The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  Jolly silly to open the window. She chided herself. Jolly silly, silly-billy. It was freezing! She got up and pulled down the window; it jammed, and she jerked it. Outside, the sunlight was creeping up the buildings opposite, as the sun itself sunk. She looked at her watch. It was ten past six.

  She sat on the hard dining chair. She felt as if she were in a waiting room. In an hour she would have to leave. Words from a medieval poem that she had learnt in the sixth form rolled round her head.

  Fain would I wed a fair young man who day and night could please me,

  When my mind or body grieved, that had the power to ease me . . .

  There was a curious, sour taste on her tongue, and her stomach ached. ‘That had the power to ease me.’ She mouthed the words silently. The room was so quiet. The next-door couple hadn’t returned home from work yet. She knew their sounds so well: the murmur of their TV, the gurgle of their water pipes. For everybody else, this was just an ordinary Tuesday. Wasn’t that peculiar?

  Maids are full of longing thoughts, that feed a sudden sickness.

  And that – for oft I’ve heard men say – is only cured by quickness.

  She thought of her father. No thanks! She didn’t think of her father.

  She wondered why she felt no need for her breathing exercises. Before a performance she usually had an attack of nerves, but today she felt as cool as a cucumber. Silly expression, but she couldn’t think of another one. She couldn’t afford the effort.

  It was twenty to seven. Outside the window, the shadow had inched up the building. Only seven floors of the office block remained in sunlight; she counted them. If she watched the solid block of shadow, she could swear she could see it moving. She ought to be getting ready to go – it was a long way to Central Park West, forty or fifty blocks. Something or other. It helped to feel careless about it. Insouciant. As if it were just a whim and, who knows? She might not go at all. Fooled you all! Silly-billies.

  Ten to seven. She knew she ought to be going but she felt like a sack of turnips in her chair. She kept putting it off. The sounds of the city were much fainter than usual. What was happening, out there? Maybe she was sitting in her flat in London and it was all a dream. New York was four thousand miles away.

  Maybe the neighbourhood was blocked off. When she emerged from the lobby the street would be silent. Just a wedge of police cars each end, their lights revolving. A semicircle of cops, closing in on her.

  I think she brushed her teeth again. Later I found the toothpaste tube on the floor. The cap had rolled away. So unlike me!

  At 7.30 she left the apartment, took the elevator downstairs and bought a pack of chocolate M&Ms in the supermarket. Then she hailed a cab.

  The journey seemed to take a long time. The traffic, travelling uptown, was heavy, and for the first time in months she was landed with a loquacious cab driver. He was one of the old Jewish kind.

  ‘So you came from London, huh? Me and my wife, we visited on vacation a coupla years ago. You know the Greville Hotel?’

  She must have replied. The 6th Avenue buildings slid by, joltingly. The traffic jammed solid at each set of lights. A woman turned to stare into the cab. Jules sunk back in her seat.

  All the passers-by were looking at her. They knew exactly where she was going and what she was planning to do. The plastic seat of the cab was scored down the centre; someone had sliced it with a knife.

  ‘. . . the Observatory at Greenwich,’ said the driver. ‘Madame Tussauds . . .’

  She gripped the bottle of Moët; her hand stuck to the paper bag. The cab swerved around a bus and lurched to a halt at the next set of traffic signals. People shuffled past the hood. They turned to look at her; their heads swung round, one by one.

  ‘. . . Hampstead Heath . . . roast beef in, what’s that place called? Lousy service, great view.’

  ‘Jack Straw’s Castle,’ she said.

  The cab sprung forward, bouncing over the potholes. The lights had all changed in its favour and suddenly the journey speeded up, alarmingly. Radio City flashed past, on her right, the Hilton Hotel on her left. She heard the piercing whistle of its doorman, hailing cabs. Or was it the cops?

  Suddenly she panicked. Now she was nearing Lila’s place she didn’t want to get there. She could always go back. Nobody would ever know. She could simply stop the cab and get out. Then she could hail another one, go back to her apartment, put away the letter and the book. Switch on the TV and rejoin the human race.

  The driver slammed on the brakes. She lurched forward. A man was standing in the middle of the road. He looked like an aborigine.

  The cab driver leant out of the window and yelled, ‘Wanna get killed?’

  He revved up and steered violently around the man, who padded off on his bare feet.

  ‘This city,’ said the driver, shaking his head. ‘This city, it’s full of crazy people. You wouldn’t believe it, some of the people I see. Cra-zee . . .’

  The cab surged forward, flinging her against the back of the seat. They shot into Central Park, speeding along West Drive. Trees flashed past. She swayed sideways as it swerved around a bend. Two minutes, and they would be there.

  ‘. . . should lock ’em up, where they belong . . .’

  She felt nauseous, and closed her eyes. They were waiting for her in the lobby: Lila, Trevor, Roly and Irma. A burly cop stepped forward, handcuffs outstretched. Just take it easy. He clicked his tongue at her as if she were an animal. Take it easy. Lila stared; Trev grinned.

  The cab juddered to a halt. She opened her eyes. They had arrived outside Lila’s apartment building. The doorman was approaching, to open the cab door. He was the fat, friendly one.

  As she climbed out, he recognised her. ‘Well hi!’ he said.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Good to see you again.’

  Fumbling, she searched for some money in her purse. What if he saw something, inside her bag? Surely there was nothing unusual. Just a large, hardback book. She pulled out some dollar bills. She should have got them all ready beforehand; now she was trembling. Suddenly everything was happening too fast; her brain felt scrambled. She had planned it all out so carefully but now she felt horribly flustered, as if she had been thrust upon a stage with no previous rehearsals. Did it show?

  She paid the cab driver; he thanked her and drove off. She had forgotten the champagne! No she hadn’t – she was clutching it in her hand. Wasn’t she silly?

  She followed the doorman into the lobby. Unnervingly, it was just the same. Lacquered walls, shiny lampshades, a discreetly spotlit vase of mixed flowers.

  ‘I’ve come to see Miss Dune,’ she said.

  The doorman lifted the phone, and dialled. What if Lila had company? Why on earth hadn’t she thought of that?

  The doorman put down the phone. ‘Go right on up. You know the way.’

  She walked across the lobby, stepped into the elevator and pressed the PH button. The doors slid shut. She was alone.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It had happened before, after all. The clothes of the character slipped from your shoulders and suddenly you were naked. You broke into a sweat. You panicked. The only thing to do was to pause and catch up with yourself. You pick up the clothes and step into them. Simple as that.

  She was a professional, wasn’t she? By the time the lift arrived at the 31st floor, the PH floor, she had recovered herself. The doors slid open. Calmly she stepped across the vestibule and rang Lila’s bell.

  Five

  ORSON BARKED, AND then stopped. For a moment, nothing happened. She cocked her head, listening. She heard the murmur of a voice.

  She stood dose to the door. There was somebody else in there. Lila was talking. She could hear her muffled voice, and then laughter.

  Do you know what she felt, just then? Shock and disappointment, of course. Panic, that maybe it was Trev in there, and she would have to face him. Then, believe it or not, she felt profound relief. It spread through her like a blush.

&nbs
p; She stood there, weakly. Through the door she heard footsteps approaching, crossing the marble floor. All she had to do was to give Lila the bottle of champagne, say ‘congratulations’ and leave. Simple as that!

  She heard the lock being turned. The door opened and Lila stood there. For a moment, her face was blank.

  ‘Jules, honey!’ she said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘I didn’t get the name, when they called up. Come on in.’ She hurried into the living room, speaking over her shoulder: ‘I’ll be through in a moment. Make yourself at home.’

  She didn’t have company. She was on the phone.

  Jules went into the living room and sat down on the familiar white settee. The apartment looked exactly the same, except for some magazines spread around and several large vases of flowers.

  Orson growled at her and then retreated under the glass table. Lila kicked off her shoes, curled herself in the armchair and picked up the phone.

  ‘. . . hey, Carrie, why not drop by tomorrow? Matt’s on this picture, know that?’ She laughed. ‘Yeah, Matt! Whaddya know! Raised from the dead.’

  She wore a fluffy yellow sweater and jeans. It was nearly two months since Jules had seen her. She looked pale; her face was scrubbed clean of make-up and her hair was pulled back in a knot. She looked very beautiful; pregnancy obviously suited her.

  ‘. . . I said to my agent, real powerhouse casting, huh?’ She laughed again. She stretched out her leg and inspected her bare, wriggling toes. ‘Still, I’d do anything for Stan. We go back a long way.’

  She looked up at Jules and mouthed that she was finishing. Jules gazed around the room. She had forgotten how vast it was. She didn’t want to look at Lila. She needed to concentrate on how much she hated her. She hated her more than any woman in the world, and she was going to do her terrible harm.

  ‘. . . we’ll be breaking at one, see you then!’ Lila put down the phone and uncurled herself from the armchair. ‘Jesus, you look hot! You OK? Want me to take your coat?’

  Jules took the champagne bottle out of its bag. ‘I heard your news.’ She beamed at her. ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Isn’t it just terrific? Course, I feel grungy in the mornings. Yuk! – but doesn’t everyone? Wanna drink?’ She lifted up the bottle. ‘I’ve still quit, how about that? Longest ever. But you want some?’

  No fear. She needed a clear head, tonight.

  She followed Lila into the kitchen. Lila poured them two glasses of Paul Newman lemonade. ‘Know we got the green light?’ she said. ‘For the pasta sauce? They sent me the label designs yesterday. Marinara, Pepperino, Vongole. Vongole’s clams.’

  They went back into the living room. Glass in hand, Jules wandered across to the window. The sun had set and the city was laid at her feet; she had forgotten the sensation. How high they were! Below the luminous sky, a million lights sparkled. Suddenly she felt profoundly sad.

  ‘Know what?’ said Lila’s voice. ‘You’ve lost a heck of a lot of weight, since I saw you. You can’t afford it, hon. Your bod’s flushing out those valuable minerals. I didn’t recognise you at first.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were still in town, but Roly told me you’d signed up with them, so we have the same agent! How about that! It’s really fabulous to see you again.’

  She did sound genuinely pleased. No doubt she had long ago forgotten the fracas. She was not the type to harbour grudges, and besides she looked too blissfully happy to think about anyone else.

  Jules stayed looking out of the window. She heard the click of a lighter. ‘So you’re still smoking?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve cut right back. I’m taking real good care of myself, this time. Tee’s told me to.’

  Jules gazed at the rusting barbecue on the balcony. She needed a cigarette badly, but she didn’t dare light one in case Lila noticed her hands shaking. She thought: I used to buy Lila cigarettes and store them in my room. I used to love her.

  ‘With my history, I have to,’ said Lila. ‘See, I never thought I’d have a child, I thought I was too old. I thought it was too late. My tubes were all fucked up. This is the best present I’ve ever had.’

  Her voice rattled on. Jules moved away from the window. It hurt, to talk to Lila. It made her head ache. She picked up a paperweight. It was a heavy, onyx one. How simple just to walk over and bash Lila’s brains in! Save a lot of trouble.

  ‘After Thursday I’m quitting work, I’m going to tuck myself up in here and take it easy.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘The nineties is the nurturing decade,’ said Lila. ‘I read it, someplace. Vogue.’

  Jules sipped her lemonade. What an infantile drink. Typical, really. She needed something alcoholic, badly. Lila didn’t know when to stop, did she? She had always been hopelessly stupid. Her voice sounded like two bits of wire being rubbed together.

  ‘Tee’s changed my life, know that? I’m putting all those bad old days behind me. He’s selling his apartment and moving in here, isn’t that just dandy?’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘He’ll make a heap of money, the way he’s fixing it up. It’s fabulous. You should see it.’

  Don’t worry, she thought. I will.

  ‘We’re planning on a June wedding,’ Lila went on, dreamily. ‘He’s taking me to Venice. This time, it’s for keeps.’

  Jules lowered her nose into a vase of crimson roses, and sniffed. ‘Thought I saw something in the papers,’ she murmured. ‘About some, you know. Girl.’

  ‘Oh, that. There’s a lot of flaky women around. Sad cases, you know. The people out there, you wouldn’t believe. You should see some of the letters I get. They’ve got nothing going for them, they’re lonely. They’re inadequate. It didn’t threaten us.’

  Jules breathed in the perfume. ‘Didn’t it?’

  ‘Tee and I, we have a mutually respectful relationship. Say, did I tell you we’re working together? A fabulous project – but it’s hush-hush, nobody knows about it. Not even Roly. We’re not telling anyone. Tee’s working on the treatment now. He’s so brilliant. I’ve been doing some research – see, he doesn’t consider me just a bimbo! He respects my mind, too!’ She laughed. ‘We’ve formed this production company. Tee says it’s not just for movies, it’s for babies too!’

  Would the woman never stop? Jules’s throat felt tight. Her head throbbed. What the hell right did Lila have, to be rabbiting on like this?

  Jules raised her head, wearily, from the roses. Lila stretched, and looked at her watch.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ she yawned. ‘I have an early call tomorrow, and you know me! First I’m going to take a long, hot tub.’

  ‘I must be going, anyway.’ She walked across to Lila, leant down and kissed her. She felt like Judas. Lila’s cheek smelt of that perfume, the one she had given her. Je Reviens.

  ‘Bye,’ said Jules. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  She walked briskly to the door, turned and waved at Lila. Then she let herself out of the apartment.

  She closed the door behind her, with a click.

  She stood in the vestibule, her heart pounding. She was an animal now, on the run. She sniffed the air. Was this how a criminal felt?

  It was an eerie, lonely feeling. Her temples throbbed and there was that sour taste in her mouth; it exhaled from the pit of her stomach. It must be fear. When she looked at the silk stripes of the wallpaper, they pulsed and blurred like Op Art.

  She walked along the vestibule, past the elevator doors, towards the freight elevator. There were three other apartments on this penthouse floor; their doors remained closed.

  She felt a lurch of exhilaration. Events were in motion now, and there was no turning back. She called the freight elevator. When it arrived, she rode in it down to the ground floor. Its doors opened to reveal the chilly little hallway at the side of the building, and the one-way exit door. Some garbage bags were piled up in the corner. What if the janitor came?

  From her handbag she took out the big, hardback book. Hollyw
ood Wives. Like Lila, her landlady was obviously not overburdened with intellect.

  She pushed open the door, just slightly, and wedged it ajar with the book. She smelt the cold air from the street, and heard the sound of traffic. She pictured Lila’s lover creeping out; a furtive TV personality, head bowed.

  She stepped back into the freight elevator and pressed the button for the second floor. Any floor would do, really, for her to move over to the passenger lift.

  The freight elevator rose and jolted to a halt. Its doors opened to reveal an identical vestibule to Lila’s except the silky stripes were beige. Thank God there was nobody around. She transferred to the passenger elevator and rode it down to the ground floor. It would have looked odd, to arrive from the direction of the freight elevator.

  The doors slid open and she marched confidently across the lobby. Some residents had just arrived with a load of luggage; the younger doorman was taking it to the elevator. A man sat in one of the armchairs, maybe waiting for his date. They weren’t people; they had been transformed into abstract figures called witnesses. They were seeing her leave the building.

  The fat doorman was behind his desk. ‘Have a good night, now,’ he called.

  ‘Night,’ she called to him, cheerfully, and walked out into the sharp spring air. Going into the street was like stepping off stage, into the wings. You walk a few paces and then the character drains from you, leaving you limp.

  It was 8.30. She had an hour to kill; that was what she had given herself. An hour, at the very most, for Lila to bathe, drug herself to the eyeballs with Mogadon and fall into a deep sleep.

  She walked up to Columbus Avenue. The yuppie restaurants were lit; the people sitting inside them looked startlingly normal. She felt like another species, prowling along the pavement. How swiftly she had become an outcast, and how ridiculous when she hadn’t yet done anything criminal. Her only act, so far, had been harmlessly eccentric – wedging a door open, just a few inches, with a Jackie Collins novel.

  What if the janitor came down and closed the door?

  She walked past the pasta shop, where they had filmed so many months before. It seemed to have taken place in another lifetime. So had her lunch with Roly, that very day. All the events that had preceded her moment of decision and her subsequent afternoon’s plotting seemed locked away in another, sunnier country to which she was now denied access.