‘Where are you?’ I ask stupidly, in a rare moment of prescience knowing the answer before I’m even told.
‘I’m still in Stickens.’
Silence.
Static over the phone.
And all of a sudden…I don’t know how to feel. There’s been an emergency, he tells me, an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in a local Waterford farm and there was just no way he could travel. He’s so sorry to let me down, but he wants me to know that it couldn’t be helped…he’d been texting earlier but I never answered…he wants me to understand that him leaving was out of the question…all the same excuses that I’ve been listening to for years are trotted out.
Meanwhile I just stand there.
I probably blink.
I’m utterly mute and there’s a time-delay while pain finds its way to my brain and eventually I do feel something. The exact same sensation you’d get if a knife was plunged directly into your heart. Deep shock on a cellular level.
Because of course he still could have come. He could have made it if he’d wanted to.
He could have taken two days off. Andrew and James could easily have coped without him for two lousy days. They’d have managed, of course they would. That was all I was asking for, forty-eight hours of his poxy time. After all my meticulous planning, after looking forward to seeing him for so long. After spelling it out to him that I couldn’t stand being let down again.
And now this.
‘Miss Cole, Miss Shields, this is your five minute call,’ the tannoy crackles above us.
‘I have to go,’ is all I can say into the phone, before heat rushes to my face and a sudden wave of nausea sweeps over me. I race into the tiny ensuite bathroom and barely make it in time before I’m violently sick.
Liz is amazing, but then as she says herself, she’s got a lot of experience in dealing with vomit.
‘Oh come on, honey, you’re just nervous, that’s all,’ she says firmly, splashing cold water on my temples, ‘you’ll be grand once you get out there. Opening night jitters is all that’s wrong with you. I’ve a small emergency bottle of brandy in my bag – do you fancy a little slug? For medicinal purposes?’
‘No, Liz. And this isn’t nerves.’
‘Course it is. It’s adrenaline, the poor person’s cocaine. That’s all that’s wrong with you.’
‘You don’t understand. He’s not coming. Dan’s not coming.’
She looks momentarily as stunned as I feel, but just then the tannoy crackles to life again – the stage director, sounding distinctly panicky now.
‘Miss Cole, Miss Shields, will you standby please.’
‘Come on, babe,’ she says, gently getting me to my feet. ‘I know it’s hard, but this will just have to wait till afterwards. We’ve a show to do.’
One good thing has come out of all this: the sheer terror I was feeling all day has completely vanished. An icy calm has taken over me and I actually wonder if I’ll ever be able to feel anything again. I’m like someone on mute autopilot as I walk down the stairs and patiently wait backstage. To look at me from the outside, you’d even think I was calm. And as I step out onstage, I hear my own voice, so surprisingly cool and detached, so completely unemotional.
Dan doesn’t love me anymore, is the thought that keeps playing like a loop in my head.
What? Says my logical mind. What was that treacherous thought you just had? It’s true, says my subconscious. And once the thought gets its feet under the table, there’s no budging it to leave. He doesn’t love me any more and what’s more, I think the final, last vestige of any sliver of affection I felt for him has now well and truly been stomped underfoot.
But this is Dan we’re talking about, insists my logical mind, he’s the hook on which everything else in my life hangs, isn’t he?
But in my heart, I know my subconscious is on the money.
My marriage, long sickening, has just died.
R.I.P.
The after show party is held in Sardi’s Restaurant right across the road from the theatre, which would comfortably sit three hundred, uncomfortably sit four hundred but tonight there must be at least five hundred people here; the place is packed to the rafters and it’s pure, organised PR hell. Not so much a guest list as a small town.
And the atmosphere is dense with the sweet smell of success. I’ve never actually smelled success before, but not even someone as punch-drunk from the body blow I’ve just taken could possibly mistake it. It’s actually not unlike sweat, only stronger. Anyway, we took a total of seven curtain calls and the standing ovation at the end of the show lasted for a good five minutes, so everyone seems to be walking on air.
Except me, that is.
Liz is terrific and doesn’t so much link as solder my arm to hers all the way from the theatre to the restaurant, as if I might stumble over or else run away given half the chance. But as soon as she shoves and elbows her way through the packed doorway, she immediately makes for the bar jubilantly yelling out that she smells free wine. I lose sight not only of her but of the rest of the cast in the throng as well.
The only time I crack a smile is when I spot my mother, with her neat, dark bobbed hair, hair that behaves itself and lies flat for her, unlike my side-show-Bob-from-the-Simpsons effort. Mum, of course, like a good little diplomat, is wearing green for Paddy’s Day this evening – a beautiful pale olive Louise Kennedy trouser suit, but then that’s my mother for you: patriotic and supportive of all things Irish to the bitter end.
The minute she sets eyes on me, her impeccably made-up face creases with worry as she instantly cops that something is wrong. Flatly, I blurt out that Dan never came and still she doesn’t betray the slightest scrap of emotion, but then she never does.
‘Smile graciously, dear, and we’ll discuss this tomorrow,’ she says, pencil-lipped. From the corner of my eye, I can see Chris hugging her husband, Josh, who then snogs her right in the middle of the bar, in full view of everyone.
So that’s what true love looks like, is all I can think, dully. Glad I saw it before I died.
Then I spot Blythe, sitting in prime position at the head of a table, basking in compliments and graciously waving over to me like a duchess. Her son/pride and joy/reason for living is beside her, waiting on her hand and foot, leaping up to the bar whenever her drink needs refilling. For her part, every time she as much as looks in his direction it’s like she’s going to physically burst with pride.
His name is Sean and he just flew in this afternoon on the flight Dan was supposed to be on, which makes me, quite irrationally, dislike him. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Even though I’ve never actually met the guy, already I want to smack him round the head.
Someone shoves a weird looking green cocktail for Paddy’s Day in my hand and next thing Jack is striding towards me and actually managing to displace air; his usually high confidence levels now rocketed somewhere up around the stratosphere.
‘Well twinkle, twinkle little star,’ he says, kissing me lightly on each cheek, smelling sharp and citrusy, his touch still icy cold even though it’s like a bleeding furnace in here. I’m just wondering how the hell he does it…vampire blood perhaps? Then he gives me one of his up and down, down and up glances, taking everything in, not missing a trick.
‘I couldn’t be prouder of you, by the way. That was a magnificent performance and you rightfully belong on cloud nine. Nice dress, by the way, red really is your colour.’
As calmly as I can, I introduce him to Mum who of course, can always be relied on to say the right thing. She congratulates him warmly and makes a few intelligent and insightful comments about the show, lamenting the fact that there’s not much by way of decent theatre in DC; that you’ve got to travel all the way to New York for that.
Jack chats to her about Washington for a bit, unleashing the full force of his kilowatt smile on her, then after a polite bit of conversation he turns to me and completely changes the subject.
‘So now do I finally get to meet the elusive Mr
Annie Cole? Where is he, anyway? Up at the bar?’
I can’t answer him, so instead I just stand there, feeling like I just took a bullet.
Mum, ever reliable, smoothly steps in on my behalf.
‘So tell me, Jack, now that the show has opened, how long do you intend to stay in the city? Do you have another production to direct lined up already? Or perhaps you’re travelling back to work in Europe?’
It’s an adroit subject-change for which I’m deeply grateful, but just then another tidal wave of nausea comes over me and I know I just can’t do this. Stand here and make small talk and chit-chat about complete shite like Mum can. Act like everything’s normal, when my whole life has just gone into freefall.
‘Would you excuse me?’ I manage to stammer. ‘It’s so hot and crowded in here, I just need a bit of air.’
‘Annie? Are you OK? Here wait, I’ll come with you,’ says Jack, suddenly looking concerned, but Mum manages to collar him by asking yet another question about the show and I make my escape through the dense throng of people.
As I somehow push and elbow my way through the mêlée, random snippets of conversation waft over me.
‘And you’re really a lesbian? Full time?’ I overhear an elderly woman, the living image of Joan Rivers, say as I try to wriggle past her, with the door finally in my sights. Honest to God, her face is so pulled back, it almost looks like she could be skydiving.
I pause, momentarily in shock at what I’ve just heard and when I look to see who’s she’s talking to, I realise that she’s got poor little Alex wedged up against the bar, unable to escape from this awful woman and her incredible rudeness. Alex is actually wearing a dress tonight, unheard of for her, with the ginger hair twice as spiky as it normally is, which somehow makes her look even more fragile and child-like than ever.
For a second, our eyes lock.
I fucking hate this, she seems to be signalling over to me.
I fucking hate this too.
We’ll get through it though, won’t we? her big blue saucer eyes seem to ask.
I don’t know.
Next thing, I’m out into the ice cold of Forty-Fourth Street. Free.
Typical Paddy’s Day weather: the light drizzle of earlier has now broken into a fully-fledged storm and it’s lashing rain. Thunderbolts and lightning, very, very frightening. But I don’t care. The earth has spun round more than once for me today and somehow, I need to bring it to a pause. The street keeps tilting, then righting itself and I just keep on walking. I don’t care that my new dress is ruined or my shoes and hair and make-up.
I just need to pound the pavement.
Which I do. All the way down as far as Times Square, then, as it starts getting really torrential, I stop under an obliging canopy outside a bistro to shelter for a bit.
Try to breathe, try to breathe, just keep breathing…
A couple of smokers standing outside courteously ignore me and look the other way, for which I’m deeply grateful.
How much despair has been absorbed by these very streets, I absent-mindedly find myself wondering, staring down at the rain-splashed sidewalk. How much pain and hopelessness? How many broken hearts just like the one I’m hauling about have walked this way before me?
In my deadened, numbed state, I still can’t fully accept that it’s come to this. Because there’s no turning back now. Dan coming over for my opening night was my white flag in the sand and he just walked…no…wrong word, bolted in the opposite direction away from it.
As personalities go, I’m an accommodator, a pleaser, a hand-wringer. But tonight I’ve reached my cut off point and there’s just no going back. I can’t live like this and what’s more, I won’t. Always making allowances for him, always accepting my lowly position at the very bottom of his list of priorities in life.
The thought of one whole year of a long distance relationship at one time seemed like a challenge that we could both possibly rise to, now it’s a case of…why in the name of arse am I even bothering? If he won’t even meet me halfway, then it’s about time I faced up to this one insoluble truth – I’m on a loser from the get go. The pillars supporting our whole relationship just crumbled to dust before my very eyes, the moment weight was applied.
And now the pain really begins to hit; the kind of pain you experience from a body blow, or when you lose something essential.
Next thing I hear sobs, big ugly hopeless sobs and realise that they’re coming from me. The two smokers glance over at me, standing there in my party dress, soaking wet, then look away uncomfortably, unsure of what to do. I even catch them semaphoring to each other that I’m like someone clearly out on day release, whose temporarily escaped from the clutches of my carer.
And I keep on sobbing, on and on, getting more and more pathetic by the second, indicating to them that they should just take a step away from me, but on absolutely no account get involved. Finally, they stub out their cigarettes, head back inside to the warmth of the restaurant and on I sob, in peace this time.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but after a while, from some distance behind me, I hear the neat click-clack of expensive high heels. I know without even turning around that it’s my mother, come to find me. Come to take me back.
‘Annie, there you are,’ she says calmly, like me whinging on a street corner in the middle of a thunderstorm is a perfectly normal occurrence. ‘I’ve been looking up and down the whole of Forty-Fourth Street for you.’ She shelters me with her umbrella, then produces a bunch of tissues from out of nowhere and hands them over.
‘I know that you’re upset, dear, but remember, all your colleagues are back at Sardi’s looking for you and your duty is to be there with them. We can discuss everything else tomorrow, at a more appropriate time.’
God, I’m inclined to forget that about my mother. She’d nearly give the Queen a run for her money in the ‘duty first, raw emotion second’ stakes.
‘Mum, you don’t understand…’ I sniffle into the hanky.
‘I understand perfectly, but come on, darling, there’s a time and a place to discuss the matter and this is neither. Now, dry your eyes and link my arm, please. I’m taking you back to the party. And you will put on a brave face and you will smile and you’ll never betray that there’s the slightest thing amiss and we’ll get you out of there as quickly as possible.’ She’s taking over but I know I need her to. The state I’m in, it’s kind of comforting to have someone make my decisions for me, so I obediently do as she says. Taxis splash past us as we walk back to Sardi’s in the driving rain and I squeeze her arm, so glad that she’s here. So glad that to someone like my mother, my having a crying jag in the middle of the street is simply a matter of faulty plumbing.
‘I can’t do it anymore, Mum,’ I say, falling into step with her as the cold air dries my tears, sticky and cool against my face.’
‘I know, dear. And I did warn you that it wouldn’t be easy.’
Another good thing about my mother – somehow her thoughts always manage to keep pace with mine. She always seems to know what I’m thinking without the necessity of a preamble.
‘I’d ask for a separation, only what’s the point? I already have one.’
‘Tomorrow, dear. We’ll talk about what’s to be done in the morning.’
‘What’s to be done? For God’s sake, Mum, if my marriage was an animal, you’d have put it to sleep a long time ago.’
‘I said, this will wait till tomorrow.’
‘If we were a computer program, you’d reboot us.’
‘Annie, how many more analogies have you got?’
‘As many as it takes to convince myself that it really is over.’
It’s still so jam-packed in Sardi’s that by the luck of God, no one bar Jack seems to have even noticed that we’d disappeared for a bit. Harvey Shapiro is standing in the middle of the bar, puffed up and swollen with brandy and success in his trademark white suit, looking like a man who owns the civilised world. He’s reading out the rev
iews from a stack of newspapers beside him which, unbelievably, all seem to be raves. One brilliant review miraculously after the other, like ducks in a row.
I stay discreetly at the back with Mum’s overcoat draped over my shoulders, so no one clocks how soaked to the skin I am, while raucous cheers go up time and again for each five-star review. In fact, review is the wrong word: dear Jaysus, these notices are more like love letters. Jack is likened to a young Sam Mendes and hailed as the brightest new talent on the Great White Way. I spot him out of the corner of my eye, at least having the good grace to look faintly embarrassed about all the fuss. Like someone who’s just won the Lotto, but who doesn’t like to brag about it.
All of the cast are showered with praise too, even me. But the most glowing tributes of all are reserved for Liz, whose performance is lauded time and again, confirming what we’d all long suspected – that she’s the true star of the show. ‘The kind of presence that can elevate sports stadiums into Nuremberg rallies,’ as the New York Times has it. Bloody hell.
I look around to give her a congratulatory hug, but there’s no sign of Liz anywhere, so now that the duty part of the night is over, I whisper to Mum that I’m going to slip away quietly.
‘Good idea, dear. I’ll get your coat for you and I’ll meet you outside.’
Getting to the door is a lot easier said than done though because well-wishers keep pulling me this way and that. Then I see Chris imperiously wave me over from the other side of the bar and I know right well this’ll lead to twenty questions about Dan’s whereabouts. Which I’m hopeful I may be able to fend off sometime in the distant future, but I certainly can’t, not right now.
Just get me out of here, I’m silently praying, just get me out the shagging door and home to safety and I’ll deal with everything tomorrow…
‘Surely not leaving already?’
Fuck.
It’s Jack, doing his quizzical raised eyebrow thing and eyeing me up and down, as usual, missing nothing.
‘Emm…yeah…I’m just…not feeling the best…it’s been an exhausting night…’
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Page 17
