Chapter 27
Bloody hell, not another cake, surely?” Max leaned over her and kissed Saff’s hair. “Oh God, you’re not pregnant, are you? Or are you just trying to fatten me up so I lose all my cred as a babe magnet?”
Feeling foolish suddenly, she briskly dropped the wooden spoon into the washing-up bowl and turned over the notepad on which she’d made some jottings. “No, no—just had a bit of time on my hands so I thought I’d try something out, that’s all. Some banana cake…” She trailed off when she saw he wasn’t listening and was opening the phone bill on the kitchen table. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the fridge. “Can of lager, darling?”
“Mmm,” he murmured absentmindedly. “Christ, this bill is huge. It’s all that gassing to Alex and people you do during the day.”
“I bloody well do not—it’s when you’re working from home, that’s what cranks it up.” Saff slammed the can down in front of him. “Anyway, Alex is flatly refusing to talk to me.”
Max looked up. “Is she still pissed off?”
Saff peered through the oven door at the rapidly rising cake. “She must be. She won’t answer texts or voice mails I’ve left. I’ve even left a message with Camilla at work, who promised to ask her to call me. I don’t know. It’s all a bit sad really. She just won’t see that we didn’t mean to be malicious. We just wanted to keep the Bean happy and help Alex…”
Max took out a stack of Pringles from the tube in the cupboard and put three at once into his mouth, then wiped his hand on his trousers. “You can’t really blame her, Saff love. It was pretty deceitful, and you should know by now, no one gets one over on Alex, which doesn’t really explain that tosser of an American she’s seeing.”
“No. Her taste in men always has been a bit dodgy—they’re all scared witless by her.”
With Max safely upstairs saying good night to the children and persuading Oscar that his mother was right and he was too young for an air rifle, Saff slipped the cake out of the oven and inserted a skewer. It came out clean so she turned it out onto the cooling rack, and took a sniff to absorb the sweet aroma. Tentatively she cut into it and popped a piece into her mouth. The light brown sponge was warm and moist on her tongue. And bland. Saff frowned. Something was missing. Ten minutes later Max found her poring over a pile of cookbooks she’d pulled from her shelf to scour other people’s recipes. On her pad she’d jotted down a couple of ideas but there was nothing very different. Nothing unusual.
“Crikey. This looks serious.”
Saff pushed her reading glasses up onto her head. “Yup. Cakes are. The right cake is one of life’s treasures.”
Max reached for another can of lager in the back of the fridge. “Yeah maybe, but why the research all of a sudden?” He pulled back the ring pull.
Saff still wasn’t sure she wanted to reveal the tiny idea that was forming in her head, thanks to Ella. It was stupid anyway. “Oh, just ideas for Millie’s birthday.”
“Bloody hell, that’s thinking ahead. It’s not till October.”
Saff shut her book and sighed. “Yes. Silly really. Supper won’t be long.”
“Okay. I’ll just have a quick look at this script I was given today. Give me a shout when it’s time to lay the table.” And he left the room.
Script. That reminded her. Tomorrow was Frankie’s big day. She’d been delighted to hear the excitement in his voice on her answering machine.
“Hi, Frankie, it’s Saff.”
“Hi there.” He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her.
“I just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow. Give it your best shot.”
“Oh thanks. Yes. Yes, I will, though I’ve got a cat in hell’s chance.” He sighed deeply. “It’s such a lousy way to make a living.”
“You’ll be fine. Have confidence and remember all your lessons from the Bean. Project, daarling!”
Frankie laughed deeply. “That reminds me. I dropped by Alex’s yesterday. I was hoping not to see her but she was there. It was a bit difficult really.”
Saff felt her stomach clench. “Still angry?”
“Yes, still angry. And she seemed very stressed too— something to do with this launch she’s organizing.”
“She’s always stressed. Alex seems to be faced with issues that us mere mortals will never experience.” A thought struck her. “Why did you go back, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“To collect a sweatshirt. I’d left it there in the hurried exodus. Anyway, let’s not dwell on that… what are you up to?”
“Oh, not much really.” Now, he might have an idea. “Frankie, what can I add to banana cake to make it more… you know, interesting?” There was a long pause and Saff suddenly felt very stupid and very embarrassed. The man had a major audition tomorrow and she was discussing baking ingredients.
“I had a girlfriend once,” he said eventually. “Strange girl. Had an unhealthy obsession with animal welfare. She kept terrapins in the bath. But, anyway, her mother was lovely and she was a fantastic baker. Now what was it she added to her banana cake? I know, pistachio nuts. Fabulous!”
Saff thought for a moment. “Frankie, you are a genius, and the finest actor ever. Knock ’em dead!”
Chapter 28
The following afternoon Frankie was back in the theater’s rehearsal rooms in the same church hall. Considering what starry casts the company usually had, it was a tatty old venue, but maybe the anonymity suited them. It wouldn’t do to be mobbed by fans when they were just trying to do a job.
Frankie pushed his way back in through the thickly painted doors into the dim light, such a contrast to the bright sun outside, and was greeted by the casting director he’d met last time. Highlighted hair, too young for her leathery, tanned face, fell from a chignon and, once again, she was dressed in layers of washed-out linen and had a knobbly cardigan slung around her shoulders, in spite of the warmth. She tucked her hair back behind her ears and ticked him off the list. “David’s in today,” she breathed. “He flew in yesterday but he’s still terribly jet-lagged.”
Frankie nodded and tried to look pleased but his stomach cramped up with panic. David Herschmann was known to be enigmatic at the best of times. Perhaps that was the privilege of a successful Hollywood actor turned theater director. With a case of jet lag, he’d be positively gnomic. Frankie sighed. Hersch-mann anecdotes were legion on the circuit, and he racked his brains to try and recall some of his weirder pieces of direction. “More space around it!” was one that had stumped his casts. “Can you do it all faster, but kind of slow it down?” was another. Well, if Frankie could be a banana, he could be anything! He went to sit down on one of the stacking chairs lined up in the hallway, nodding cautiously to the other two actors there before him. They were both television regulars and he could almost hear them thinking, “What’s he doing here?”
The minutes ticked past. Frankie closed his eyes and tried to remember everything the Bean had taught him, about drawing people’s eyes to him just by being stiller, about imagining himself filling up the space and pushing against it. The character Joel was a complex one and, although he wasn’t the lead, it was a fantastic part. He’d seen Daniel Day-Lewis do it once, and his burning intensity when he realized he’d been betrayed by his girlfriend and his best friend had been mesmerizing. Yet Frankie didn’t just want to produce a copy of that performance. He shifted on the plastic chair. He was starting to feel agitated again and struggled to bring his attention back to what he was about to do. The past few days had been such a roller coaster of emotion, it had thrown him completely.
The other two actors were called in, one after the other. The first one was only in for just over five minutes, the second one for more like fifteen. Was that better or worse? Frankie braced himself. If they didn’t like him enough for Joel, perhaps they would still consider him for a walk-on. They wouldn’t have cast those yet. Should he ask? No, no. That would look desperate. Frankie looked at his watch again. It was nearly three minutes since the
last bloke had left. Maybe they’d forgotten he was there. Maybe they weren’t going to bother seeing him at all and they’d already decided. That second one had been pretty good in The Bill. Maybe . . .
“Frankie? Would you come in now, please?” The head disappeared back through the door and Frankie stood up slowly.
Two hours later, Frankie was back in Chelsea in the Bean’s cool sitting room. “So I went in and it was quite dark, and Hersch-mann was sitting there in a great big armchair, leaning right back as if he was looking at the ceiling with his legs stretched out. He didn’t even look at me.”
The Bean tutted. “Honestly, these power games. I find it all so tiresome. I hope you waited until he sat up properly. That’s what I would have done.”
Yeah, right. “Well, when I’m as famous as you perhaps I will, but just for now, I think I’m better off playing the game, don’t you?”
“Never mind all that.” The Bean gestured irritably at the chair opposite her. “Get on with it. What did they say? Did you read straightaway or did they ask you any questions?”
Frankie lifted a pile of unopened envelopes from the chair and put them on the table next to him. “Bean, don’t you ever open your mail? I don’t know how you can bear to just leave it.”
“Oh, it’s just tiresome stuff. I open anything that looks interesting. Now get on with the story, or I shall burst!”
“Right, where was I? Oh, yes. The casting director did all the talking. Herschmann kind of murmured his instructions to her, just turning his head sideways. It was weird.”
“And was anyone else there? Anyone watching?” Bean helped herself to a slice of the fruitcake Frankie had found in a flowery tin in the kitchen. “Here,” she commanded. “You try some, too. Saffron made it. It’s very good, I think.”
Frankie broke off a piece and nodded in appreciation. So that pinch of salt had worked! The Bean was almost on the edge of her seat with impatience, so he continued. “Yes, the producer and there was someone with a digital camera recording it all. They did ask if I minded, but I thought I couldn’t really object.”
“And? And?”
“Well, I did it the way we’d rehearsed, you know. It was pretty similar to the way I did it in the last audition, because I thought if they liked it that time, they’d like it again.”
“Yes, yes. And did Herschmann say anything?”
“No, not at first. I thought he might be asleep, because it was quite dark in there. They’d closed some of the curtains. He was just rolling his head from side to side on the back of his chair. And then suddenly, it was so unexpected I nearly laughed, he sat right up and stared at me really hard. And he said, ‘Listen, you’re giving me too much. You’ve just discovered you’ve been betrayed by the people you trust most in the world. Your life has no more meaning. It’s like they’ve reached down inside you and ripped out your heart. I want to hear the sound of that emptiness within you.’ So I stopped for a bit…” Frankie faltered. How could he tell the Bean that at that moment, he’d seen Alex’s devastated face before his eyes? He’d seen how, that moment when she’d realized what was going on in her flat, she’d struggled, not wanting to believe what her eyes—those big, hurt eyes—were seeing.
The Bean thumped him hard on the leg. “Frankie, if you don’t tell me what happened this instant, I shan’t be responsible for my actions!”
“Oh, right. I… I toned it down completely, as if I could make it not true just by refusing to see it. It was quite different from Day-Lewis, but d’ya know? I think it kind of worked.”
There was a moment’s silence. The Bean looked skeptical. “So you didn’t do it the way we rehearsed?” She looked slightly miffed and Frankie answered carefully.
“I did—first of all. But when he asked me to try something different, I just adapted it. That was right, wasn’t it?” Frankie suddenly felt uncertain.
The Bean brushed invisible lint off her sleeves. “Well, I suppose it was good in a way that Herschmann asked you for a different interpretation. At least he’s seen your range. Well, let’s hope he likes your look. Even if they don’t use you in this, they’ll remember you. I’m sure they will.”
Frankie felt deflated. He cleared up the tea things and took them to the kitchen, glad to be on his own for a moment. As he dried and put the little china cups away, he opened a cupboard to find more of the brown envelopes he’d seen on the chair. On impulse, he picked one up. Through the address window he could see red print. He picked up another, unopened, but from Barclaycard. And another, and another. Frankie felt himself go cold. The Bean was ignoring her bills. And still spending like the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo, from what he could tell by the parcels, carrier bags and canvases piled up in the hallway.
Did Alex realize? Should he tell her?
Chapter 29
Look, Alex, it’s me again. I know you don’t want to speak to me, but I’m finding this very upsetting and I need to talk to you. To explain.” Saff stumbled on, determined not to cry. She looked hard at the Florentines cooling on the side. She wasn’t sure how much recording time Alex had on her machine so she’d have to talk fast.
“Alex, I really thought what we were doing was for the best. You have more than enough stress at the moment without the Bean on your plate.” Saff almost laughed hysterically at her pun. “I do know what she can be like, Alex. Remember that awful, wet holiday in Prestatyn when we were ten? She was more bored than we were and sulked in her room. God, you were a saint that week… anyway, that’s all I wanted to say…” She trailed off, not knowing if she could trust herself now.
“And I miss you.” She put down the phone.
Chapter 30
They met on neutral ground. Going to the flat again to see her didn’t seem right, and Frankie didn’t even suggest it. Neither, he noted, did she. She’d been surprised to hear from him so soon after their confrontation at her flat, but hadn’t hung up on him as he’d feared. And when he explained that he wanted to talk about the Bean, she’d agreed straightaway. And now here they were at Palace Gate in Kensington Gardens, just standing looking at each other after an awkward hello. He realized with a jolt that she was waiting for him to explain why he’d called. The early evening sun was slanting through the trees, but was still warm enough for Alex to have removed her jacket. Frankie steered her into the park and over to a bench and they sat together. She seemed as self-conscious as he felt, so he didn’t waste any time.
“Look, Alex, you made it clear you don’t like me, or trust me, or want anything to do with me, but I think you should know something. The thing is, I went to see your mother yesterday and, well, I found some unopened letters—lots actually and I think they’re probably bills. I didn’t say anything to her. Well, I didn’t know what to think. I mean, I’ve got no idea what her circumstances are but, well, I just thought you should know, and since you don’t really ever go to her place, I thought you might not realize.”
Alex stared at him for a moment, blinking fast. Was she going to slap his face? Shout at him again? Frankie sat back and looked straight ahead at the children and dogs and lovers and old men walking by. He was preparing himself for an explosion, but none came. Instead he felt, rather than saw, Alex slump back as if she’d been punched. “Oh no!” she breathed. “We’re not in this nightmare again!” Frankie turned to her. She looked quite exhausted. There were violet smudges of exhaustion under her eyes and a crease between the eyebrows that looked as though it might not go away. She shook her head slowly. “I knew, actually. Or at least I suspected. This isn’t the first time, you see.” Alex hesitated and looked down at her hands. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s any harm telling you. You know most of it already. She’s basically broke. Despite all the money she made and the residuals and everything, she’s cleaned out. Has been for years, but she doesn’t seem to realize—although, God knows, I thought I’d explained it after last time. Luckily her house is mortgage-free, but basically…” She paused. “I pay for everything else.”
Alex’s shoulders sagged and Frankie could hear her draw a slightly unsteady breath. “Yes. I expect she hasn’t really stopped, although she promised last time she’d try to.” She rubbed at her face with her short-nailed hands. “I haven’t even finished paying off the debts she racked up last year. I expect it’s my fault, really. She’s got no idea about money—never has had. I adored my dad, but after he died I discovered he had bled her dry, investing in one crazy scheme after another, but they always lived it up. Winters in the south of France and handmade shoes. He acted as if he were the heir to a fortune or something. The great playboy.” She waved her hand dismissively. “He left nothing but debts, and I spent the next two years selling the few shares he had left and a couple of nasty flats in Gateshead, which he was convinced would be the ‘next big thing.’ Mum just carried on as before. I should have taken more time to explain, shown her the figures. But she was never interested, you know?” Alex turned beseeching eyes on Frankie and he hardly dared move in case it broke the spell of this outpouring. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the whole truth at first.” She looked down at her hands again. “She always made me feel dull because I worked out if I could afford something before I bought it. And now”—she laughed shortly—“now I can’t afford anything because I’m having to pay for what she buys.”
Busy Woman Seeks Wife Page 16
