by Judy Nunn
Maddy hadn’t dared tell Jenny she was going to the theatre. ‘Going to see some old friends,’ was what she’d said, which wasn’t really a lie. But she’d had to promise to take Jenny out the next day.
‘The movies or the theatre?’ Maddy had asked. Silly question.
‘The theatre, of course.’ Jenny didn’t care which theatre. Maybe we’ll go to Julian’s play, Maddy thought.
As she sat back and watched Susannah and Harold and Rosie Lee, Maddy found herself overwhelmed by a bittersweet nostalgia. Those wonderful days seemed so long ago.
Dear Harold. He was looking old now. Well, he’d have to be in his mid to late seventies. He was still a marvellous actor. Much as she longed to see them, Maddy hadn’t yet made up her mind as to whether or not she would contact Julian and Harold. She decided not to think about it until after she’d seen Julian’s play and she spent most of the interval casting furtive glances around the foyer from behind a potted palm. Alex was nowhere to be seen, thank goodness.
As soon as the performance was over Maddy ducked out of the main entrance and into the chilly night air. She felt quite safe, as the stage door was around the other side of the block. But nevertheless she kept in the shadows until she saw a vacant taxi approaching.
She stepped out to hail it and collided with a man who had just crossed the street and was hurrying past the theatre entrance.
‘Oh,’ she gasped, ‘I’m terribly—’ She looked at him for only the briefest moment before dropping her eyes in the pretence of fumbling with her handbag.
It was Alex. ‘That’s all right.’ He flashed her an automatic smile and continued walking.
Maddy didn’t dare look up until she’d seated herself in the taxi. Then, from the safety of the shadows, she turned just in time to see him round the corner of the block on his way to the stage door.
For one split-second Alex had looked directly into her eyes. And he hadn’t recognised her.
‘Kirribilli, please.’ Maddy closed the taxi door and leaned back, aware that her pulse was racing. His smile, although a token courtesy to a stranger in the street, had been pure Rainford. Dazzling, magnetic. And she was shaken by the effect it had had on her.
‘Good show tonight?’ Alex accepted the glass of port Harold offered him. When he was performing Harold never drank during the day but he always kept a bottle of port in his dressing room and allowed himself two medicinal nips. One before the show and one during interval. ‘Essential for the voice,’ he insisted.
‘Oh yes, excellent,’ he replied as he cold-creamed his face. ‘Packed house, good audience. Where were you? You’re usually in on a Friday.’
‘Had to chat up a prospective investor,’ Alex answered. ‘Now hurry it up. Julian’ll be waiting for us.’
‘Don’t rush me. He has a key to the flat, he can let himself in. I don’t like to be rushed.’ But Harold was loving it. His darling boy was bossing him around, and he was about to cook supper for his two dear boys and to reunite them in their friendship. He rather hoped Alex felt a twinge of jealousy at the fact that Julian had a key to the flat.
Alex hadn’t even heard Harold. His mind was on Myra. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had to chat up a prospective investor. After they’d made love he and Myra had talked avidly about joining forces in another venture. She’d been fascinated to hear that Alex was planning to produce Julian’s next play.
‘He doesn’t know it yet,’ Alex grinned, ‘but he will by the end of the evening. We’re having supper together.’
Myra smiled back. One couldn’t help but admire Alex’s cocky confidence. And he was as attractive as ever—possibly more so. The cheeky laughter lines which used to disappear as the smile faded now remained there. They had become character grooves, and gave his face an added strength. How old would he be? she wondered. Thirty-one? Thirty-two? Yes, he was aging magnificently.
As for sex, it was the same battle royal between them. From the moment they entered the bedroom it was obvious that both had decided to take the first game. Neither had won; it had been a draw. But Myra had only just managed to stay the pace. My God, this is exhausting, she thought, as they galloped towards their mutual climax. I can’t make a regular habit of this—I’m too old.
She’d never contemplated herself feeling ‘too old’ for anything. Certainly nothing sexual. But over the last few years Myra had realised that concessions did have to be made. The lighting certainly had to be softer, mirrors had to be strategically placed to cover flattering angles and, most important of all, there was to be no riding on top unless it was in the dark.
Myra remembered with vivid clarity the large, black lacquered, glass-topped coffee table and the young man stretched out on it. She was astride him and riding home when she caught sight of herself in the table’s surface. She had three chins and looked seventy. It was a terrible shock. The biggest shock of all was the face of the twenty-six-year-old looking back at her. My God, he’s seeing that, she realised, and it put her completely off her stride. She never rode on top again.
Maybe she really was getting old, Myra thought, as she decided with a certain sense of relief, that Alex should be yet another sexual concession. She’d made it through the final round tonight. While the scores were even, she could withdraw from the Rainford-Nielson sexual stakes.
Besides, Alex had far more to offer than sex. Myra couldn’t wait to work on another production with him.
Alex was thinking along exactly the same lines. He was thrilled that Myra wanted to be in on the deal. It practically guaranteed him investment from the private quarter. And of course it was the added carrot to dangle in front of Julian.
To keep in favour he was even prepared to concede a draw in round one of the sexual battle: as he sensed Myra starting to tire, he timed himself perfectly. It was a small price to pay.
‘Myra Nielson’s really hot on the idea, Julian.’
‘What idea? There isn’t even a script.’ They had finished Harold’s excellent supper and were sipping the last of the red wine and nibbling at the huge wedge of Brie Harold had placed in the centre of the table.
‘But there will be, won’t there?’ Alex leaned forward enthusiastically. ‘There will be a script. There’s something in your mind already, isn’t there?’
Damn it, how can he read me so well? Julian felt a flash of annoyance. Alex was quite right. Despite the fact that he’d tried to distance himself, Julian had found Alex to be yet again a source of inspiration. As thrilling as his idea was, though, he was fighting to resist it, fighting to resist Alex’s encouragement.
Alex read the irritation in Julian’s eyes and chastised himself. There’s something going on in that head, don’t let him know that you know or he’ll close up. ‘And with Myra behind us we’re laughing.’ Keep it general, he warned himself. ‘Not only are we in front with the private investors but the press too. She’s more powerful than ever, Julian. Just think …’
As Alex started to paint the mammoth production he had in mind—the theatres he’d book, the promotion campaigns he’d mount, the prime tour circuit he’d plan—the beginnings of a play germinated in Julian’s mind.
It had started from the moment he’d arrived at Harold’s flat. He hadn’t wanted to come. David had moved out two days ago and he’d been depressed ever since. Somehow, unreasonable as it might be, he blamed Alex for the split and as a result he’d been determined to keep his distance tonight. He didn’t want to get drawn into chats about old times with him; he was there purely as a favour to Harold.
‘I was sorry to hear about Susannah’s brother,’ he said. ‘She must have been tremendously upset.’ Well, that part was easy; he had been genuinely moved and had written Susannah an extremely touching letter.
‘She was. She loved your letter. Thanks.’
Harold looked up from the salad he was tossing. ‘She’s still an absolute mess, poor dear. Thank God she’s got me and Rosie to look after her.’
Julian nodded sympathetically. �
�And after being so terribly ill herself.’
‘Oh, that part was staged.’ Julian looked confused and Alex glared at Harold who continued with gay abandon. ‘Didn’t you know? Alex built that up to epic proportions in order to buy an extra twenty-four hours. The press loved it.’ Harold didn’t draw breath as he turned to Alex. ‘“Fie, fie, unknit that threat’ning unkind brow”—we don’t keep secrets from Julian.’ He finished tossing the salad and tipped some bread rolls into a wicker basket. ‘The terrible thing is, the press loved the news of poor Michael’s death even more. One of you boys open the Henschke please.’ Harold took the bread and salad to the table. ‘The show could run for a year.’
Julian felt a slight but familiar tingle at the back of his spine as he looked at Alex.
‘It’s ghastly, isn’t it,’ Harold continued, ‘to think that the more macabre the publicity, the greater effect it has.’
Alex sensed Julian’s interest and the irritation he’d felt towards Harold disappeared immediately, along with the original idea of playing for respect and understanding as Susannah’s stalwart husband.
‘Poor Susannah,’ he said as he started opening the wine. ‘She didn’t know. All through the performance she didn’t know.’ And Julian sat enthralled as Alex told the story, clinically and without embellishment, of Michael’s death.
Once again, the power Alex had over people riveted Julian and, hard as he tried to ignore it, his fascination grew as the evening progressed.
There were frivolous moments, mainly provided by Harold who was basking in the company of his two favourite young men and delighting in the fact that he had successfully forged their reunion. But, ironically, it was one of Harold’s theatrical anecdotes which finally ignited the spark in Julian.
It was one of his Noel Coward stories and Julian had heard it before. The one where an irritating person accosted Coward in the street and accused him of being a fairy.
‘“A fairy!” he said …’ Harold pursed his lips, put one hand on his hip and, with the other, flourished an imaginary umbrella. He tapped Julian on the shoulder with his ‘wand’. ‘“Then vanish!”’ And he sat down with a hearty laugh.
Vanish. The word hung magically in the air for Julian. That’s what Alex did to people, he thought. Alex made people vanish.
All those years ago at NADA Jonathan Thomas had vanished. Then Maddy’s baby had vanished. Perhaps Alex hadn’t meant Maddy herself to go but it would probably only have been a matter of time before she became a hindrance. He certainly hadn’t missed her for long.
Now Michael Wright had vanished. And there appeared to be no reason for his disappearance other than it served Alex’s purpose.
And of course David had vanished. Julian refused to admit that it would probably have happened without Alex’s influence. Alex had said that the affair would last no more than a year. That was the distance he’d allowed them and that was the distance they’d lasted. No more, no less. Just like the others, David had been willed out of existence.
What a wonderful character for a play, Julian thought, as the idea grew chillingly in his mind. A conjurer. A man who willed people to disappear. Sometimes they died, sometimes they just went away. But, whatever the turn of events, they simply ceased to exist in the conjurer’s sphere.
Julian knew there was no turning back. The play was there.
Harold had been well and truly infected with Alex’s excitement at the prospect of another joint venture. ‘Another I, Me and Us,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’d set them all on their ears!’
‘No. Bigger than I, Me and Us, Harold. Much bigger. An international hit—one that’ll sell to the West End.’
Julian was staring fixedly at the table. He could see the bare stage. Two small boys. Brothers. That was the beginning. One of them wants to be an only child like his best friend down the street who gets twice as many presents as he does. He dares his brother to do something. Something dangerous. The brother accepts the dare and is killed. It is the first successful vanishing act.
‘Some more Brie?’ Harold had noticed Julian staring at the cheese.
‘No.’ Julian rose to his feet. ‘No thank you, Harold. I’m sorry, but I won’t stay for coffee. It was a great supper. Thanks.’
As he walked to the door, Alex called after him. ‘Shall we meet next week?’ When Julian shook his head, Alex smiled benignly. ‘That’s all right, you do the writing. I’ll work on the rest.’
‘Give me three weeks.’ Julian opened the front door. ‘Three weeks and I’ll have your first draft.’ And he closed the door behind him.
The moment Julian had gone, Alex jumped up and hugged Harold. ‘Did you hear that, Harold? I’ll have my play in three weeks. In three weeks!’
And Harold was very happy for his darling boy. He was very happy for both his darling boys as he went off to the kitchen to fetch the coffee and brandy.
Alex didn’t get home until three o’clock in the morning. Apart from a sleepy grunt of acknowledgement Susannah didn’t notice. But then Susannah didn’t notice anything lately.
Alex tried to be kind to her. Tried to help her through her period of mourning, but to no avail. She seemed to prefer him keeping out of her way. The only time she showed any animation was when she was on stage. Any topic Alex brought up for conversation was met with a listless shrug of indifference and even the prospect of another play with Julian failed to arouse her interest. She never left the house and she refused all invitations.
Alex was actually glad when she knocked back Harold’s invitation to supper. It would be easier for him to work on Julian. But he was annoyed when she steadfastly refused to join him at the ski chalet on Sunday.
‘It’s just the break you need, Susannah. You need to get out of Sydney for a couple of days. The Claytons are coming up early Sunday morning and we’ll be back in time for you to rest before the Monday performance.’
There was the usual shrug of indifference. ‘I can’t stand the Claytons. I can’t stand any of that trendy après-ski set.’
‘Then I’ll stay in town and we’ll go up together on the Sunday, for Christ’s sake.’ But he couldn’t budge her. Finally, he gave up in disgust. ‘Bugger it, what’s the point!’ And he left for Thredbo first thing Saturday morning. The reports of early falls were excellent, it was the first weekend of the season and he was damned if he was going to miss out on the break he’d planned for weeks.
Hell, other entrepreneurs had their boats or their racehorses or their bloody polo ponies—all he asked was his several weekends at the snow during the winter months.
Alex’s love of skiing and the chalet life in general had been a major expense over the past several years. It was only recently that he’d curbed his European trips and settled for the local resorts. Not for much longer, though, he decided. Next year it’ll be Europe again. Switzerland or Austria? Hell, why not be different? Maybe Scotland this time. And maybe I’ll take Julian with me.
Alex spent the afternoon on the slopes of Crackenback and was ensconced in the chalet bar at around seven-thirty pm.
At eight o’clock he excused himself from the pretty twenty-three-year-old with the promise in her eyes. He took himself off to the restaurant to dine alone. The Claytons were very wealthy, very reliable investors. The Claytons were also starfuckers who worshipped Susannah and Alex and dined out on the intimate friendship they maintained with the dynamic duo of the theatre. The last thing Alex needed when the Claytons arrived tomorrow was a snow-bunny on his arm.
‘Not much of a house for a Saturday night,’ Jenny commented as she looked critically around the auditorium.
‘Yes. Sad, isn’t it?’ Maddy answered, keeping a wary eye out for anyone she might know, particularly Julian.
‘Maybe it’s not much of a play,’ Jenny said with all the ruthlessness of an eleven-year-old.
‘Jen!’ Maddy couldn’t help smiling but she defended Julian just the same. ‘I told you, I know the playwright.’
‘Doesn’t mean it’s a good pl
ay though, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t. You’re right. But let’s reserve our judgement till we’ve seen it, shall we?’
‘OK.’
‘I like it,’ Jenny said at interval. ‘Well, so far I like it.’
‘Yes,’ Maddy agreed. ‘It has its moments.’
‘Can I get to meet him?’
‘Who?’ But Maddy knew who she meant.
‘The playwright.’
‘I told you, Jen, he’s not here. I’ve been looking.’
‘But you could ring him—the theatre would know where he is. We could meet him tomorrow.’
‘All right, all right. Now do you want to go to the loo? There’s another five minutes.’ Jenny shook her head. ‘Then let’s go back for Act Two.’
It wasn’t the first time Jenny had asked about people from her mother’s past. Ever since they’d arrived in Sydney the requests had been continual.
Relatives had been an easy answer for the first week but now Helena and her family and Todd Hall and his weren’t enough. Not that Helena and Todd hadn’t been highly successful. They had. Maddy had been delighted with the instantly established rapport. Helena refused to be called ‘grandma’, ‘gran’ or ‘nanna’ but she loved the role and, while her grandmother act was at times a little cloying, Jenny didn’t mind. In fact the child seemed to realise unconsciously that Helena needed to play roles in order to justify her existence.
Helena hadn’t changed much. Another harbourside home—Kirribilli this time. Another successful professional man—cardiologist this time. And another commitment to the role of society hostess and tireless charity worker.
‘Only Variety Club and handicapped children these days,’ she insisted. ‘Oh, Maddy darling, I’ve changed radically—my whole life has changed radically. When I think how I frittered away my energies on meaningless charities when I could have devoted myself to my kiddies.’
