Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

by Claudia Carroll

‘Ahh, Lizzie, not the quotation game…not today! My nerves are shot, I can barely think straight!’

  ‘You’re only chickening out because you don’t know the right answer. Lupe Velez, FYI. I thought it was an apt quote because it kind of puts you in mind of our Jack, doesn’t it?’

  The afternoon session is even more intense, as we block the second scene of the show, going through it over and over again exhaustively. Come half five, when we finish up, I’m bone tired, but ecstatic at how well my first proper day went. In fact, during the whole long drive back to The Sticks, all I can think is that I’ve got the luckiest, jammiest job on the face of the earth. No wonder they call actors players. Because that’s what it feels like: grown ups at play-time.

  Anyroadup, come Friday evening, and the rest of the cast are all off to the local pub for a well-earned drink, to celebrate the end of a long week. We’re all standing out on the pitch dark, icy cold street outside the National and I’m saying my goodbyes to everyone, to cries of, ‘Ah, no don’t go home yet, Annie! Come for just the one!’

  I’m just in the middle of protesting that I’ve still got the marathon drive back to Waterford ahead of me and that I’d better get a move on if I want to get home sometime before dawn, when next thing, Jack grabs my elbow and steers me across the road and right into the pub, brooking no disagreement.

  ‘Come on, one soft drink won’t kill you,’ he grins, flashing the megawatt smile at me. ‘Besides, I want to talk to you.’

  So I shrug and laugh and head into the pub with everyone else, under director’s orders it seems. Jack politely asks everyone what they’re having as Liz, Blythe, Alex and Chris pile into a quiet little booth and start peeling off layers of coats, hats and jackets, all giggling and laughing, all in great form and happy to be celebrating the end of a long, tough week.

  ‘Annie, give me a hand with the drinks, will you?’ Jack calls after me, so I obediently head back to the bar to wait with him there. The place is packed with Friday night boozers, students mostly, all in jeans, woolly hats and layers of scraggy jumpers. For a second it strikes me just how much Jack stands out against them, in his elegant tailored suit and pale blue shirt that somehow still manages to look as crisp and fresh as it did at ten o’clock this morning.

  ‘I didn’t want to say this in front of the others,’ he begins, not looking at me, intent on grabbing the busy barman’s attention, ‘but you really did a great week’s work, you know. You’re bringing a whole plethora of new layers to the character that I think will work out beautifully. So I just wanted to say well done and keep it up.’

  ‘Wow…emmm…thanks so much,’ I manage to stammer, totally unused to positive reinforcement. And this from the impossible-to-please Jack Gordon of all people?!

  ‘I mean it,’ he goes on, waving impatiently at the barman now. ‘And believe me, I’m not a man who gives praise lightly. I think you’re bringing a whole fresh new dynamic to the show and I’m very happy I cast you.’

  I’m stunned into silence at this. I glance over to where Liz is sitting and she throws me an are-you-OK-do-you-need-rescuing-type glance, so I quickly grin back to reassure her that all’s fine.

  ‘But let me assure you, my dear,’ he grins cheekily, ‘that’s probably the last civil thing you’ll hear from me till opening night.’

  I smile back thinking that this sounds more like the Jack Gordon I know, but it’s almost a full month before I realise he’s actually telling the God’s honest truth. Anyway, the barman comes and he orders, then as we’re waiting, he turns to face me full on, propping himself up against the bar with one elbow and completely changing the subject.

  ‘So you really live all the way down in Waterford?’

  He couldn’t have sounded more disbelieving if I’d said I happened to live on a halting site somewhere outside Pluto. I tell him yes and he interrupts me immediately.

  ‘And do you mean to tell me that you’ve been commuting up and down from there all week?’

  ‘Well…yeah, but it’s nothing really, I’m well used to it by now. Motorway for most of it, you know…’

  ‘I don’t particularly care if it’s a Grand Prix track for most of it, I won’t have you tiring yourself out like that. That’s what, five hours a day you’ve been spending behind the wheel of a car? On top of working like a dog for me at the National all day? Not on.’

  ‘Jack, it’s fine, really…’

  ‘It most certainly is not fine. And next week is going to be even harder, because I want to start running each act as a whole. Can’t you stay with some friend in Dublin? How about Liz? She’s a mate of yours, isn’t she?’

  I don’t actually say anything, just smile weakly at this. Mainly because if I were to stay with Liz for the week, chances are I’d end up crashing out on the passenger seat of my car, on the grounds that I’d probably get far more peace and quiet there.

  He’s looking at me directly now, his sharp blue eyes expecting an answer.

  ‘You see, I’m afraid I can’t just stay up in Dublin, Jack,’ I eventually say. ‘It’s…well, let’s just say, it’s complicated.’

  ‘I’m reasonably confident that I can keep up with you. Go on, explain why.’

  ‘Well, you see…it’s our last week before we go away for so long and, emmmm…I’m anxious to spend as much time as I possibly can with my husband.’

  ‘Oh, your husband. Yeah. I keep forgetting you’re married. You don’t act married.’

  I’m tempted to ask how exactly married women act anyway? Do they go around in a housecoat, a hairnet and rollers, phoning and texting their husbands forty times a day, whenever they’re not worrying about the gas bill? But I keep my mouth shut and unconsciously start playing with my wedding ring.

  ‘OK, well at least I see where you’re coming from. And no doubt your husband will want you around as much as possible next week.’

  ‘Yeah, yes, he will. I mean, yes, he does, of course he does,’ I smile brightly.

  Funny how easy the lie just tripped off the tongue.

  Then my mind wanders back to all the Post-it notes that have been waiting for me on the fridge for the past few days and I half wonder if next week will be any different. This morning’s was a particular beaut: as I left the house at dawn, Dan had left a note for me that read, ‘Think the cat might be constipated. Can you monitor her litter tray and let me know?’

  ‘How long have you been married for, then?’

  ‘Almost five years.’

  ‘You must have been very young when you took the plunge.’

  ‘We were both twenty-four. But we’d been together ever since we were fifteen. I was his first girlfriend and he was my first boyfriend. And until this job came along, we’ve basically never been apart, in all that time.’

  TMI as Jules would say about people who tweet too much. Too much information. Don’t even know why I bothered telling Jack all that, he doesn’t even seem to be listening to me, he’s just staring into the middle distance, miles away. All I know is that he’s making me nervous and I don’t know why. For some reason, I don’t act like myself when it’s just him and me, alone.

  ‘So you were childhood sweethearts,’ he eventually says.

  ‘Yeah, we were. I mean, yeah, we are.’

  ‘Very romantic.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. I mean…of course it is.’

  ‘Never had the urge to tie any knots and get married myself, you know. Just couldn’t see the bloody point. All that stuff about till death do us part? In this day and age? Marry in your early twenties and I can guarantee that by your mid-thirties you’re two completely different people. Because people change over time. We all do.’

  ‘When you meet your one true soul mate, it’s different,’ I say, flushing and getting a bit defensive now.

  ‘How quick married people are to justify the ties that bind them.’

  ‘It’s not like that, Dan and I aren’t in any way…manacled to each other…’

  ‘So he’s called Dan then?’
<
br />   ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘And you seriously expect me to believe that you and Dan are both exactly the same people you were at aged fifteen? That neither of you has changed one single iota in all this time?’

  ‘It hardly matters whether you believe it or not, the fact is that it’s true,’ I smile back at him. ‘Just because you don’t happen to believe in marriage doesn’t mean that it’s a useless institution.’

  ‘Marriage is punishment for shoplifting in some countries, you know.’

  ‘Tell me you don’t really believe that?’

  ‘Oh please. So you believe in marriage? And tell me, do you still believe in the tooth fairy as well?’

  ‘We’re talking about love, not Santa Claus or the tooth fairy, of course I believe in it.’

  He’s teasing me now, I know right well he is, and I also know I’m flushing to my roots. I just don’t get it; why is this guy turning a perfectly ordinary conversation into a duel of wits?

  ‘Look, it’s like this,’ he says, scrutinising me carefully, the satyr eyebrows knitted sharply together. ‘Getting married is a bit like saying, I know exactly what I’m going to be wearing in twenty-five years’ time. But you can’t possibly know that, no one can. To torture the metaphor, it means that flares would still be in fashion. Not a life for me, I can tell you.’

  ‘Jack, let me just get this straight. You’re honestly comparing marriage to flares?’

  ‘No, I’m just saying, commitment isn’t for everyone. Particularly a long-distance one. Then you’re really asking for it.’

  ‘When you really love someone, you’ll move heaven and earth to make it work,’ I say primly.

  ‘Glad you seem to think so, my dear,’ he replies smoothly. ‘And I’ll be watching your progress throughout the coming year with the greatest of interest.’

  Chapter Six

  And now, somehow, it’s the night before I’m leaving and I can’t quite believe it. My very last evening. Two suitcases are all packed and neatly lined up in the hall and I’m wondering if it’s stabbing Dan as much as it is me, just seeing them sitting there. Looking like two twin accusations.

  You turned out not to be such a great husband after all and now look what’s happened. You see? This is the price you pay for neglecting your wife. You may have thought this whole going to New York thing was no more than an idle threat but look…HA! Here we are, proof that it wasn’t. So now the laugh’s on you, mate, isn’t it?… they almost scream in my head every single time I walk past them, driving me so out of my mind with guilt that I end up shoving them into the boot of the car, just so I don’t have to look at the shagging things any more.

  I have a totally irrational Pavlovian response to packed suitcases, you see; they never fail to give me an instant memory flashback to when I was five years old, freshly back from an overseas posting with Mum when out of the blue, my dad casually informed us that he was about to move out.

  Course I was too young to take it all in; how could this be happening? Me and Mum and Dad were the three Musketeers, why would Dad want to leave us? D’Artagnan and Aramis wouldn’t be any use without Porthos, would they? Vivid memory to this day; the enormity of the whole thing not even hitting me until I saw his packed suitcases waiting by the hall door. Then I came crawling back upstairs and cried myself to sleep, knowing then that my dad was really, really going for good.

  And I know it’s ridiculous, but this feels exactly the same; like I’m leaving Dan, even though of course we both know that I’m not. This is just temporary time apart, that’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again. It’s all transitory and I’ll probably be back before it really hits him that I’ve even left.

  I have to say though, in his own way, Dan has really surprised me and come up trumps, promising me that not only has he cleared his schedule so we can have this last, precious night together, but that he’ll also drive me all the way to Dublin airport tomorrow too. Equally important to me, as I’ve spent so much time talking about him to the others in the cast that I really want them all to meet him properly before we leave. He knows Liz, of course, but not the others, and it means an awful lot to me that they’ll at least be able to put a face to his name.

  Anyroadup, it’s a Sunday evening, the surgery is closed, so the only thing that might possibly keep us apart tonight is some last-minute emergency farm call. But James, our intern, has very kindly offered to take the phones this one night, so unbelievably, it is actually…for once…looking like Dan and I will have…pause for dramatic effect…this last, precious night alone together.

  You just wouldn’t believe the bother I’ve gone to. I’ve decided not to cook for once, but instead to order some take-away grub from the Chinese restaurant in the village that Dan loves so much. (I’m not joking, the food there is so delicious that you just want to drool over it saying, ‘hellooooooo, Clarice,’) I’ve even splashed out on a bottle of really pricey Chateau Margaux because it’s what we drank at our wedding reception and we loved it and I want tonight to be another blissfully happy memory, just like the wedding was.

  Because I’ve planned this evening with military precision – this is to be a night of sex and seduction like we haven’t had in years. I’ve dotted placed flickering candles all over the drawing room, not only because it makes the place look so romantic, but dim lighting also helps to minimise the full glaring horror of Audrey’s grotesque wallpaper and plaid carpet. Plus I look better in flickering light and this is how I want Dan to remember me; a sex kitten wife, and not this pale, exhausted wreck, nervous as a turkey at Christmas about what lies ahead. For the first time in years, I’m even wearing stockings. And OK, so I might look a bit like a bad Christmas, but what the hell; we need this last night and by God, if it’s the last thing we do, I’m determined that we’re both going to enjoy it. Just the two of us.

  Earlier in the day, I made a point of calling round to Audrey’s apartment in the village, to say goodbye to her properly.

  Now if there’s one thing I’ve learned about my esteemed mother-in-law ever since I got this job, it’s this: in order to really rub in her utter disapproval of my taking off, sulking has become her preferred form of attrition. My phone has totally stopped ringing, almost deafening me with its silence and if I happened to give her a duty phone call from rehearsals to see if she needed anything dropped into her on my way home from work, she’d just sniff that she was perfectly fine, then hang up on me, making full sure that she really, really laid the guilt trip on with a trowel.

  So I steeled myself to make the farewell courtesy call just to show that there were no hard feelings on my side, although why I bothered, I don’t know. She didn’t even bother to lower the volume on the TV and when I tried to give her a peck on her papery thin cheek to say goodbye, she pointedly turned the other way, nose parallel to the ceiling.

  But when I got back to The Moorings Jules was there, thank God, sitting at the kitchen table eating the remains of last night’s chicken curry…the perfect antidote. She was an absolute doll and told me not to pay the slightest bit of attention to the old gizzard, that it would all blow over soon enough. Then, bless her, when she copped on that I’d a whole romantic night of passion planned, she tactfully offered to make herself scarce and, for once, I didn’t argue.

  We hugged in the hallway and because we both hate and despise the finality of goodbyes, Jules promised to call over to The Moorings the next morning before we left for Dublin airport, so we could say a last final farewell. But we both knew that this was just a polite, face-saving lie; the airport check-in time was one pm latest, which meant leaving The Sticks at around ten am, and bar her house was on fire, there’s just no way on earth she’d ever be able to haul herself out of bed at that ungodly hour.

  I squeezed her, tearing up a bit and told her that I’d see her in New York.

  ‘You better believe it, bitch!’ she laughed, but I knew right well she was getting a bit wobbly too. Jules doesn’t often have adult emotions but I think she
had one this afternoon, knowing I really was going and that she’d really be left totally alone, with only Audrey for company.

  I felt a massive pang of sympathy for the poor girl and there and then resolved to pay for her flight to New York myself, as soon as I’d saved up enough, then give her the time of her life when she got there.

  Least I could do for my old ally.

  It’s now just past seven and Dan is only out at Paddy Jackson’s farm, which isn’t far away, only about five miles or so. It’s not an emergency call either, so I’m confident he’ll be home any minute now. In the meantime, I’m running demented around the house, frantically ticking off a last-minute checklist in my head.

  Fire blazing cosily away? Check. Scented candles tastefully dotted around the drawing room? Check. Me scrubbed, exfoliated, waxed and polished to within an inch of my life? Check. Wearing my one and only sexy ‘serial result’ black lace nightie with matching flouncy dressing gown, courtesy of Marks & Spencer? Check. Half a can of serum in my bushy, wild hair in an effort to get it to sit flat? Check. Chinese take-away on speed dial? Check.

  I’m just up in the bedroom squirting a bottle of Jo Malone Fresh Lime Blossom perfume into a haze, then walking through it, when I hear a car scrunch up on the gravel drive outside.

  Showtime.

  I race down the stairs, yelling out, ‘On the way, love! I’m coming…’ trip over to the front door and just as I’m stretching up to the ancient overhead bolt to yank it back, one of those random, worrying thoughts suddenly flashes through my mind…why don’t I hear the dogs barking? Dan took them out with him this afternoon and they always go mental whenever they get home…odd.

  Quick as I can, I push the heavy oak door open…and standing there, looking as pale and pinched as ever is none other than Lisa Ledbetter. The Countess Dracula herself.

  ‘Look at the state of you, Annie,’ is her snide little opener when she sees how I’m dressed. ‘Don’t you know that it’s below freezing outside? Put on something warm or you’ll get pneumonia.’