Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  Julian was also feeling guilty. He knew his father wasn’t really enjoying the port. As he’d watched Norman carefully pour one lone glass Julian had suddenly remembered—oh God, how could he have forgotten?—the crystal decanter which always lived on the lounge room sideboard cabinet was reserved for visitors and special occasions.

  It wasn’t that the family was poor. Far from it. Norman had always been a good provider and Gwen was an excellent housekeeper. Julian had wanted for nothing in his childhood. But his parents were sticklers for doing the correct thing and, as their knowledge and enjoyment of alcohol was virtually nil, this meant a beer or sherry before dinner and, if there were visitors, a port with coffee after.

  Julian felt lost. His parents were both trying to do the correct thing. His mother was turning back the clock and treating him like a child and his father was offering him port, ‘man to man’. Julian was stranded somewhere in the middle with the guilty feeling that he was letting them both down, that he never had been, and never could be, what they wanted him to be.

  He remembered with gratitude his affair with Leon MacLeod at university when he’d realised exactly why he’d never really fitted. He was homosexual and that explained everything. Dear Leon, Julian thought fondly. I wonder what he’s doing now?

  Julian, just nineteen and very naive, had been drawn to Leon on first meeting. Everyone was drawn to Leon. His superior intellect and charm demanded it, and no one seemed to mind that he was a raging homosexual—a point which slightly puzzled Julian whose father would certainly have been critical.

  Julian was surprised and flattered when Leon chose his company over many of his other admirers and together they stayed up till all hours discussing literature and reading poetry. Leon was such an inspiring friend to have.

  It shocked Julian deeply when one day a fellow student remarked that Leon had ulterior motives. ‘He’s after your body—surely you realise that?’ was the bitchy comment.

  ‘How can people be such shits!’ he said to Leon that evening after he’d relayed the episode over a bowl of spaghetti at their favourite cheap noshery. ‘I mean, why say it, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’ In the stunned silence that followed Leon ate two more heaped spoonfuls of spaghetti and swilled a glass of cheap chianti. Then he laughed. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Julian. It’s true I’m after your body and you should be flattered. You’re not the type I fancy at all normally. It’s probably because we have such a cerebral affinity,’ he added.

  As Julian continued to stare at him in a state of shock he dropped the banter. ‘To be quite honest, my friend, I’m merely biding my time until you wake up to the fact that you’re homosexual.’

  Their affair lasted a whole year, after which Leon got his degree with flying colours, was awarded a scholarship and left to further his studies in Paris.

  Since then, with the exception of his family, Julian had never again apologised for, or attempted to disguise, his homosexuality. Who knows, he thought, if Leon were still around maybe he’d even come out of the closet to his parents. But old habits die hard, he told himself. Bad luck, Leon, you can’t win them all.

  ‘What a pity Wendy couldn’t be here with the kiddies.’ It was his mother, sitting beside him on the sofa and placing a cake dish of assorted shortbreads on the centre coffee table.

  ‘Not to worry, Mum, we had a good old natter after the matinee yesterday.’ ‘Good old natter’—had he really said that? Good, his mother would have liked it. Julian racked his brains to come up with some more homespun colloquialisms.

  ‘Oh that’s nice, dear. The kiddies have never been to the theatre, you know. Well, not the real theatre, just the cinema.’

  ‘So Wendy was saying.’ Julian dutifully picked up a shortbread. ‘They loved the show and she’s going to take them regularly from now on.’.

  Julian had enjoyed the meeting with his sister. Although Wendy had stayed in Wagga, she had somehow escaped the malaise and it had been lovely to see her and the rowdy twins. They’d sat in the park while the children shrieked and the swings squeaked and they’d talked about everything and nothing. When it was time to go they hugged each other warmly and somehow Julian had the feeling that Wendy knew about him. He loved her for that.

  ‘Like a port, Gwen?’ Norman needed an ally.

  ‘Oh.’ Gwen rarely drank port, even when there were visitors. ‘Well, if you’re having another one, dear.’

  Norman’s face lit up. ‘I’ll get you a glass. Think I might have a beer myself,’ he said as he heaved himself out of his armchair.

  ‘I’ll join you, Dad, if that’s OK.’ Julian put down his teacup.

  ‘Sure, son, fine.’

  When they were all settled again Norman shook his head at the television set. ‘Another hijack. What a terrible business. I don’t understand how a human being could do something like that.’ He sipped his beer, Julian agreed and sipped his, and the rest of the current affairs programme was spent companionably discussing Baader-Meinhof, the PLO and terrorism in general.

  An hour later Julian left for his hotel. From the outset he’d insisted on staying at a hotel—his late nights were bound to disrupt the household, he maintained.

  It’s nobody’s fault, he told himself, as they said their farewells. Not theirs, not mine. A childhood memory flooded back. He was ten years old and he could hear his mother: ‘It’s Mr Nobody’s fault!’

  His mother’s voice jolted him back to the present. ‘You should have worn a jacket, dear. Autumn’s colder in Wagga than it is in Sydney.’

  He hugged her warmly, then he hugged his father, much to Norman’s surprise. And then he left.

  It was only ten o’clock but, as he let himself into his hotel room, Julian felt weary. They’d bumped out last night and bump-outs were always the most tiring part of touring, especially weekly touring. It meant that every Saturday night and well into Sunday morning the stage management crew had to laboriously dismantle the sets, pack the mountains of props and costumes into huge wicker skips and load the whole lot into the tour truck.

  The actors had it easy. All they had to do was clear out their dressing rooms, put their make-up kits under their arms and take off. Yet still they whinged. Julian wondered which bright spark had coined the phrase, ‘a gaggle of geese, a pride of lions and a whinge of actors’. He smiled. It was true, all actors whinged—it was mandatory to the image, apparently. The nice ones, and there were many, managed to do it with an air of self-deprecation. And the others? Well, every profession had its bores, Julian supposed. And, my God, hadn’t he copped some beauties on this tour? The Sound of Music cast was a whinge of actors at its worst. Only three weeks to go, he thought thankfully, and he vowed never to accept a tour manager job again.

  As tired as he was, the family visit had set his brain ticking and he decided to ring Harold. To talk about whingeing actors, he told himself as he dialled. Hell, poor Harold had copped a weekly whinge from the very outset of the tour. He’d certainly been a lifeline, Julian thought gratefully.

  ‘Julian! Dear boy! I had a feeling it would be you. How did the family dinner go?’ Harold turned to wink at the others. ‘Alex and Susannah are here and we all want a blow-by-blow account.’

  Julian bypassed the family dinner but ten minutes later, as the phone was passed from person to person, he had them all in stitches with the latest escapades of the actress playing the eldest of the Von Trapp children. It had become a running gag that Lucy Langley was fifteen years too old to be singing ‘I am sixteen going on seventeen’. Besides, she was anything but virginal; it was a well-known fact she was a sexual virago.

  ‘She had a field day in Canberra last week,’ Julian said, ‘but now it’s got out of hand. Two blokes left their jobs with the public service and followed her here to Wagga. They keep trying to fight each other and she can’t get rid of them.’

  By the time all the news and gossip had been exchanged and it was time to hang up, Julian’s spirits were well and truly re
stored and he felt revitalised to the point where going to bed seemed a pointless exercise. He opened up his briefcase and lifted out the dog-eared file which by now contained hundreds of sheets of paper. Half of them were notes, half of them were taking on the shape of a play and nearly all of them were influenced by his observations of Alex.

  Writing was proving to be the best lifeline of all for Julian and, although he knew he must prove himself as a director, he was already aware that his greatest ambition was to see a play of his successfully brought to life in the theatre.

  As the Man and Superman opening night grew closer and closer Alex felt himself becoming excited at the prospect. Susannah had been right: Octavius was an excellent role. And of course Susannah as Anne was a joy to work with.

  At home Susannah’s sexuality was less fervent and at times she didn’t appear to want sex at all. Paradoxically, Alex found her even more interesting, as he realised that her aloofness was part of her acting process: Anne didn’t find the lovelorn Octavius sexually attractive.

  It was when he started to respond to Susannah’s process that rehearsals became stimulating to Alex and he knew that he was on the road to a fine performance. Hell, who wanted to play Jack Tanner? he told himself. All that rhetoric, all that posturing and posing, speeches that went on for page after page: Hugh Skiffington was bound to bore the pants off the audience while Alex could come in as the naively passionate and humorous Tavy and steal the show.

  Newcomer Alex Rainford proves that a scene-stealer of a role can disappear in the hands of an inept actor. Although pleasing in appearance, his presence is minimal. In past productions, this critic has sometimes wondered why Anne chose the pompous Tanner over the romantic Octavius. Last Wednesday night Anne most certainly made the right decision.

  ‘Would I be correct in presuming you didn’t like my performance?’

  It was Friday, nearly a week since Myra’s review had appeared, and Alex had been doing the after-show night spots regularly in the hope of seeing her.

  ‘Yes, you’d be correct,’ Myra answered and was surprised to see Alex smile back disarmingly at her.

  ‘Oh well, can’t win them all.’ Then, even more disarmingly, the smile disappeared and he seemed in deadly earnest. ‘The “pleasing appearance” and “minimal presence” was a bit confusing though.’

  Myra looked closely to see if he was joking but he didn’t appear to be and, within minutes of further questions and apparent genuine interest in her answers, she was engaged in a very absorbing discussion about theatre and the craft of acting.

  Even as she asked herself why she was giving so much attention to a novice actor, Myra found herself more and more drawn into conversation. She barely noticed her escort’s irritated attempts to interject or his final admission of defeat as he turned his attention to the other couple at their supper table. But then Myra rarely noticed her escorts of late. Since her divorce from Rudy she had steered clear of any emotional involvement and the succession of handsome young men who accompanied her were chosen strictly for appearances’ sake and regular meaningless sex.

  Alex’s original plan had gone completely by the boards. His intention to charm Myra, to hopefully seduce her and prove himself the winner had dissolved within seconds of their conversation. There was so much he could learn from this woman.

  And, of course, the more probing his questions and the more spellbound his attention to her answers, the more fascinating Alex became to Myra.

  ‘We should meet again and continue this discussion,’ she said when she realised it was three am and they were beginning to appear conspicuous. The other couple had left thirty minutes ago, the place was emptying and Escort was looking daggers.

  ‘When? Tomorrow?’ Alex was completely unaware that he could have got Myra to bed that very night if he’d wanted to. He was far more interested in talking.

  ‘Ring me.’ In one swift, practised movement Myra flipped a business card out of her bag, leaving it face down on the table in front of Alex, and rose to her feet, smiling brightly at her companion. ‘Home time, I think.’ There was little that Escort could do. He hated Alex, he hated Myra even more, but he was an actor.

  ‘Four o’clock,’ Susannah muttered, checking the clock as Alex slid into bed beside her. ‘That’s disgraceful, Alex—matinee tomorrow.’ And then she went straight back to sleep. Apart from Saturdays, Susannah rarely partied during the run of a show and never before a matinee day.

  Alex lay awake thinking till dawn. Myra had unreservedly told him she didn’t believe he’d ever make a really good actor. ‘Well, not in the theatre,’ she qualified. ‘Film maybe.’ She was looking at him as if he were a piece of meat in a butcher’s window. ‘You’ve certainly got a great head.’ Then she lowered her gaze, picked up her drink and shrugged diffidently. ‘Of course that’s only one person’s opinion and you should never be led by one person’s opinion.’ Which was probably the only piece of bullshit she’d spun him all night, Alex now thought. Myra’s whole life hung on the fact that thousands of people were constantly led by one person’s opinion.

  When he finally fell asleep it was with the knowledge that he would give up acting. If he couldn’t be the best, or at least one of the best, he’d get out. Stuff film; who wanted to be a pretty face. Besides, the theatre was where he’d set his sights and it was in the theatre that he’d make his mark. Actors were small fry, he told himself. The real power lay in production.

  ‘It’s right for me, Myra, it’s what I need. The power. I don’t know why I didn’t realise it earlier. I’ve always been a manipulator, not an interpreter.’

  It was midnight and Alex was pacing about Myra’s apartment working himself up to a fever pitch of excitement about his new career.

  ‘A manipulator, eh?’ Myra sipped her vodka martini and smiled at him indulgently. He looked like a ten-year-old about to be taken to the circus and she was having trouble controlling the hoot of laughter which threatened to erupt at any moment. ‘Well, a producer certainly needs to be able to manipulate, that’s for sure. So how do you intend to set about your new-found vocation?’

  Alex didn’t appear to register the irony at all. ‘The Way In Theatre’s built up a really strong policy in less than two years,’ he said, throwing himself onto the couch beside her and nearly spilling her martini. ‘I can make a good study of that for the rest of my contract with them, but my main aim is the commercial theatre—that’s where I’ll make the killing.’ His smile was devastating. ‘And I’m sure you could give me a few pointers there.’

  He was referring to her entrepreneurial ex, Rudy. That was when Myra decided he might be slightly overstepping the mark and it was time to get down to business.

  ‘I’m sure I could,’ she said. ‘In the morning.’ And she led the way to the bedroom.

  Alex was genuinely surprised. He was also a little disappointed. He would much rather have continued to talk about his future, he thought as he followed her.

  It crossed his mind as he was undressing that this was bound to make for drama with Susannah. When Susannah had suggested they go out to supper he’d refused, saying that he was meeting someone. ‘So, I’ll come along,’ she’d said. ‘It’s Saturday, Alex, we always go out on Saturday.’ Alex never lied unless it was essential. He told her his appointment was with Myra Nielson, that it could be good for his career and he should see her alone. ‘OK.’ Susannah always understood career moves. ‘But watch her, love, she’s a ball tearer.’

  Now, as he thought of Susannah, Myra’s review of The Crucible flashed through his mind and his original motives flooded back to him. Alex was suddenly glad of the turn of events. He’d worry about Susannah and any dramas tomorrow. Tonight was the night he would arouse in Myra Nielson an ‘immense passion’.

  As he’d expected, Myra was an extremely sensual woman and she responded to his lovemaking with a lack of inhibition which Alex found not only rewarding, but exciting. In fact she was so in tune with his thrusts that, as he felt her reaching orgasm,
he was aware that it was quite possible he could lose control. That wouldn’t do at all.

  Running his hand under her arched neck he gently lifted her head and kissed her throat, his tongue exploring the curve of her jaw, the velvet of her ear lobe. While his other hand continued to caress her breast, he buried himself deep inside her and remained very still. In a matter of seconds he would regain control. In a matter of seconds she would orgasm. Then he could take his time. Soon, Myra Nielson, he told himself, soon, your ‘immense passion’.

  Myra was feeling very horny that night. And she’d lusted after young Alex Rainford for quite a long time now. Wallow a bit, dear, she told herself, you deserve to let yourself go. And she did. She was surprised, and more than a little delighted when Alex proved to be such an accomplished lover but, when she felt him call in the reserves, her pride rebelled immediately. Oh, no you don’t, kid. Two can play at that game. And, as she continued to moan, she locked her legs around his back and held him prisoner inside her.

  Good, Alex thought, the legs linked at the small of his back meant she was about to come. He’d regained control and he started to gently withdraw only to find that he couldn’t. Not only were the legs holding him in a vicelike grip, there was a muscular clamp around his penis which was contracting like a suction pump. He was lost in the embrace of a boa constrictor and he was being devoured alive.

  He didn’t have time to consider whether or not it was enjoyable. He didn’t have time to consider whether his ejaculation was the greatest sexual experience of his life or whether it was merely the most expedient method of escape. And, as they climaxed together, neither did Myra.

  Alex Rainford had more than met his match, as had Myra Nielson. Their obsession with each other had only just begun.

  Maddy looked out of the train window at the English countryside flashing by. It was all so amazingly green. And neat. Stone fences and hedgerows dissected the land. The southern villages and farmhouses always seemed particularly tidy, Maddy thought, as if they were only too happy to distance themselves from the sprawling industrial north.