Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘I love you, Annie,’ he said simply. ‘Always have, always will.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The week passes quickly, too quickly. I hardly see Mum, but then she’s working ridiculously long hours these days and often doesn’t get back to the apartment till well past seven or eight most evenings. So I’ve taken to spending my days alone, dozing or watching TV, thinking about what in hell I’ll do when this is all over and the end of the year comes. Because quite apart from everything else, I’ll be jobless, homeless and husband-less, won’t I? And one of these fine days, I’m going to have to face up to that hard, cold fact and make some kind of contingency plan.

  Just not right now. Not today.

  Sleep has become my opiate, my drug of choice, my oblivion. Now the days have fallen into a kind of pattern; by the time I haul myself wearily out of bed at about eleven, often far later, Mum will have long gone to work, so that’s when I plonk myself down in front of the TV, bowl of Cheerios in one hand, remote control in the other and think, great. Only another two hours till Ellen DeGeneres.

  One evening, when Mum comes home to find me still in my pyjamas in front of the TV not having washed myself or even gone outside of the door all day, she gives out to me for allowing myself to wallow, understandably enough.

  ‘You need fresh air and exercise,’ she says crisply, dumping down her briefcase on her desk and surveying the mess I’ve made in the living room.

  ‘I mean it, Annie, you can’t go on like this and what’s more I won’t allow you to. Tomorrow you’re leaving this apartment and doing a lovely tour of the city. The Potomac, the White House, Arlington cemetery, the whole lot. Then when you get back, we can have an intelligent conversation, like normal adults do. I don’t want to come home again and find you’re still here with nothing to talk about except some new diet product you saw on the Ellen Show called Skinny Cow.’

  ‘Ah come on, be fair. That only happened once.’

  ‘I mean it, missy. No more holing yourself up in here like Anne Frank. Tomorrow you’re going out and that’s final.’

  Then she tells me that she’s not staying in this evening, instead she’s going out for dinner with a colleague and that I’m most welcome to join, if I want to. I pass, pleading tiredness, even though I’ve been sleeping for sixteen hours most nights. She doesn’t try to talk me into it and I have to say, looks really terrific as she heads off for her night out, in a neat black bespoke dress, impeccable make-up and a pair of stunning, red-heeled Louboutin shoes. She’s even had a blow-dry today too, I notice…and is that a manicure I see?

  Something in the way she tells me not to wait up for her begins to rouse my suspicions. Slowly start to put two and two together as yet another memory is jogged. Why was she so dressed up to the nines the day I arrived, even though it was a Sunday, her day off?

  ‘Mum? This colleague you’re meeting tonight…is this by any chance…a date?’

  The prim blush on her cheeks tells me everything I need to know.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted she’s met someone else; Mum has been on her own for so long that no one deserves it more. But as I fall into a deep, troubled sleep that night, one thought keeps rattling round my addled brain.

  Sweet baby Jesus and the orphans, is the whole, entire world in love except for me?

  Hard to believe, but the following day is my last before I’m due back for work, so I do as I’m told and become a tourist for the day. It’s a dry, windswept fall morning, perfect for sight-seeing and as DC is actually surprisingly compact, I cover a lot in the little time I have. Madame Tussauds, the Smithsonian, I even made it all the way up as far as the Lincoln memorial. It’s the best distraction I could have asked for and I hadn’t realised it, but it’s well past seven in the evening by the time I even think about getting back to Mum’s apartment.

  The lights are already on when I let myself in, which is great – means Mum’s home. Then I hear voices coming from the living room and realise she’s not alone.

  Oh Christ, don’t tell me. The new boyfriend?

  ‘Annie dear, is that you?’ Mum calls out. ‘We’re in here. And there’s someone I’d like you to meet!’

  ‘Two seconds!’ I yell back, straightening myself up a bit in the hall mirror and trying to smooth down the worse excesses of my bushy hair, now even wilder and more unkempt after a day exposed to the elements in the windy outdoors. Why, why, why couldn’t I have inherited Mum’s silky locks instead of a head of hair that needs a half can of serum dunked over into it to avoid me looking like Side Show Bob from The Simpsons?

  Two minutes later, Mum is introducing her new ‘friend’ who, by the way, goes by the highly improbable name of Henry Jefferson the Third. Turns out he’s a lawyer who’s now working in the White House as a special advisor to President Obama, or POTUS, as he keeps referring to him. He’s a bit older than Mum, pushing sixty, I’d guess, and short in height, bald as a coot but with the widest grin I think I’ve ever seen. Divorced too it seems, with kids a fair bit older than me.

  Mum opens a bottle of wine which loosens everyone up and pretty soon, the stories start flowing too. In fact, after a while I begin to see exactly what it is that pulls Mum towards someone like Henry Jefferson the Third. He’s sunny and warm and a terrific raconteur to boot, full of funny, anecdotal, inside stories about his job that make me feel a bit like I’m in an episode of the West Wing. He’s also exuberant and full of fun and seems to bring out a girlish, giddier side to her. In fact, I almost feel like I’m chaperoning the pair of them and I think that Henry is really pulling out all the stops to impress her too.

  Can’t wait to get Mum on her own later to give her the low down. But most importantly of all, to tell her that, for what it’s worth, I fully approve. Because no one deserves a bit of fun in their life more than my mother.

  Absolutely no one.

  Chapter Eighteen

  So this, I suppose, is a happy ending then, at least, a happy ending of sorts. Which, as I’ve slowly come to learn, is the official American religion. Because, on the surface, everything appears to have worked itself out with frightening symmetry.

  First there’s Mum and her new man, a definite happy ending there. She waved me off at the airport earlier this morning, hugged me warmly and advised me not to worry too much about Dan. That sometimes things have a way of working themselves out. Hard to believe from where I’m standing right now, and if I’m being honest, it all sounds like something straight out of Forrest Gump, but I did appreciate the sentiment.

  Then some astonishingly good news: while I was away, it seems Liz checked herself out of the Albany clinic and better yet, she’s coming back to work tonight.

  She’s waiting for me in the dressing room when I get in, with the most massive bouquet of flowers and a card that reads, simply, ‘Thanks for being a pal.’ I smile delightedly and hug her to bits, genuinely overjoyed to see her back, but if I’m being brutally honest…this all just seems a bit, well…sudden. And it has to be said, she’s still looking worryingly thin and with that hollow-eyed gaunt look still etched on her pale, white face. Not what I would have hoped for, not by a long shot.

  ‘So aren’t you pleased to see me?’ she says, sensing that I’m holding back a bit.

  ‘Honey, I’m beside myself, but…what about the clinic? I thought they had you on a programme? That there was a whole course of rehab you had to go through…?’

  ‘Oh, babe, you have no idea,’ she says, rolling her eyes to heaven and shoving her feet up onto the dressing table. ‘You know, being stuck in that kiphole in the back arse of nowhere, surrounded by depressives was only making me, if anything, worse. They made me do group therapy, for feck’s sake. Me? In group therapy? Surrounded by a shower of cockheads all droning on and on and on, day and bleeding night. You want to have heard some of them, Annie; truck drivers from Idaho analysing the reason why they drank a litre of Jack Daniel’s a day and could it be because their wives didn’t understand them? Jaysus, I tho
ught, if I was married to any one of them, I’d drink double that just to drown my sorrows.’

  Then she puts on a note-perfect American accent and starts ripping off the psychiatrist in charge of her treatment.

  ‘“Hi, everybody, I’m Dr Goldman and I want to begin today’s session by welcoming Liz from Ireland and asking her to tell us her story.” No story to tell, I said. “Of course there’s a story, Liz: there’s always a story, so in your own time, feel free to tell the group all about your drug abuse. We’re here to love and support you and our little circle of trust is non-judgemental.” Then the bloody questions would start, like drill-fire. “So when did you first start using? And how much cocaine would you get through in a day? And what was your lowest point? And why did you do it?” No reason, I said. I just wanted to have fun. “But how are your relationships with your family? Did you have an unhappy childhood?” You should have heard her, Annie, trying to turn me into some kind of fecking basket-case, like the rest of the losers in there. So I lost it. Just stood up and told her straight out that I had perfectly cordial relationships with both my parents and just took recreational drugs purely for the laugh. She told me I was in denial, which is stage one, so I told her to feck off, that I was going outside for a cigarette. And that was pretty much the end of that.’

  OK, now I’m really starting to worry.

  ‘But, Liz, are you sure it’s wise to come back to work so soon? I mean, you’ve really been ill and to put all this pressure on yourself…’

  ‘Oh please, don’t you start. There’s absolutely nothing that’ll do me more good than to get back to work. I had to crawl on my hands and knees to Jack, of course, but like he said himself, who is he to argue with a Tony award winner? Besides, this gig is a walk in the park.’

  But there’s something about her striding over-confidence that’s really setting off an alarm bell in my head. She clocks my anxious expression and pats my arm soothingly.

  ‘Christ, Annie, you’re such a bloody worrier! No need to fret about this chick any more. I’ve gone cold turkey and the strongest drink you’ll see pass my lips is Diet Coke. Trust me, the strongest thing going up my nose from now on is a Vicks inhaler. That’s a promise.’

  And she just picks up where she left off and is as amazing as ever in the show. Not only that, but she apologises personally to Blythe, Chris and Alex too, swears that she’s on the straight and narrow from now on and no one need ever worry about her again.

  Which is terrific. Which is great. Which is a massive relief all round. I just find it all a bit too good to be true, that’s all. That she just snapped out of an addiction and went straight back to work like nothing ever happened. Can it really be so easy? Is life really like that?

  Which brings me to a sneaky confession I have to make here. Early the following morning, I call her doctor at the Albany rehab centre, Dr Goldman, who’s in a meeting but who eventually does get back to me right before I leave for work. I tell her I hope I’m worrying unnecessarily about Liz, but that I’m just wondering what her take on this miraculous turn-around is? About her checking herself out of the programme so fast, I explain.

  Dr Goldman’s answer chills me to the bone.

  ‘Annie, I appreciate that you’re concerned about your friend. But remember, I can’t help those who don’t want to be helped.’

  And as if all this wasn’t enough, on top of everything else there’s the constant, sickening worry over Dan. But could it be that he’s got his happy ending too? I’ve become expert at schooling myself not to indulge in the torture of thinking about him and Lisa and their ready-made family unit, but sometimes I can’t help myself.

  Back from Paris by now, I figure, but beyond that, I don’t want to know any more. The minute I got in the door of my little blonde apartment, I deleted every single message on the answering machine, ignoring the whole lot of them. What’s more, while I was unpacking, I realised I’d left my mobile in the spare room back at Mum’s. Ordinarily, I’d feel like I was missing my right hand, but right now, it’s the least of my worries. Frankly, if there’s any more bad news from home, I don’t need to know and don’t want to know.

  Occasionally a tiny sliver of hope will find its way into my heart: maybe Lisa drove Dan nuts when they were away, maybe now he sees for himself what an absolute Hammer Horror story the woman is, but then…maybe not. For one thing, Dan always sees the good in people, never the bad…and maybe now he’s found a woman who actually is prepared to put up with a life of never seeing him. And my cross in life is that I’ll have to live with the fallout.

  Then there’s Jack. A part of me is and will always be attracted to him and what’s more, he knows it. Knows it and plays on it all the time. A part of me admires him, but if I’m being really honest, there’s another part of me that still shrivels up at the tough, insensitive, merciless side to him.

  Funny, but if there were ever two sides to a coin, it’s most definitely Jack and Dan. Both are gifted at what they do, both are driven almost to the point of obsession, but whereas Jack is ruthless, Dan is kind. And where Jack is unrelenting in pursuit of what he wants, Dan just lets things happen, all in their own good time. Both are strong, but Jack thunders around the place till he gets his way with the full force of his blast-furnace personality, whereas Dan is one of those people that makes you realise what a colossal mistake it is to confuse calmness with weakness. Because calmness often belies huge strength, and so it is with him.

  Jack has asked me out on a date tonight, a proper date. After the show, just the two of us, and after much bludgeoning on his part, I eventually give in. Honest to God, it’s like he pursued a kind of scorched earth policy: every time I’d say no to him and explain that I needed time out, he’d plant a seed in my head of Dan in Paris with Lisa, over and over again, till he eventually wore down all resistance on my part.

  So I suppose this is a happy ending then.

  It just doesn’t feel like one, that’s all.

  And now, here I am, stepping out of a cab, picking my steps through lashing sheets of rain, outside The Plaza hotel. The show’s over and the rest of the night stretches ahead of us. Dinner, Jack said, at my hotel. Just dinner, I said firmly, but you don’t need to be a mind reader to know what he’s thinking. That this will be our first night together. The first time in my life that I’ll sleep with any man other than my husband.

  I think of Dan in Paris, I think of Lisa, I think of the two of them together in The Moorings right now…and all I feel is numb. Anaesthetised. Like I’ve already worked my way through the A to Z of every conceivable emotion known to heartbroken women till there’s nothing left but this cold, empty shell, wearing a borrowed dress and shoes.

  If I’d thought we’d be having dinner downstairs, in the Oak Room restaurant maybe, I was all wrong. Jack has everything pre-planned, like a true master of seduction. He’s already waiting for me in the lobby, wearing his off duty gear of designer jeans and a jet black cashmere sweater, crisp black shirt peeping out from underneath. He lights up when he sees me, kisses me lightly, then slipping an arm around my waist, leads me towards the elevator bank. No messing around, it would seem, this is a private dinner for two.

  The express elevator shoots skywards and all I can think is…can I really do this? Because right now, I just don’t know.

  I say none of this to Jack of course, instead we talk politely about the show tonight and how great Liz was. He was at the theatre, of course, but some latent prudishness in me insisted on our leaving separately, even though gossip about the two of us has long since died down as everyone, right down to the ushers and the staff who sell programmes at the interval, have all long since assumed that Jack and I are a foregone conclusion. Including, it would seem, the man himself.

  Two minutes later, we’re up on one of the hotel’s private floors, where all the apartments are. His arm is tight around my waist now as he steers me towards the entrance door and inside.

  Funny but I always wondered about his living space; J
ack struck me as one of those guys who although meticulous about his own appearance would be slovenly about all else. Might even be something we could possibly joke about, to lighten the mood a bit. As usual though, I’m wrong. The apartment is flawlessly tidy, exactly like a hotel suite, but with a few little personal touches, added purely because he’s been here for so long. It’s a stunning room – if you happen to like the colour grey, that is. Absolutely everything’s decorated in shades of it: carpets, furniture, wallpaper, windows, the whole works.

  In fact the only touch of actual colour is a painting Jack proudly shows off to me, one he bought from an art gallery in Hell’s Kitchen awhile back, of…I’m not kidding…a red Ferrari. He swaggers a bit as he shows it off to me, smirking at my reaction when I hear the price – more than I’m being paid for the entire run of the show.

  Then he proudly takes me to the window to show off the view, which stretches all the way over Central Park. I can see how on a clear day it would be stunning, but right now the rain is really bucketing down, drumming against the windows and we can’t see that much. A right storm is brewing, as a gale force wind starts to wallop itself off the building and normally weather like this makes me feel snug and warm and glad to be inside, but not tonight.

  A discreet ring at the door and it’s room service with dinner. A table for two is set up in the middle of the room and Jack goes to the minibar to crack open a bottle of champagne. Funny, but it’s as if he’s single-handedly orchestrating the whole scene without actually saying or doing anything. He nods at one waiter and the curtains are drawn, raises his eyebrows at another and the lights are dimmed. He’s got this all meticulously planned out, I think detachedly, like he’s directing the entire evening. Like it’s one of his stage productions.