picked up this really butch bloke, made Sylvester Stallone look like Shirley Temple.” The exaggeration wasn’t just for Freddie’s benefi t.

Francis still couldn’t think rationally about what had happened in the bathroom of that nice, comfortable fl at with that nice, comfortable rugby player. “And he was a gentleman, with it, which made a bloody change.”

“Go-od.” Freddie didn’t sound as if he was sure it
was
good.

Francis wasn’t sure either. He’d gone home cross, nursing his anger all the way through the dark, quiet streets. Since then he’d caught himself picturing Tommy in his mind’s eye and tried to erase the image. It wouldn’t go. “It was nice while it lasted.

Wouldn’t want him to start getting attached.” Would Freddie spot that the lady was protesting too much?

110 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

“Not the Prince Charming you were looking for?” Why the bloody hell did he have to put it that way? As if Francis hadn’t kept thinking about Disney and hadn’t had that fucking annoying song going through his head the last few days?

Someday my prince will come…
It had been just like this with James, at the start, not being able to get his face or voice out of mind.

Francis tried to ignore that thought, as well.

“He doesn’t exist, does he? The knight on the white charger who’s going to gallop up to the stage door and whisk me away.

This guy was all right, but he wasn’t the answer to a maiden’s prayer.” Except he was, of course. He had the potential to be everything that Francis really wanted, deep down. A straight acting, warm hearted bloke you could take home to your mum and they’d spend the evening discussing your faults, while you listened, besotted.

“Well, if you do meet this mythical bloke, don’t try and pretend you’re still a maiden. No one could see your ‘I Can’t do it Alone’ and believe that for a moment.” Freddie reached over for the pain au raisin he’d bought himself. “Going downmarket?

This isn’t your usual brand.” He fi ngered the Miss Sporty lipstick, the one Francis hadn’t quite had the heart to chuck in the gutter when he’d gone to phone a cab.

“It’s…it’s a friend’s.”

“Don’t let Juliet see it, then. She’ll have kittens and call you a fucking chav.” Freddie rose, letting the lipstick drop into Francis’s lap as he headed for the door. “Break a leg.”

“Yeah.” Francis’s mind wasn’t on the clichéd good wishes.

He remembered how good it had been, kissing Tommy. How gorgeous he looked when he came, face screwed up like an infant’s and breathing hard. How upset he’d been when they’d parted on the landing.
You don’t need this, now. You don’t need him.

He’ll screw you up like James did.

“Francis?” Juliet had shimmered into the room, arms full of freshly pressed costumes. “Give us a hand will you, love? Bloody hell, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” ENCORE! ENCORE!
111

“Silly tart. We’ll be seeing the ghost of our P45’s if I don’t get my arse in gear. Help me with these bloody tights, Jules. I don’t see how you lot can wear them all the time.” He slipped the lipstick from palm to bag. Memento of what might have been.

London, August

“There’s a note for you, Mr. Yardley.” Billy from the stage door stuck his head into the dressing room, his broad toothy grin on display.

“Thanks, mate.” Francis took the note with no great hope; it was probably the usual fi lth from some old perv. He passed those onto Owen, who enjoyed crafting suitably withering replies full of polite, anatomically challenging suggestions.

I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ve forgiven me for being such a
dick.

Francis didn’t need to glance down at the name on the bottom of the note; he had a clear mental image of Tommy’s handwriting, from the notes up on his pin board. No, he hadn’t forgiven, but he hadn’t forgotten, either.

I’ve got a ticket for tonight. I know you wouldn’t want me coming
backstage or anything but if you’d let me buy you a drink, I’ll be in that
little bar opposite. The one that used to be a bank in the days they had real
people working for them.

He could imagine Tommy’s lilting voice saying the words, the daft grin to accompany them.

No obligation, just so I can say sorry in person. Wear your dress if you
want; it’s Saturday night, after all.

Francis stared at the last sentence, wondering if it was just sarcasm. And if it wasn’t, how much it had cost Tommy to write.

He put the note down, trying not to think about whether he was going to take up the offer—that decision could wait until after the show. He wouldn’t wonder whether Tommy would be in the stalls or dress circle, either. Or put everything into giving his best ever performance.

112 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

The bar was Saturday night busy but not so full that Francis couldn’t pick Tommy out the minute he got through the door.

Good choice of a neutral venue, he had to give him that. The
Chicago
cast rarely came in here, nor was it frequented by people from the other local theatres. Francis wondered if Tommy had established that fact in advance and used it in his choice. He wouldn’t put anything past him.

“I’d have ordered you a beer as I saw you come in, but I didn’t want to presume.” Tommy’s shy, hesitant voice was as alluring as ever. “And I wasn’t even sure it
was
you.” Not surprising given the choice of blue striped shirt and grey cotton trousers. And not a suspicion of Miss Sporty or any other brand on Francis’s face. “It’s me alright. I’d love a beer. Get them in, Tommy boy.”

They took their drinks out onto a little terrace at the back, where a couple of smokers were making the most of the balmy evening. “I didn’t expect those clothes.”

“I didn’t wear them just for you.” Francis regretted the inadvertent ‘just.’ “They’re my disguise.”

“Oh yeah. I noticed you’ve become star of TV and the tabloids.” Tommy swigged his beer, the tension in his voice visibly easing. And in his shoulders—his beautifully muscular shoulders.

“I hardly think one appearance on
Loose Women
and a mention—for all the cast—in
Hello Magazine
makes me another Posh Spice.” It had made him less likely to wander around in the full works, though. Velma’s image was all over the underground, and he didn’t want all the pervs snooping about looking for the real thing.

“You forgot that Jonathan Ross interview. You were great on there—gave as good as you got. It can’t have been easy these last few weeks, keeping out of the limelight. You’re getting too well known now to get dressed up and go out. Not without attracting notice.” Funny how Tommy had the habit of hitting the nail ENCORE! ENCORE!
113

right on the fucking head. “I’m glad you didn’t wear these on my account.” He lowered his voice. “I’m really sorry, Francis. About ruining that evening.”

“Don’t keep apologising or you’ll ruin another one. How’s the rugby going?”

“Nothing until pre-season training starts up in a couple of weeks. That’s why I was watching you instead of drinking with the team.” Tommy looked as if he preferred being here, although it was a tight call.

“You miss it?”

“Yeah, I do. Fucking stupid, really, it’s just a hobby now, but there’s nothing like that fi rst kick off of the match to get the adrenaline going.”

“Nothing?” Was it impossible to resist fl irting with him?

Francis mentally kicked himself, reminding his vapid brain that Miss Otis didn’t want to turn into a serial regretter.

“Nothing else I can name in polite company. Things you can do behind closed curtains so the neighbours can’t see would run it pretty close. Sorry, I wasn’t going to talk about that evening.

Keep thinking about it, and it sort of spills out.”

“I’ve thought about it a couple of times, too.” Couple of dozen times, every day. “You’ve got a decent place, there. More character than most of these sorts of fl ats.”

“It suits me.” They drank in silence, or at least without talking, there being no silence on a London Saturday. “Look, the city’s heaving tonight, I can hardly hear myself think. I’ve got another respectable bottle of white at home, and a really good fi sh pie we could heat up if you wanted to join me.” Tommy sounded like he was seven, inviting his pal over for a tea of fi sh fi ngers, chips and a decent tomato ketchup. “No obligations or anything, we could just chinwag.”

“Let’s take a cab, then. I’m not sure my pins could take walking all the way there. Six performances a week is getting to me.” Francis knew he should be saying no, that this was history
114 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

repeating itself, no matter what the optimistic part of his brain kept saying with its “he’s no James fucking Mannering.” His tongue was proving just as much a traitor to the cause.

“Perhaps you should come down to stamina training with the team. Yeah, I know you go to the gym, remember you telling Jonathan Ross that, but it’s not the same as fresh air.” There was little fresh air here, the evening turning sultrier and threatening thunderstorms. “Let’s get that cab.”

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Tommy’s fl at looked even nicer than it had before, a huge arrangement of fl owers gracing the fi replace and a range of birthday cards along the kitchen shelves.

“I wish I’d known, I’d have brought a present.” Francis fi ngered the cards, noting the names, hoping one wasn’t a conciliatory gesture from Rickie.

“I get plenty. My mother seems to think I’m still seven and buys accordingly.” Tommy fi ddled about with the food, letting his guest open the wine and pour it.