Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? (24 page)

Blythe would listen to me sympathetically and when I thanked her for being so understanding, she told me why. It seems she’d been through the whole thing herself and this to her, was little more than history repeating itself.

The theatre is a cruel mistress that effectively broke up her marriage too, she calmly told me, doling out yet more English breakfast tea. (Vile over here; what is it about tea at home that’s so much nicer?) She was about my age at the time too, touring with a play out in Sydney for a full
twelve months and…and same thing really. The long distance relationship thing was way too much for her husband to handle, so by the time she came home, it was all over bar the shouting.

I baulked a bit at this and insisted that my marriage hadn’t really broken up as such, we were just having a little gap year off. Nothing more. Blythe said nothing though; just looked at me with understanding and pity in her little sultana eyes. As much as to say, window dress it all you like, love, but I know a broken marriage when I see one.

Anyway, if Blythe is the heart of our family, then Chris is definitely the head. She’s sitting opposite me in Cipriani’s now, giving out at the top of her voice about how ridiculously expensive everything is here and demanding to know why Liz didn’t book Sardi’s, like we always do, which is so much more child friendly. Owning the table, her voice dominating, as always. Like she’s permanently chairing a meeting. Her husband Josh sits obediently beside her, while her adorable little four-year-old, Oscar, runs around to each of us in turn asking us if we have any colours in our handbags that he can play with.

Oscar and I have become great buddies of late and I’ve even babysat the odd afternoon for him, to give Chris and her fella a bit of time together. I figure, since I’m home alone most afternoons, then why not make myself useful while I’m at it?

Chris, by the way, is still keeping the kid gloves on around me, although she did come into my dressing room one night and leave a little gift for me. A book from Barnes and Noble in the recovery classic series called-and I really wish I were joking –
Healing the Shame that Binds You
. I thanked her politely, then Liz and I had a good giggle about it the
minute she left the room. Not a whole lot else we could do when faced with a book with a title like that, now was there?

‘There’s a sequel to that self-help book I gave you, you know,’ she hissed at me backstage another night. ‘It’s called
Losing Love: The Next Great Stage of Growth
. Say the word and I’ll get it for you, Annie, it’s absolutely no trouble.’

She didn’t mean any harm I reminded myself, so I let it pass.

Then, sitting beside her, there’s little Alex, the baby of the cast and by far the quietest and most unassuming. In fact, after the intensity of the past few months, I know less about her than I do about anyone else here. Except that she’s gay, single and actively looking for someone. An intensely private person, she’s also one of the most enigmatic people I’ve ever met. In fact, if you told me she was in the CIA, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Keeps herself to herself and rarely gets drawn into conversations, but whenever she does join in as she’s doing now, it’s obvious that for all her youth, she has far older, all-seeing eyes than you’d think. Misses absolutely nothing and the more I get to know her, the more I think that she’s the single coolest, calmest and most mature member of the cast.

By far.

Which brings me to Liz – the wild child of our little family unit. And growing wilder by the day it would seem. Time was when she was actively looking for love, but something’s shifted since we got here, and now she seems contented with a string of one-night stands, one after the other. Not one of these guys seems to survive her little acid test of lasting longer than a set of her acrylic nails either, and it’s such an impossible task to keep pace with all the
men who constantly come in and out through the revolving door of her sex life, that I’ve effectively given up.

Turns out her man of the moment is called Seth; an out-of-work actor that she met one night in Don’t Tell Mama, her favourite late-night haunt. She’s sitting right beside me at the table, filling me in, all delighted with herself.

‘I’ve been seeing him for almost three whole days now, you know,’ she says in her husky, smoky voice, pretending to eat but really just playing with a goat’s cheese salad, while I horse into the most sublime roasted spring lamb I’ve ever tasted in my life.

‘Come on, Liz, three days is an antibiotic cycle, not a relationship. Relax, hon, give it time. Get to know each other a bit better.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, I pretty much know all I want to about him. You know me, I’m not looking for anything serious, I just want a bit of action, that’s all.’

‘Well…what does he do for a living?’ I ask, mouth full of delicious pommes frites.

‘Trained at the Jacques Lecoq school in Paris, then spent the last eighteen months working on a character called Zebedee for a show he’s threatening to write…oh, any year now.’

‘But if he’s not working, then how does he manage to support himself?’ I limit myself to asking, knowing that none of us would need to trouble to remember his name for too long. There’ll surely be someone new along in a week or so. Always is.

‘He pretends that people have backed their cars into him, then sues them into the poorhouse. Very lucrative, it would seem. Anyway, listen to you, the dating I Ching. If you’d any sense you’d be out there, doing exactly what I am.’

‘Liz! If you mean that I start dating…’

I can’t even bring myself to finish the sentence. I’ve spent so long being a smug married that the very idea of even dipping a toe into the same dating whirlpool that Liz spends her whole existence wallowing in, is way beyond me.

Such a bizarre thought. I was always a carrier for the loyalty gene and now here I am with a husband thousands of miles away, doubtless with his arm up a cow’s uterus, actually
craving
a year’s break from me, actually being the one to suggest it…and still the very idea of infidelity would never even enter my mind.

‘No, dope-head,’ she laughs throatily. ‘Grab this year off with both hands and make the most of it. For feck’s sake, Annie, you’ve just been handed a “get out of jail free card” and yet you’ve spent the past few weeks moping around the place like someone in self-imposed solitary confinement. You’ve been given a chance to make relationship history here, so why not go for it? You’re always saying that you were a bit like a Victorian bride getting married because you’d never led the life of a single girl, so here’s your chance to do exactly that. You missed out on the fun years first time round, so why not reclaim them now, when you’ve been handed such a golden opportunity?’

Why not indeed.

Anyway, just after Easter Sunday dinner has been wolfed down and as we’re all having the great will-we-won’t-we dessert debate, a surprise guest lands in. Jack, fresh off a flight from LA and obviously at something of a loose end for the evening. Wearing one of his razor sharp suits and frankly looking more like he just stepped off a catwalk during fashion week in Milan, and not a sweaty five-hour airbus flight from LAX. He works his way around the table,
lightly kissing all of us on the cheek, smelling of expensive sandalwood and bringing a brace of ice-cold air into the room with him, as always.

‘They told me at the theatre that you guys were all here,’ he grins disarmingly, with the megawatt smile set to dazzle. ‘Mind if I gatecrash?’

A not-entirely convincing chorus of ‘of course not’ and ‘sure, you’re more than welcome!’ from everyone as another chair is found and a glass of Veuve Clicquot plonked in front of him. But the atmosphere has shifted down a gear – like the headmaster just landed in on us and will start doling out performance notes any minute now.

Truth be told, I’ve barely seen Jack since the opening night; yes, he’s been in and out of the theatre to monitor the show the odd night, sticking his head into our dressing rooms to give us yet more notes and keep us on our collective toes. And I’m told he’s been going to Sardi’s after the show on occasion with the others as well. But because I’ve been in such self-imposed isolation, I’ve been well out of the loop. So anything could be going on in his life and I’d be the last to know.

Although I did hear from Liz that he’s been spending a lot of time out on the West coast, being feted, wined and dined by a string of movie producers, all no doubt flinging film scripts and mega budgets at him, begging him to direct. Kind of the next logical career move for him, when you think about it. According to Liz at least; he’s conquered the theatre world, so an Oscar on his sideboard would doubtless be next on his to-do list.

Predictably, our little Easter dinner breaks up pretty soon after Jack arrives, with Chris anxious to get Oscar home to bed and Blythe asking if she can share a cab with them so
as to save on taxi fare. As we all stand round on the pavement outside saying our goodbyes, little Alex quietly says she’s off to a downtown place below Tenth Street she likes hanging out in, called
The Celebrity Club.

‘Sounds good to me, let’s all go,’ says Jack, but stops himself short when he picks up on a momentary flash of annoyance in Liz’s expressive eyes.

As Alex power walks off for the subway with her backpack strapped to her, Jack turns to Liz and asks, ‘What was all that about?’

‘Just giving the kid a bit of privacy,’ shrugs Liz, lighting up a fag. ‘Besides, I hardly thought gay bars were your thing, darling.’

A taxi with its light on passes and I’m just about to flag it down and say my good nights, when next thing I know, I’m physically being strong-armed away from it by both Liz and Jack. One on each side of me, like a pair of bouncers.

‘What the…? What do the pair of you think you’re doing? What is this?’ I almost yell, struggling to shake them off.

‘Oh for feck’s sake, come on,’ says Liz, fag teetering on the edge of her lip. ‘I’m taking you to Don’t Tell Mama. You think you’re getting home this early when it’s taken me weeks just to get you to stay out beyond eleven o’clock at night?’

‘I’ll second that,’ laughs Jack, his hand icy cold against mine. ‘Besides, I haven’t seen you for ages and I want to talk to you.’

I’d shrug if I could, but each of them has one of my arms in a vice-like grip as if I might bolt at any second, so like a hostage, off I’m dragged and before I know where I am, I’m sitting between the two of them in the back of a taxi. Doors locked, windows locked, no escape.

Turns out Don’t Tell Mama is actually a late night cabaret bar in a converted cellar on West Forty-Sixth Street, and clearly Liz is a regular as we’ve no bother whatsoever getting in, despite a long, snaking queue outside the door. Two seconds later, we’re being ushered to a prime table right in front of a tiny, makeshift stage with a piano centre stage and footlights dotted in front of it, a bit like an old Edwardian vaudevillian hall.

‘This place is legend!’ Liz tells us, excitedly scanning down the drinks menu. ‘Anyone is welcome to get up and bash out an old show tune and believe me they do. It’s kind of like it’s a magnet for everyone who got rejected by Simon Cowell on
American Idol.’

‘Come to think of it, I’ve actually heard of Don’t Tell Mama,’ says Jack, taking it all in, his sharp eyes as usual missing nothing. ‘I believe you get singers from the back-row chorus of the Broadway musicals coming here to belt out the big show stopping numbers, in the hopes of impressing any stray producers who may be passing through. Or indeed,’ he adds cheekily, ‘directors, for that matter.’

‘It’s brilliant, you’ll both love it,’ says Liz, getting up to go to the bathroom. ‘Will someone order me a glass of champagne? Back in a sec.’

A short, tense silence after she’s gone. I can feel Jack’s icy, intense eyes on me and as ever, I’m at a complete loss as to what to say to him whenever it’s just the two of us on our own and it’s not show-related. Not helped by the fact that the place is loud and buzzy, with skimpily dressed girls who look like models wafting about the place serving drinks, while an invisible DJ plays ‘Poker Face’ by Lady Gaga.

So to fill dead air, I politely ask him about his trip to LA and this takes up a good five minutes, with me silently
willing Liz to hurry the feck up and get back to the table the whole time he’s talking.

What in the name of Jaysus is keeping her anyway?

‘So have you ever been out to LA on your travels?’ asks Jack politely.

‘No, never,’ I smile, grateful to him for keeping the conversation going.

‘Disneyland for grown-ups. Two things you always need to remember about the place: one, everyone, absolutely everyone is mental. Completely and utterly off their heads. All terrified of losing their coveted place by the fire and seeing as how most of them have no idea how they got there in the first place, that obviously makes for sheer lunacy. And two, no one is prepared to make a decision because they’re all so afraid of failure. Believe me, I’ve had meeting after meeting in these massive sky-rise offices, stuffed with movie executives, with titles like Vice President in charge of this and CEO in charge of that – all salad. Because each studio has one and only one green-lighter at the apex who actually has the go-ahead to make a decision. Beats me how anyone gets anything made at all.’

I laugh at this, relaxing a little and he chats on pleasantly enough. You won’t believe this, he tells me, but he’s actually gone and got himself an agent now. He challenges me to name any movie superstar who flits into my head then laughs and says, yup, that his agent handles them too. He’s been inundated with scripts over the past few weeks, but the vast majority are complete shite. A load of sequels that they might just be prepared to try an untested novice film director on, or else pictures with titles like
Jessie James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter.

‘You have got to be making that one up,’ I laugh, feeling
my guard coming down for the first time and pleasantly surprised at just how easy he is to chat to.

‘Not a word of a lie. It’s comparatively easy to get a crap script to direct. But what I’m really looking for is a low-budget indie flick, where I wouldn’t have a studio breathing down my neck and where I’d be able to have some degree of artistic control.’