Christ Alive, you’d actually swear that I’d doused her in petrol, set fire to her hair, then run away cackling like Peter Lorre, the way she’s carrying on these days. And I’ve been actively tuning it out for so long that I don’t know how much longer I can go on for.
Anyroadup, the matinee is long over, we’re all back at the ranch and it’s like an episode of America’s Top Model; all of us charging in and out of each other’s apartments filching bits of make-up, handbags, shoes, the works. Messing and laughing and then excitedly squealing over each other’s outfits, even though we all went shopping for them together to Loehmann’s designer store earlier this week, so what we’re all wearing is no big surprise really.
Blythe is looking gorgeous in a stunningly elegant pale green dress and long shawl, with pearls borrowed from Chris. Meanwhile Alex looks cool and funky in a YSL black trouser suit she found on sale in Century 21 and with her red hair tightly slicked back, the whole look is very le smoking altogether. A slash of bright blue lipstick is her only Alex-like little rebellion. Chris, of course, looks like a model: groomed and sleek with her long, straight, dark hair up in a neat chignon and wearing a deep purple crushed velvet dress that only someone as tall and pale and skinny as her could really carry off.
As a special treat and also as a farewell pressie, I bought Jules a stunning long, black Calvin Klein fishtail evening dress, which just looked so breathtaking on her when she tried it on that I knew she had to have it. She’s wearing her hair down and loose for the night, springy curls wild and abandoned, but still looks all sophisticated and grown-up, a million miles from the sloppy, oversized T-shirts she’s usually happy to stomp around the apartment in all day.
‘You sure I look OK?’ she asks me, twirling around my bedroom while I’m blow-drying my soaking wet hair, running late and well behind schedule. ‘I feel weird with my knees covered.’
‘Stunning,’ I assure her.
‘And it’s so low in front. Promise me I don’t look like I’m dressed for an operation?’
I laugh back at her. ‘Not a bit of it, you look so elegant and chic! I’m dead proud of you, babe. We’ll have to take a load of photos to prove to Audrey how well you scrub up.’
‘Yeah,’ she grins at me, tossing the curls off her face, ‘you’re right, even if I do say so myself. I look really hot in black, don’t I? Jeez, it’s a wonder I don’t get hit on at funerals more often.’
All our invites bossily say that we’re to be in Radio City and seated by nine pm sharp, but we’ve all been invited to The Plaza hotel for cocktails beforehand, by Jack, who by the way continues to act like a perfect gentleman towards me. As much as to say, ‘I wouldn’t dream of being crass enough to embarrass you by even referring to how we leaped on each other’s bones like a pair of sex-starved animals only a week ago…so let’s just act completely normal, like nothing happened.’
Complete and utter denial that anything ever happened or that there’s any kind of problem between us? Absolutely fine by me. I’ve had years of practice at this. I’m a bleeding maestro.
Anyroadup, just as we’re all assembling in the hallway, getting ready to take cabs up to The Plaza, on an impulse, I call up to Liz’s apartment. To make her feel included, to at least let her know where we’ll all be and that of course, she’s welcome to come with. She did her usual disappearing trick after this afternoon’s show and there’s been no sighting of her since. And now there’s no answer to her door.
Worrying. To say the least.
But everyone else is in high good humour, giggling and messing as we all pile into the Champagne Bar of The Plaza hotel, tripping over long dresses we’re not quite used to and high heels we’re all stumbling around in. Five of us in total – Jules and me, followed by Alex, Chris and Blythe. Chris is on her own tonight because her husband Josh and little Oscar flew back to Ireland over a week ago, so tonight is the perfect distraction for her.
Harvey Shapiro is already here ahead of us with his wife Sherri or Terri, can never remember which, and he immediately starts handing us glasses of champagne. I look around at everyone, so proud and happy and rightly enjoying a night of celebration…and somehow, my thoughts keep wandering back to Liz. And how she should be here with us too. Because we’re a company and we’re incomplete without her. Before it’s barely begun, it’s like there’s a pallor cast over the night and I don’t know why. At least, not yet I don’t.
Jack skips in from his upstairs apartment, looking carelessly elegant in an evening suit, like he was born wearing a bow tie. I’ve hardly seen him since the Hamptons and he makes a point of kissing and greeting everyone else ahead of me, making charming comments about how fab all the girls are looking, particularly Blythe, whose professional make-up is practically soldered onto her.
‘Oh go on out of that, you old charmer!’ she laughs playfully, beaming and pink with pleasure. ‘At least I’m fairly sure that I won’t have to make a speech tonight, I haven’t a prayer of winning…but I’ve been rehearsing my “good loser” face in the mirror all week. You know, to convey just the right blend of disappointment that I lost, tinged with genuine delight for whoever does win. But now you, on the other hand, Jack…’
‘Let’s just wait and see, why don’t we?’ he nods politely, brushing the suggestion aside.
He greets me last and lingers for just half a second longer than he probably should, giving me one of his trademark up and down looks, taking in every little detail of the dress I’m wearing. Which by the way is floor length, backless, bare-armed and white, with a skirt big enough to fit three midgets underneath it, cheekily borrowed from Chris in return for a pair of Swarovski earrings I lent her. Then he leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. Almost chastely. The usual tang of citrus from him, mixed with cigarettes.
‘Well hello there,’ he says in a deep, low voice, the eyebrows slanting sexily downwards at me.
‘Hi.’
‘You’re ravishing.’
OK, you need to stop this, stop this right now.
‘Every stitch borrowed.’
Very discreetly, so none of the others can see, I feel his hand move slowly round my waist then slowly, teasingly down my thighs, bottom, then resting momentarily on my bare back, lightly drumming his cold fingers up and down my spine…and suddenly, without warning my knees turn watery and begin to loosen.
Shit, shit, shit…no.
He’s very close to me now and I know I’m blushing like a wino, feeling embarrassed and awkward, fully aware that we’re in public, so I force myself to take a step back, further away from him. He raises his eyebrows quizzically, but is too polite to say any more.
And neither do I.
It takes two taxis to convey the whole gang of us to Radio City, and when we get there, it’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to Oscar night. Red carpet, TV cameras looking for soundbites, cameras flashing in our faces, yes even for us, the unknowns. And when I think of some of the big marquee names that have trod this very path before us? All of my great heroines in fact – Maggie Smith, Audrey Hepburn, Barbra Streisand…enough to make me feel deeply humbled and yet exhilarated at the same time.
Blythe grabs my hand nervously and I try my best to steer her inside, but it’s like every two seconds, she’s stopped by someone shoving a microphone into her face and asking her, as a nominee, the same dopey, inane questions over and over again, like how is she feeling? Is she happy to be here? She even gets a laugh when some reporter who I vaguely recognise from the Broadway Channel demands to know who her dress is by.
‘What do you mean, who is it by?’ asks Blythe, stopping in her tracks, genuinely puzzled. ‘I got this in Loehmann’s, love, have you ever come across it? It’s a great little find of a discount store and, best of all I had change out of a hundred and fifty dollars too. You really should try it, you wouldn’t believe some of the bargains. The shoes were only twenty-five dollars too and they’re so comfortable, I’d swear I could nearly do Loch Derg in them.’
Roars of laughter from the crowd of onlookers that have gathered behind her as I gently but firmly lead her away, slowly working our way further on towards the entrance. She clings to my hand in a vice-like grip, shaking like she’s in her own personal little earthquake and answers the rest of the questions she’s bombarded with as coherently as she can. I’m not kidding, at this rate, it’ll take us the guts of an hour just to work our way inside to the auditorium.
Nine pm on the dot and it’s showtime. Our host is a TV comedian and chat show pundit, who launches into a little parody skit on all the big nominated shows, ours included. His Irish accent is dire, and we roar laughing, breaking the tension a bit. All of us are spread out over two rows and I’m roughly in the centre, with Jules on my right. Somehow, Jack has managed to sit on my left, with an empty seat right in front of him, where Liz should be.
Immediate bad, blazing feeling as my ulcer kicks into overdrive. She wouldn’t…would she? Just not turn up? I throw Jack a look of pure panic, which he interprets correctly because then he leans into me and whispers, ‘It’s OK, don’t worry, she’s here. I caught a glimpse of her being interviewed outside. Shhh, relax.’
A light graze of his icy fingers against mine and I swear, it’s like an electric current goes through me.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
‘Aren’t you even nervous?’ I whisper back. ‘Supposing you win and have to make a speech?’
‘If I win, the first person I’ll turn to kiss will be you. In front of everyone, in front of all the cameras. And I don’t care and there’s not a damn thing you’ll be able to do to stop me, my dear.’
He leans in closer still and brushes a stray curl off the back of my neck, then I get a quick flash of his teeth shining through the darkness. But I don’t get a chance to respond because just then Liz arrives very late, slipping into the seat in front of Jack and studiously ignoring the lot of us. I stretch forward in my seat to try and catch her eye but she’s staring straight ahead, like she’d rather be sitting anywhere, absolutely anywhere other than within spitting distance of us.
Christ Alive, it’s as if, for tonight, she’s turned down the thermostat on her relations with her fellow cast members from glacial to cryogenically frozen. She hasn’t even bothered to dress up either; she’s just thrown on all her early Madonna gear of torn tights, a lace see-through knee-length dress, which clearly shows her bony little shoulder blades jutting out like butterfly wings, all worn with bovver boots and the kind of earrings that dolphins jump through to please their trainers. Honest to God, I’ve seen her wearing this kind of stuff during the day.
After a high-octane musical interlude courtesy of the cast of Rent, our host kicks off the awards proper. Blythe’s category is up first, best supporting actress. We’re all leaning over to squeeze her supportively, but she loses out to an actress from The Merchant of Venice and as the applause rings out, she says to us all, ‘I’m not a bit bothered at all, you know, my lovelies. I had bet a few quid on your woman to win, as it happens. Easy come, easy go.’
The pace picks up and our luck changes. By the second ad break, we’ve won best lighting and costume design, to much whooping from the lot of us. So much so that our host makes some wisecrack along the lines of, ‘You’d certainly know the Irish are in the room, so can someone kindly close off the bar at the interval? Cut off their supplies quick, guys, or they’ll drink the place dry!’
A short commercial break where we all dash to the loo and then on with the show. Liz continues to ignore us all, just sits in her seat ahead of us, staring blankly ahead, not clapping, visibly unsmiling. Most worrying of all though, her head’s now starting to loll a bit from side to side. I lean forward in my seat and ask her if she’s OK, but surprise surprise, she totally ignores me. So what’s new?
We lose out on best new play, but before I have time to catch my breath, it’s the award for best director. You should hear our host gravely announcing the nominees; it flashes through my mind that he sounds exactly like Charlton Heston reading out the Ten Commandments.
‘And the Tony goes to…’
My whole digestive system seizes up…but astonishingly, the winner isn’t Jack. He doesn’t seem remotely bothered about this though, in fact, he barely breaks a sweat, just sits back as relaxed as you like and claps heartily, genuinely, for the winner.
‘You don’t mind?’ I turn to smile at him.
‘Oh please, gong shows. I’ve got a barrow full of the things at home and frankly, they’re all just dust gatherers.’
‘Really? You’re not even a little bit disappointed?’
Somehow, it doesn’t quite ring true for someone with Jack’s type-A personality not to be insanely competitive about awards.
‘The night is very young,’ he whispers back, evenly holding my gaze. ‘And I love that sexy outfit on you, by the way. Very va va voom. OK, so I’ve just lost a Tony award, but all I can think about is how deliciously easy it would be to slip you out of that dress, so I could get a good look at you in whatever you’re wearing underneath…’
‘Shhhhh!’ I mouth silently.
‘Don’t be so prudish, it doesn’t suit you. So what are you wearing underneath?’
His arms are folded, but he looks like he’s enjoying himself.
‘Will you stop it?’
‘Do you want me to?’
‘You know I do,’ I hiss, but unconvincingly.
A lightning quick flash. Last week, when Jules said she could see a whole other parallel life stretching out for me…funny, but for the first time now, I get a quick, sudden glance of that parallel life too. And I don’t know what to think about it. I rummage around my feelings, trying to identify them, and the best description I can come up with is that it’s fear, plain and simple.
But then I let it go. For fuck’s sake I think, suddenly incensed at myself. You are pathetic. Living with Jules has made me every bit as bad as her, it seems. I’ve completely picked up on her habit of taking up ideas and then running wild with them.
Just. Let. It. Go.
I tell myself that over and over and eventually it seems to work.
The night whizzes by and before I know where we all are, it’s time for the award for best actress. Jack leans forward and pats Liz encouragingly on the back, saying something about how she’s got a terrific chance. And I’m not joking, the girl reacts as though she’s just been electrocuted.
Our host introduces a presenter who gravely reads out the nominations, each one greeted with thunderous applause. Liz’s name is last and a camera shot of her appears on the big screen ahead of us, showing her scowling, sulky and with a ‘Can we please just get this over with?’ expression etched on her face.
‘And the Tony goes to….’
Drumroll for dramatic effect.
‘For Wedding Belles…Liz Shields!’
We all look at each other in shock and surprise, before the clapping and cheering breaks out; by far the most boisterous we’ve been all night. Liz just won a Tony! I look at Jack in stunned amazement and part of me wonders if maybe this is just the miracle we need to reboot her back into being the old Liz.
She takes the stage and it’s only when she stumbles slightly on her way to the podium that I really start to get concerned. And realise the reason why she arrived late and wouldn’t say two words to any of us earlier.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she begins, muttering into the microphone and slurring her words, always a disastrous sign with her. Jesus, don’t tell me she’s been drinking on top of whatever else she’s been doing?
‘You know, I’ve sat here all night, mostly bored out of my head…’
Worried looks fly amongst the rest of us. Because this isn’t exactly sounding like your typical thank you speech. Not one bit. Nervous titters from the rest of the audience, wondering where this could possibly be going.
‘…and I’ve listened to speech after speech from the other winners, all thanking their fellow cast members, directors, producers, ASMs who make
the tea, the stage hands who sweep the stage…you name it. And I really do wish that I could stand here and say the same thing, I really do.’
A murmur sweeps through the packed auditorium, and suddenly it’s like looking at someone who’s brandishing a hand grenade over the lot of us; a grenade with the pin taken out. She’s out of control and dangerous and by now my palms have actually started to sweat, terrified at what’s going to come out of her next.
‘Jesus,’ Jack groans, ‘I don’t believe this. She’s off her head drunk.’
‘I, on the other hand, am grateful to the American Theatre for giving me this award, but I give no thanks to any of my fellow cast members. None. Nothing. Nada. You want to know why? Because I get no support from them whatsoever. Instead, all I get are accusations and threats and people daring to tell me how to live my life. Now, I notice that some of my fellow winners here tonight have thanked their directors too. Well, unfortunately I can’t do that either. I’m sure a lot of you may be familiar with Jack Gordon’s work, the man with the messiah complex; or as I like to call him, Mr Rarely Takes Any Less Than All the Credit He Can Get, but I can tell you right now, he did not in any way contribute to my performance…’
I look over to Jack and he’s seething. Mind you, you’d never know it if you didn’t know Jack, he’s very still. Scarily still. Our host is starting to look panicky now, realising that this is not your typical, gushing acceptance speech, not by the longest of long shots.
I can see him making frantic off-camera gestures to the floor manager who makes a wind it up signal to the orchestra. But they’re not off the mark quite fast enough.
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Page 27
