‘Get on with it, will you? I’ve still got to do my hair before the show!’ Chris yells at him impatiently.
‘The Tony award nominations are…for best new play, Wedding Belles!’
A raucous cheer goes up, there’s whooping and hugging and it takes Jack ages to shush everyone down before he can continue.
‘The nominations for best featured actress in a play are…’ He reads out the names of four other big, marquee Broadway names, all appearing in plays that are competing alongside us. Then, to the sound effect of a drumroll in my head, he announces, ‘and finally…for Wedding Belles…none other than…Miss Blythe Arnold!’
Screeches of joy nearly bring the roof down and suddenly everyone’s on top of Blythe like a rugby scrum, congratulating her and hugging her to ribbons.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she calls out in shock over the din, her voice sounding smothered because we’re all trying to hug her at once. ‘Are you absolutely sure, Jack love? You didn’t make a mistake? Check that bit of paper again, will you?’
‘Definitely no mistake,’ he grins back at her, ‘now calm down everyone, I’m not even close to being finished yet!’
At this stage he actually has to shout over the excited babble to try and get us all to quieten down. Blythe looks pink with pleasure and has to be ushered to a chair, she’s that shocked. It takes another few goes on Jack’s part before it’s quiet enough for him to read on, but once he gets going again, he’s on a roll and there’s absolutely no stopping him.
The nominations keep coming thick and fast. Best lighting design…Wedding Belles. Best sound…Wedding Belles. Best costume design…Wedding Belles. Best set design…you’ve guessed it. Jack then takes a modest pause before announcing the nominations for best director and the room goes stony silent till he reads out, ‘And, for Wedding Belles, ahem, ahem…Jack Gordon.’
An eruption of cheers and now it’s almost like there’s an impromptu party starting to break out, minus the booze. My head is swimming, unable to take in all this miraculous news. So far, we’ve a grand total of seven nominations; unheard of for such a low-budget show with a largely unknown cast. Unbelievable. Astonishing.
‘And now…if you’ll all just keep it down to a dull roar for one last and final nomination,’ Jack pleads with the room, ‘then I’ll let you all go, on the condition that you all join me in Sardi’s after the show. Let’s show these New Yorkers how we Irish like to celebrate in style!’
Massive enthusiastic applause and one of the assistant stage managers yells out, ‘Fine by me, Jack, but just remember, you’re paying!’
More shushing before it’s quiet enough for him to continue.
‘For best actress in a leading role, the nominations are…’ He reads out four names, again, all scarily, intimidatingly big names. The tension ratchets up a fair few notches and Jack is milking it for all it’s worth, like the sublime showman that he is. You could almost hear a pin drop as he says, ‘Stay with me here, people, still one more name to go!’
I feel Jules’s hand, small and hot, squeezing mine as Jack eventually reads out, ‘and finally…for Wedding Belles…Miss Liz Shields!’
We all turn to look for her in the throng…but she’s not here.
Bad, burning feeling like indigestion flares up inside me. My own personal ulcerous early warning system gone into overdrive.
When we all disperse to the four winds, I find Liz already upstairs in our dressing room, putting on her make-up. Seemingly oblivious to what’s just happened. And what’s worse, looking like she doesn’t particularly give a shite either way.
‘Liz, you missed it…where were you?’ I ask her all excited. ‘We’ve been nominated for a barrow load of Tony awards, and guess what? You’re up for best actress!’
I make the mistake of going to give her a spontaneous hug and I’m not joking, the girl almost jumps away from me, like she’s just been physically repelled by a strong magnetic force field.
I lock eyes with her in the mirror as much as to say, what in the name of God just happened there? She says nothing though, just throws me an irritated glare. You’d nearly swear I’d just told her that the show was about to fold, that we were all out of a job and heading back to Ireland, barefoot, broke and having to pay our own airfares home.
Sweet Jesus, it’s like sharing a dressing room with Joan Crawford. With a bad dose of PMT.
For a split second I stare helplessly back at her reflection, genuinely shocked by her non-reaction.
‘Aren’t you even pleased?’ I eventually ask.
‘Whatever,’ she sighs, then gets up to use the bathroom, slamming the door firmly shut behind her.
She doesn’t come to the after-show celebrations either. Just disappears off into the night, saying absolutely nothing to a single soul.
It promises to be a terrific night at Sardi’s, all benevolently hosted by Jack. But Liz’s absence is a bit like Banquo’s ghost hovering over the proceedings. Harvey Shapiro, our white-goateed producer asks if there’s something wrong with her? Is she ill? And when Jack notices that she hasn’t bothered to turn up, I can practically see his antennae ratchet up to high alert.
The restaurant’s hostess, a tall leggy, swishy-haired, model-y looking one called Isabella has obviously heard the news about our clean sweep of the Tony nominations, because as she’s escorting us to our table, she doesn’t just massage our egos, she leaves the lot of us with chakras nearly humming like xylophones.
‘Such wonderful news, you guys!’ she gushes. ‘You’re all SO amazing, everyone of you deserves to win…you know I just loved, loved, your show so much!’
Then she throws Jack an overtly sexy stare, full eye contact, Bambi eyelashes fluttering like twin butterflies, the whole works. ‘And if any of you guys need a date to the Tony awards, you sure as hell know where to find me!’
For Jack’s part though, he just smiles politely and asks to see the drinks menu, like he’s used to being bombarded by part-time models who look like Bond girls on a daily basis. Which in fairness, he probably is. He expertly scans down through the wine list and without as much as raising an eyebrow, lowers his voice and says to me, ‘So, where has she disappeared off to then?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answer truthfully. No need for him to even mention her by name, we both know only too well who he’s talking about.
‘She should be here. Looks bad that she’s not. Looks very bad. If this is what I think it is…’
‘It’s not,’ I interrupt him. Only hoping to Jaysus that I’m right.
Because I’m ninety per cent certain that Liz has been staying off coke for the last while. Yes, she’s been rude and moody and non-communicative, but her work is as stellar as always, which can only be a good sign. Can’t it? Course it is, I think, brushing that particular worry to one side.
I slip off to the bathroom with Jules and meet Chris there, who’s gaping at herself in the mirror and lashing on the Touche Éclat like it’s foundation. As soon as Jules disappears off to the loo, she fires off exactly the same set of questions about Liz. Do I know where she’s gone, who she’s with and most importantly, why she isn’t here with the rest of us, where she should be?
I can’t tell you, I answer truthfully.
An impatient eye-roll from Chris.
‘But then,’ I go on, deliberately keeping my voice low so no one in the stalls will overhear, ‘she’s most likely still mortified after the whole engagement ring debacle and being around you and me can only be a constant reminder of that. So who can blame her if she fancies socialising elsewhere? She’s got to be eaten up with guilt after what happened…’
‘Good,’ Chris snaps, expertly patting the concealer all round her eye sockets. ‘In that case, I hope she eats her guilt and gains fifteen pounds. God knows, the girl could do with a bit more weight on her.’
Then she swishes back her poker-straight hair and throws me a look as if to say, subject closed, now can we just enjoy our night please?
As
we all troop back from the bathroom, I steer Jules to the seat I’ve kept for her beside me and introduce her to Jack. I’m not kidding, his eyebrows nearly slant all the way up into his hairline with surprise when he realises that this is in fact, Dan’s little sister.
‘Well, well, well, the elusive Dan,’ he teases, sitting back in his chair, and slowly taking her in from head to toe. ‘I was beginning to doubt his very existence.’
‘Oh he exists alright,’ Jules beams cheekily back at him, playing with her springy curls and with two bright pink triangles appearing, one on each of her cheeks. ‘Paid for my airfare over here, you know.’
I should almost have it tattooed behind my eyeballs by now, I should have seen this coming a mile off. The funny thing about Jack, you see, is that he’s always eager for any little titbits of autobiography about my private life that drop, particularly in relation to Dan.
A bit too bloody interested, in fact.
‘So tell me all about your big brother, then,’ Jack says, looking intently at Jules with unflinching, cloud-blue eyes. ‘And I won’t settle for any less than the full story.’
And now, suddenly, I’m uncomfortable.
‘No, no, don’t bother,’ I say, flinging Jack a loaded glare that I hope reads, there are perfectly valid reasons why you and I never discuss our private lives with each other…can’t we just leave it that way and talk about something…anything…else?
‘Annie, what is up with you?’ says Jules, all innocence. ‘You look like a bulldog that just swallowed a wasp.’
Right. So much for me and my meaningful glares.
‘OK, then,’ says Jack smoothly, unleashing the full brilliance of his teeth on Jules and almost blinding her in the process. ‘In that case, just give me three facts about him that I don’t already know. Then I promise to be a good little boy and to drop the subject.’
Jules exhales deeply, puffing out her cheeks as she racks her brains.
‘OK, well you asked for it so here goes. For starters, he’d never in a million years go around dressed in a suit like yours,’ she says, as usual, opening her mouth without stopping to think first. ‘Says wearing suits only makes him look like a funeral director.’
Shut up, shut up, just please for the love of God, shut up now…
‘I see,’ says Jack with a sardonic smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. ‘Do go on, this is fascinating.’
‘Oh and he’s ridiculously generous too; he really would give you the shirt off his back. Wouldn’t he, Annie? In fact back home, he’s considered to be a bit of a one-man welfare state.’
‘Anyone else ready to order?’ I ask the table at large, desperate for a subject change.
‘But then, he’s total crap at remembering things like…anniversaries for instance, isn’t he, Annie?’
Enough already!
‘You know, I think I might go for the chicken dish for two. Will you share with me, Jules?’
‘Yeah…and he’s a total workaholic too. Dan’s the type who’d get out of bed at three in the morning to drive thirty miles to sort out a budgie with diarrhoea. Am I right, Annie?’
Thank God the waiter appears just then, and like all waiters in this town, he doesn’t just tell you the day’s specials as much as recite a five-minute monologue about how his name is Laurent, how he’ll be serving us this evening and how the sea bass is miles better than the duck confit tonight.
I, for one though, am grateful for the diversion and breathe a huge sigh of relief.
As the night wears on and the champagne is flowing, a bit of an impromptu sing-song starts at the table, led by Blythe in her trilling, wobbly soprano. Now I love the woman dearly, but her singing voice will never cost Barbra Streisand a night’s sleep; put it this way, it’s like the note hears her voice coming, then shies away from it. People are starting to drift off to different seats around the table or else scarper off to the loo, at least till she’s finished murdering ‘Queen Bee’. Perfect excuse for anyone to slip outside for a cigarette…even, I notice several non-smokers.
Now for someone like Jack, half an hour without dashing out for a fag is an anomaly, yet every time he comes back inside, no matter how much table hopping has gone on in the interim, he still manages to find his way to my side. I’m not imagining it and what’s more, I think by the time dinner is served and cleared, other people are starting to notice too. Chris, for one, keeps throwing loaded ‘we are women of the world, so just have your fling and be done with it’ type glances at me and frankly, it’s starting to get on my nerves.
About the fifth time this has happened, when Jules is deep in conversation at the other end of the table, Jack turns to me, swirling brandy round the bottom of a balloon glass and says, ‘So that’s your sister-in-law, then.’
‘Yes. And I’m mad about her. She’s like a little sister to me too.’
‘Ah, the unalloyed joy of a whimsical teen. I love it. Also, I find it a fascinating study in human behaviour to watch your reactions whenever your husband’s name is mentioned. Or to be more specific, when his name is mentioned in front of me. Care to comment on this intriguing paradox, Ms Cole?’
‘You know, it’s really late,’ I smile in what I hope is an enigmatic and not a serial-killer-ish way, then I pick up my purse and start getting organised to leave. ‘And Jules is still jet lagged…I really think I should get her home to bed now, don’t you?’
‘Go if you must, my dear,’ he grins confidently, ‘but don’t for a moment make the mistake of thinking that this conversation is closed.’
For Jules’s part, she can’t stop raving about how smooth and charming and lounge-lizard-y Jack is, the whole way home in the back of our taxi. God love the innocence of the girl; she spent the whole ride back berating herself for blushing furiously whenever he as much as looked at her, but then as she says in her defence, she’s just completely and utterly unused to attractive men.
I don’t argue with her there; in Stickens, the most eligible bachelor in town is thirty-seven-year-old Liam Quigley, who lives with his mammy, drives a vegetable van, has about three teeth in his head and perpetually smells of cabbage.
‘So how come you never told me that your director isn’t just hot, he’s stupid hot?’ she yawns at me, the jet lag hitting her now like a tonne of lead. ‘If you’d warned me, I’d at least have had a shower before I went out tonight.’
We arrive home, and just as I’m yawning and making up the sofa bed in the living room for Jules, my phone beep beeps as a text comes through. I fish round the bottom of my bag for the mobile, and read it.
It’s Dan. One simple sentence.
MEET ME AT THE MOON.
I beam, suddenly all energised again as butterflies start to dance in my stomach. This has been happening pretty regularly these past few nights, meeting Dan at the moon. Fast turning into the brightest part of my evenings, in fact. Ten minutes later, when I’ve put an exhausted and wall-falling Jules to bed, I slip into the privacy of my own room and call him.
He answers instantly.
‘So, how did you like your little surprise, then?’ he asks, and I get an instant mental picture of him smiling crookedly at me down the phone.
‘Best surprise ever,’ I laugh, ‘and I’m determined to give her the time of her life while she’s here. The shops, the shows, the touristy stuff…the works.’
‘That’s my girl. I knew you’d take good care of her. By the way, you won’t believe my news bulletin tonight,’ he says and I swear, his voice is like balm to my ears.
‘Sounds exciting, tell me all.’
‘I’ve only been asked to make a keynote speech at the annual vets’ conference in Dublin this December, you know, the one on equestrian practices.’
‘Hey, that’s wonderful, congratulations!’ I say, knowing that this is a massively big deal for him.
‘Downside is I have to make a speech, and you know how much I hate any kind of public speaking.’
‘Oh come on, it’ll be a walk in the park. No
thing to stress about. Call me when you have it written and I’ll go through it with you if you like.’
‘Would you?’
‘You know I would.’
‘Angel.’
In turn, I tell him all about the Tony nominations and Liz’s complete and utter indifference to the whole thing, to the whole cast, to everything.
‘Dan, it’s a disaster; she just turns up for work, does the gig, then scarpers off as far as humanly possible from the rest of us, till the following night. Things are almost at break point and I just don’t know how much longer we can all continue going on in this faux-polite vein.’
‘That bad, huh?’
‘I’m not kidding, it’s written all over the girl’s face that she’d infinitely prefer to be looking at the rest of us from the far end of an Uzi shotgun. She doesn’t talk to me any more. Doesn’t even trust me.’
Dan listens attentively and advises his usual creed of kindness and patience at all times. Vintage Dan of course, I think, smiling to myself. Tolerance and understanding will eventually win the day in his book, whatever the problem.
‘In time she may snap out of all this moodiness,’ he says gently, ‘may even revert back to her old self, but in the meantime, just give her space and let her know that you’re there for her. But if she ever breaks out again, remember, it’s your duty to make sure she gets help.’
‘I’ve tried, believe me, but when I even suggested we go and see a doctor together, she practically flung me out of her apartment.’
‘Next time, don’t take no for an answer. If there is a next time.’
And then onto the next ulcer-inducing worry that’s been nagging away at the back of my mind since this afternoon. Lisa and her marriage break-up. It’s exactly as I suspected; yes, Dan tells me, she’s up at The Moorings most of the time now, with the kids more often than not.
Fuck, fuck and fuck again.
‘She’s going through a really rough time at the moment,’ he says softly, ‘and I’m her oldest friend and neighbour, so I’ve told her to consider this her home for as long as she needs. She’s in a bad way, Annie, money-wise as well. She’s got two kids on their summer holidays and not a bean to spend on either of them, the poor things. Your heart would go out to them. I’ve been taking the little fella Harry out with me on a few farm calls to give Lisa a bit of a break and he seems to enjoy it, which at least is something. He’s a great little guy; we’ve grown to be good buddies. Now says he wants to be a vet when he grows up.’
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Page 24
