by Judy Nunn
Alain headed for another Bollinger. ‘Not long to go now, Julian,’ he said heartily, flashing his most amiable smile by way of greeting and nodding at a waiter who poured a fresh Bollinger.
‘Yep, one more week and it’s goodbye Channel Five.’ Why is Alain being so jovial? Julian wondered.
‘We’ll miss you,’ Alain said as he shook Julian’s hand. Julian looked around and noticed the television camera behind him recording their every action. Oh, that’s why. Well, he didn’t mind playing the game. He smiled back.
‘Yes, I think I’ll miss Channel Five too. Four years is a long time.’ He wouldn’t miss it at all. In fact he couldn’t wait to complete his final week of post-production, but he was grateful for everything he’d learned at Channel Five.
Julian didn’t like Alain and Alain didn’t like Julian but they had a healthy regard for each other’s talent. Despite himself, Alain had learned to respect Julian’s ability to communicate with actors. Usually he had little time for ‘actors’ directors’, as they were termed within the profession (‘wankers’ was Alain’s translation), but the results spoke for themselves in Julian’s case. The actors’ performances in ‘Outback Force’ were one of the show’s strongest assets.
While quite happy to release Alex, Alain had actually fought hard to keep hold of Julian, particularly now the show had been sold to the UK. Alain had infiltrated the international market a full year before he had predicted and, when Julian knocked back the offer to direct an episode in London, it was a source of great irritation to Alain. The man was turning down international exposure in order to pursue his own puny little career in the Australian theatre! It was an insult. Oh well, he consoled himself, directors were a dime a dozen. There were plenty of other good ones and Julian was a poofter, after all.
Julian was fully aware of Alain’s opinion of him, both the good and the bad, and he couldn’t care less so long as he was left alone to get on with his job. Much as he respected Alain’s vast knowledge of the television medium, he loathed the man.
‘Lovely wedding,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Alain agreed distractedly. And they parted company.
Trust Alex to invite Alain, Julian thought.
Alain had been one of the few business associates invited to the actual wedding. Susannah had been against it from the outset but, despite her protestations, Alex had insisted. ‘Fair’s fair, Sooz. You’ve got your whole family coming and I—’
‘Don’t tell me you consider Alain King family!’
But Alex shrugged, smiled and refused to rise to the bait.
Susannah could hardly contest the ratio of numbers. Although her parents were absent due to her father’s fragile condition and his inability to travel, her family was very well represented: brother Michael, his wife Priscilla, their six year old daughter Caroline and at least a dozen aunts, uncles and cousins from both sides.
During the service it was easy not to notice the small, rather colourless woman accompanied by a homely, awkward couple who looked out of place. It was Trish Rainford with her sister and brother-in-law.
‘It was a lovely wedding, dear.’ Trish kissed Susannah. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Alex’s Auntie Rhonda.’
Rhonda in turn kissed Susannah. ‘You look beautiful. This is Terry.’ She introduced her husband.
Susannah certainly hadn’t met Rhonda. She’d only met Trish on two occasions and then it was at her own insistence, just six months earlier when she and Alex had decided to marry. Alex’s father was now permanently institutionalised and Trish kept very much to herself, preferring only the company of her sister. At least that’s what Alex said when he explained why he never visited his mother.
Trish Rainford looked as if she wanted to be left alone. On close inspection her face wasn’t really colourless at all—it was quite handsome, but it was tired, expended of energy. She looked as though she didn’t want to fight any more.
‘It’s a long drive home, so we won’t stay for the reception, dear.’ The three of them left gratefully and the vast majority of guests never even knew they’d been there.
Nevertheless, Julian was right. It was a lovely wedding and a lovely reception. The dearth of family on Alex’s side was more than made up for by the dozens of industry friends who’d become family to both bride and groom over the years. Harold was Master of Ceremonies and ably compensated for parental absence by playing mother-of-the-bride and father-of-the-groom simultaneously and with great enthusiasm. Julian was best man and Rosie Lee, née Balcock from The Way In Theatre Company, now a happily married woman herself and mother of two, was matron of honour. Brother Michael gave Susannah away, of course, and Caroline was a nauseatingly precocious flower girl bent on stealing centre stage for herself.
‘Isn’t she a scream?’ Priscilla gushed. ‘She’s going to be an actress just like her famous auntie.’ There were mutters of ‘Get the kid off,’ and ‘Kill the kid’ from various thespian elements.
Although protective of the wedding ceremony itself, Susannah had taken great pains to invite the upper echelons of the theatre world to the reception. ‘It’s politic,’ she said and Alex naturally agreed. The vast majority accepted but there was one major critic sadly unable to attend. Myra Nielson was conspicuous by her absence but she sent her abject apologies and a telegram wishing the young couple every future happiness.
‘I don’t think my coming to the wedding would be a good idea, Alex,’ Myra had said one Saturday night as they stripped off in her bedroom. Their sexual bouts were usually reserved for Saturday nights because Alex wasn’t filming the following day; and usually for around eight o’clock so that he had plenty of time to join Susannah for drinks at the theatre bar and supper after the show.
Although he told himself it was a convenient and pleasurable way to fill in the time till eleven and the Saturday curtain, it wasn’t really as flippant as that for Alex. In fact it wasn’t really flippant for either of them.
An ongoing sexual battle was raging between Alex and Myra. It was doubtful whether either of them received much actual pleasure from their coupling but they were evenly matched and the thrill of winning the game far outweighed mere physical pleasure. The game was simple. Whoever held out longest and forced the other to climax first was the winner. And winning had become an obsession to them both.
They had a rapport outside their sexual combat but it was distinctly nonphysical. They never kissed, caressed or showed any signs of affection but they were two of a kind: each had a healthy regard for the other’s views and they communicated keenly.
Myra had long since ceased to patronise Alex, having realised that he had a talent and a singleminded purpose which was destined to make its mark. She was quite prepared to invest in Alex’s first entrepreneurial venture should she consider it worthwhile and they found it stimulating reading scripts and discussing production projects together. Strangely enough, it was Myra who pushed for Julian’s script.
Like everyone else in the industry, Julian knew Myra quite well, although like everyone else in the industry he knew nothing of her affair with Alex. When he told her he was writing and she professed an interest in seeing his work, Julian was naturally delighted.
‘Hey Alex,’ he said excitedly, ‘guess what? Myra Nielson wants to read my play! Isn’t that great?’
‘Yeah, terrific.’
Alex didn’t wait for Saturday. He rang Myra that night. ‘Why the hell do you want to see Julian’s script? We can’t use it.’
‘Why not? Have you read it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s no good?’
‘It’s terrific.’
‘So, why can’t we use it?’
‘Because I need to stick to a safe bet: a West End or a Broadway hit. We’ve talked about it. I need a show that’s been tried and tested; you said yourself that—’
‘I’ve changed my mind. Now listen to me, Alex,’ Myra continued before he could interrupt. ‘If the script’s good, maybe we should think of going bold
. “New young producer has the guts to go with new young playwright”.’ She sensed Alex was about to interrupt again. ‘Besides, paying peanuts for the rights to Julian’s play would save us a fortune.’ There was a moment’s hesitation and Myra again dived in. ‘At least wait until I’ve read it, all right?’
A pause. ‘All right,’ Alex grudgingly agreed. ‘We’ll talk about it then.’
Myra loved the script. ‘It’s the best play since “The Doll”,’ she said. (Myra rarely prefaced a statement with ‘In my opinion’.) ‘And I tell you something else, Alex, it’ll stand the test of time better than Bill Davison’s plays. They’re topical and they’re fake; this is universal and it’s real—it might even become a great play.’ Alex had rarely seen Myra so excited. ‘And best of all, it’s commercial! It’ll make them laugh, it’ll make them cry, and you’re mad if you don’t grab it!’
Myra’s enthusiasm was contagious but Alex nevertheless reserved his opinion until he had reread the script. Although he’d realised it was good on first reading, he’d paid scant attention to it, as he was sure it would be of no use to him.
‘What’s it called?’ he’d asked six months before when Julian had suggested he read it.
‘I, Me and Us. It’s a black comedy.’
Julian had spent three months rewriting I, Me and Us before he had found the courage to give it to Alex to read. Even then, he fervently hoped the play was well-disguised enough for Alex not to recognise the truth.
Alex didn’t. ‘It’s good, Julian, very good,’ he said. ‘I won’t be able to use it, though. Certainly not first up. I’ll have to go with an established success.’
Julian was disappointed but of course he understood. Six months later he could barely believe his ears. ‘Myra Nielson phoned me,’ Alex was saying. ‘She knows I’m looking for a project and she’s mad about your script. Maybe we should have another think about it, what do you reckon?’ And the die was cast.
The news in financial circles that Myra Nielson was investing in I, Me and Us rapidly aroused interest from other investors. Myra kept a low profile, however, as far as her artistic input went. Even Julian had no idea of the extent of her contribution.
‘You’re spot-on for the lead role, Alex,’ Myra said. ‘In fact, I think Julian wrote it for you, but you’re mad if you do it.’ Alex agreed. He’d have enough to do as producer. ‘Susannah should definitely play the female lead—she’s ideal casting and she’s a superb actress.’ Alex again agreed. ‘But you’re insane if you let Julian direct.’ And that’s where Alex disagreed.
‘Playwrights directing their own work?’ Myra was aghast. ‘Disaster. Every time.’
It was eight-thirty Saturday night and they were drinking coffee in Myra’s kitchen. Fifteen minutes earlier they’d been panting and writhing in the bedroom. Myra had won the bout and they’d adjourned to the breakfast nook. They never discussed business in the bedroom.
‘Julian was a director way before he was a playwright,’ Alex insisted. ‘It’s what he’s trained to do.’
‘It makes no difference! He wrote the damn thing, he won’t be objective.’ Alex wouldn’t listen. ‘And,’ she added conclusively, slamming down her coffee cup, ‘they’ll tear him to pieces for having the audacity to direct his First play—you can bet on that.’
Still Alex wouldn’t listen. ‘What do you think of Harold Beauchamp and Rosie Lee for the mother and the doctor?’ he asked.
Myra realised he wasn’t going to give in. ‘You probably wouldn’t get Harold Beauchamp,’ she snapped back. ‘It’s only a cameo.’
‘Not only will I get him, he’ll do it for a song.’ Alex grinned. He felt elated. He didn’t even mind the fact that Myra had won the sexual bout. Hell, this was better than sex, anyway. ‘And Rosie’ll do it for a song too; she’d walk on hot coals for Susannah.’
Myra assumed that Alex’s insistence on Julian as director was an uncharacteristic display of misplaced loyalty. But she was wrong. Loyalty had nothing to do with it. Myra was not the only stimulation in Alex’s life. His discussions with Julian on the text, the direction and the balance of the play were inspiring and he could think of no one else who could possibly do justice to his production.
Alex worked, tirelessly and efficiently and, as time progressed, everything tied together beautifully. His decision to leave ‘Outback Force’ and the news of his impending wedding to Susannah were announced simultaneously. Then, three months later, the impressive cast which he had signed up for his exciting production of a new Australian play was released to the press. It was also announced that a ‘hot new actor’ had been signed to play the male lead.
The day the glittering Rainford-Wright wedding saturated the airwaves there wasn’t a viewer tuned in who didn’t know that the happy couple pointing the knife at the croque en bouche wedding cake were shortly to embark on a thrilling theatrical event called I, Me and Us.
Yes, the publicity wheels were perfectly set in motion, Myra thought, as she sat back in front of the television, sipped her Scotch and watched Alain King shake hands with Julian Oldfellow.
It certainly looked as if it had been a lovely wedding. Ah, here were the newlyweds, talking to a handsome man and an effusive woman holding a waving flower girl up to the camera. Mercifully the camera man directed his attention back to the bridal pair. Alex was giving his wife one of his heartthrob smiles. But was it for Susannah or for the camera? Myra wondered.
God, Susannah was looking good. Love the way she’s wearing her hair, Myra thought, lots of it, fluffed out, down to the shoulders. And the natural titian colour beautifully set off the chiselled face and the classical bones.
So Alex wouldn’t be visiting for the next few Saturdays. Myra didn’t really mind. Actually she was quite looking forward to a bit of a rest, she admitted to herself. Maybe it was time she gave the competitive sexual activity a miss—she was fifty-three, after all.
Not that her libido was diminishing. To the contrary, she was feeling very horny right now. She wriggled in her chair. But maybe she needed something a little more laid back, a little more exploratory. She picked up the phone and dialled. Variety was the spice of life, after all. A voice answered from the other end.
‘Hello, Anita,’ Myra said as she watched Susannah smile radiantly at Alex.
Myra wasn’t the only person looking forward to a break from Alex Rainford. Julian needed some space too. He found Alex draining at the best of times but with all guns blazing, obsessed with his forthcoming production, Alex was exhausting to be around. Stimulating certainly, but exhausting. And, of course, there was the added pressure of Julian’s ‘secret’. If Alex were ever to guess at the original inspiration behind I, Me and Us, he would surely realise the extent of the power he had over Julian.
During an early brain-draining session when they’d been discussing the direction they should take with the production, whether to lean a little more to the comedic or dramatic approach, Julian had dared to venture into the danger zone.
‘What exactly do you think this play’s about, Alex? You tell me.’
Oh shit, Alex thought, hoping that Julian wasn’t getting too precious about his material. ‘Sure. I’ll tell you,’ he fired back. ‘It’s about a girl who really wants to be a bloke so she turns schizo and spends half her time responding to things as a man. Simple. Come on, Julian,’ he argued, ‘it’s got all the ingredients of a commercial success—an updated Goodbye Charlie, for God’s sake—so let’s keep it simple.’ He held up his hand, thinking Julian was about to interrupt. ‘OK, OK,’ he said. ‘If we want to get all fancy we could say it’s about dual personality and mental illness, it’s about father complex and penis envy, you name it, but we should still lean towards the comedy angle.’
Julian breathed an inward sigh of relief. ‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t mind if we point up the comedy—that’s what it’s there for. The funnier it is, the bigger the impact at the end when she goes insane.’
Alex smiled, glad that he’d made his point,
and Julian retreated, grateful that his massive rewrite had worked and that Alex obviously had no idea of the original theme of the play or the inspiration behind it.
The fact was that Julian’s obsession with Alex Rainford had not abated over the years—it had become more and more of a driving force in his life and, in one way or another, had formed the basis of every one of his plays.
While he was writing I, Me and Us he switched his style and tried desperately not to be influenced by Alex, but the play wasn’t working and he knew it. Finally Julian decided that if he wasn’t going to write about the man himself, he would write about his obsession for the man himself. And it worked. Except for one thing.
The play’s central character, Simon, whose fatal fascination for his friend eventually results in insanity, became suspiciously familiar, despite the black humour Julian injected. And the development of Simon’s dual personality as he parodied his hero hinted at a frightening revelation. My God, Julian thought appalled, do I really want to be Alex? Surely not. But he realised with horror, as Simon emerged more and more clearly on the page, that maybe he did. He’d always thought he was happy with his homosexuality, but maybe he wanted to be straight after all. He’d always been quite content with his appearance, but maybe he’d really wanted to be handsome all these years.
Julian felt as though he was going mad himself until suddenly he hit upon the perfect solution. Not only would it alleviate his own agony of self-questioning, it would confuse the issue enough for the real characters to be unrecognisable. His hero, Simon, would become his heroine, Johanna.
And it worked. The black humour skyrocketed, the issues, if one chose to see them, became far more complex and Julian found he had written a potential hit.
The fortnight after Alex and Susannah left for Fiji on their honeymoon was one of the happiest periods Julian could remember. For the first time in years he put aside any form of work. With the absence of Alex, the driving force in his life, it was surprisingly easy to do.
