Paris and Nicole excitedly whisper to me that they’re going to slip out front and watch the show from behind the back row, but I decide to stay behind-the-scenes instead. It’s been such a full-on, hectic day that it’s actually just what I need, to be alone, for the next few hours at least, right at the very side of the stage so I can see what’s going on, but so well back from the action that no one can see me. There’s a few bushes behind, which kind of shelter me, and a lovely, peaceful spot for me to gratefully plonk down on, which I do.
One quick prayer that nothing goes wrong and we’re off.
Oh my God, it’s going even more magically than I could have hoped for. Barbara’s just made her grand entrance, and was a magnet to the eye. Real star quality in action. Now we’re off to the forest, Puck and Titania are doing their thing, there are actual roars of laughter coming from the audience, and so many spontaneous rounds of applause, I’ve lost count. I hug my knees with sheer relief at how well it’s going, and now that we’re on the rollercoaster, so to speak, there’s really nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the show.
And what a show. For the first time, me, the uncultured, the one who barely knows the difference between a bona fide posh play and a kiddies’ panto, can really see what all the fuss and hype surrounding Serena Stroheim is all about. And well-deserved too: she’s woven magic out of a fairly nondescript park setting, and is really giving people a night to remember for a long, long time to come.
Next thing it’s the interval and, no kidding, the thunderous round of applause goes on for about five minutes. I head back out front, back into the throng, back to find Paris and Nicole and to check that all’s OK. I’m just about to make my way through the crowd to the front entrance, when a director from the Children’s Hospital, an elderly, brisk doctor called Muriel Stanford, grabs my arm, stopping me to chat about the show. She’s raving away, saying it’s just the best thing she’s seen in the longest time, and is just asking me why this couldn’t become an annual event when . . . no, no . . . I must be seeing things. I must be.
I do my best to focus on Muriel and gratefully accept all the sweet things she’s saying about the show, but it’s very hard to concentrate because, in the thick of the crowd, coming towards me, I’d swear I can see Daniel.
I don’t even have time to react. Muriel pulls me back into the conversation, and I’m aware that I’m being rude by glancing over her shoulder, but there’s no mistaking it. It is Daniel.
He’s been grabbed aside now by a gang of impossibly well-dressed women, all of whom seem to know him really well, and who are trying to get him to sit beside them for the second half. I can’t hear what he’s saying to them, it’s too packed and noisy and crowded, and I can’t even tell whether he’s seen me or not. And I’m nervous and jumpy now, and I don’t know why. I mean, why would he come here?
There’s no reason for him to be here, unless . . .
No, the sensible thing for me to do is to not even attempt to finish that sentence. If he had come here to see me, then why doesn’t he just come over? Instead he’s laughing away with those girls; I can even hear him loud and clear doing what sounds like his Jack Nicholson impression. Or maybe it was his Schwarzenegger, it’s hard to tell the difference with all this noise and racket going on.
On cue, the sound boys ring a loud bell, just like at a proper theatre, to let everyone know it’s almost time for Act Two to kick-off, sorry, I mean Part Two. I’m still deep in chat with Doctor Muriel, who’s invited me to come out to the hospital to visit the kids, an invitation I’m only too delighted to take her up on. The Part Two bell goes off again, more furiously this time as the interval’s gone way over time; a good sign that everyone’s enjoying themselves. I can’t linger any longer, I make my excuses and slip back to my quiet, secluded little backstage hiding place, unnoticed by anyone, I think.
I’m wrong. Totally wrong. Just as the lights come up on the second half, there’s a rustle in the hedgerow and bushes behind me. I turn around, startled, and there he is. Really.
Daniel squeezes in beside me and because the space is so enclosed and cramped, we’re now sitting side-by-side, practically on top of each other.
It’s the weirdest thing. We look at each other and though neither of us says anything, you can hear the odd Shakespearian line wafting through from the stage.
Lord, what fools these mortals be . . .
OK, so we both smirk at bit at that, then the smiling stops, and now he’s looking at me in that really intent, focused way that he has.
‘I came to say sorry,’ he eventually says.
‘I never lied to you,’ I whisper, terrified we’ll put off the actors with this play-within-a-play that’s going on under their noses. ‘You have to believe me. I had one lousy brunch with Tom . . . whatever his name is, decided he was a raving alcoholic and that was it.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says softly, moving in closer.
‘And that other Scottish guy? Eager Eddie we all call him. The guy is a complete obsessive, he was just waiting for me outside the office, I had nothing to do with him being there . . .’
‘It’s OK, shhhhhhh . . .’
‘And . . . and . . .’ I’m glad we’re whispering now, because if we were on our own, there’s a good chance I might start shouting. Can’t help it, it’s just days of pent-up rage and annoyance all spilling out in one messy go. ‘You never even gave me a chance to explain. You just jumped to conclusions and ran.’
‘Vicky, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to think. I hadn’t a clue what was going on. And I didn’t want to be made an eejit of. But I just wanted you to know that I’ve really regretted the way I carried on. I thought the best thing for me to do was back off for a bit, but then . . .’
‘But then . . . what?’ I’m looking at him, hardly daring to hope. No kidding, but the entire success or failure of the whole up-till-now-disastrous ‘project Vicky’ depends on what comes out of his mouth next.
‘Well, I knew tonight was a big night for you . . .’
He trails off, looking into the middle distance, and I think, oh OK then. He just wanted to wish me luck and, well, I suppose we do have to work together, so he wanted things nice and tied up between us. He’s a nice guy that doesn’t like awkwardness, particularly with anyone he has to work with.
I’m just a loose end that needed tying up.
‘Vicky,’ he eventually says, softly this time. More like the Daniel I knew from the other wonderful night. ‘What do you say to . . .’
‘To . . .?’
‘To, well, us dating exclusively. You know, just you and me. And that’s it. And no drunk directors or mental Scotsmen or that other guy I met you with at the PR dinner . . .’
‘Ex-Files. That’s his nickname. Obsessed with his ex, who he then got back with. That very night, if I’m not much mistaken.’
‘So,’ he says, looking at me in that cute sideways-on way. ‘Do you want to think about it?’
Oh my God. This must be . . . well, religious people must feel like this when unbelievable miracles happen, out of nowhere. I feel like I should be at a Lourdes grotto and not a city-centre public park.
I pull him by his shirt, in closer to me. ‘I don’t need to think about it. The answer is a big, huge yes. Yes please, in fact.’
His lips are a fraction away from mine now, almost touching but not quite.
‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do,’ he says, smiling now, ‘to get you to come on that proper first date with me. Like we talked about . . .’
‘Did you just say there’s nothing you wouldn’t do?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘You might just regret that . . .’
‘Why would I regret that?’
‘Because all my family are here tonight and . . . well, now you can say no if you want . . .’
‘Say no to what?’
‘Braver men have run a mile from situations like this . . .’
‘Vicky!’
‘W
ell, the thing is . . . do you think you’d be ready to meet them?’
Epilogue
The Butterfly’s A.G.M. One Year Later.
Yes, an annual general meeting sounds a tad dramatic, I know, but then we just had so much to celebrate, it’s unbelievable. Our progress in the last twelve months has been so staggering, that if you saw it in a movie, you’d say things like that never happened in real life. To illustrate, let me start with our Barbara.
Oh my God, the reviews for A Midsummer Night’s Dream were so stupendously amazing that I probably could have written them myself. Barbara was pretty much unanimously hailed as the official Next Big Thing. (‘Charisma you could surf on,’ is one review that still makes me so proud of her.) She really, truly did steal the show, and deservedly went on to land herself an award for ‘Best Newcomer’. (‘Best newcomer?’ she quipped at the time. ‘So now I’m an overnight sensation after fifteen years?’) Don’t get me wrong, though, she was beside herself, particularly when she managed to nab probably the hottest, hippest actors’ agent in town into the bargain. And she hasn’t looked back since: one thing has seamlessly led on to another, and right now she’s shooting a period drama about Henry VIII where she plays a very sexy, earthy, scene-stealing Anne Boleyn. Then after that, she’s back to the theatre again, in an Oscar Wilde show, and best of all, after that she’s off to Broadway to work with . . . wait for it, Serena Stroheim, who asked for her especially for a new show she’s directing!
In all the years I’ve known Barbara, I’ve honestly never seen her so happy and fulfilled, still bowling fellas over like ninepins, but with work lined up until well into next year. Quite a change from twelve short months ago . . .
Sneakily, Laura and I did, to our shame, rejoice a bit at the reviews that Evil Angie got for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Or rather, the lack of them. Apparently for any actor, the worst kind of review is one in which you’re completely and utterly ignored, as she was. If this was the show that effectively was a launching pad for Barbara, then it also spelt the end for that awful, minging cow. Evil Angie, however, isn’t one of those people who can be happy for a more successful friend, so shortly after this she moved out of the flat she shared with Barbara, much to the jubilation of all concerned.
Laura probably had the single biggest U-turn of all of us. She is still happily writing away for Tattle magazine, making quite a name for herself, but most unbelievably of all, she has actually turned down briefs so she can continue writing, working from home, and doing what she really loves best: being with her family. Money is flowing in regularly now, so the days of going cap in hand to her mother are long gone AND Desmond is still on the scene. All very discreet, very demure, and very Laura.
There’s never a question of him staying overnight when the kids are there, but they have snuck off for the odd weekend to cultural events all over the place, Glyndebourne for one, and there’s talk of the Edinburgh Festival soon. In public, though, the only evidence that she and Desmond are a couple is when she dust-flecks him, which she does so regularly that Barbara and I reckon this can only be love.
And then there’s me. Twelve months on and . . . yes, I’m single again. Daniel dumped me there a while back, said we were going nowhere and that he wanted to move on, so heigh ho, it’s back to the singles scene for me . . .
I’m JOKING . . .! Had you there for a second, though . . .
No, all messing aside, we’re still together and I can summarize the last, fabulous year thus:
Number of fabulous weekends away: twelve. (Well, everyone knows the mini-break is the true definition of how you know you’re really in a couple.)
Number of times Daniel, bless him, has braved my family with particular regard to messer brothers: an astonishing fifteen. Elder messer brother even went as far as to tell me that he can’t find a single thing to slag Daniel about, which mightn’t sound like it, but is actually praise from Caesar, and his ham-fisted way of saying, ‘Yep, he’s all right. One of us.’ In fact, with the family, poor patient Daniel tends to get hijacked by messer brothers and is regularly dragged off to soccer matches/car shows/golf tournaments. The measure of the man is that I’ve yet to hear a complaint slip his lips. When pressed, all he’ll say is, ‘I like them, they’re good crack.’ And ever since they were all booked to see Ireland play in a friendly, then missed their flight because they were all in the airport bar and claimed never to have heard the final boarding calls, only for my fab wonderful Daniel, one quick phone call later, to arrange for a helicopter to take them, well, that sealed the deal as far as my siblings were concerned.
Length of our proper first date: seventy-two hours, which must be some kind of record, I reckon. It was just like I’d always dreamed, or as Barbara would say, visualized. The day after A Midsummer Night’s Dream Daniel asked me to be ready and waiting at my house, and the only clue I had was that he said to bring my passport.
Oh, who am I kidding? The minute he said that, I knew exactly where we were going and where we’d be staying, and I was right. Yes. The very same trip that Daniel paid seriously over the odds for that night of the charity auction . . . Paris.
The Crillon hotel on Place de la Concorde, to be exact, in the most fabulous, romantic city in the world. Except, well, we didn’t exactly see too much of it. In fact we spent so much time in our room/suite big enough to have a party in, that one of the chambermaids asked us, in broken English, if we were enjoying our honeymoon?
Most romantic gesture of all in the last year: And the award goes to . . . no, not the time he sent roses to the office for no reason, not even the time he whisked me off to New York to see . . . wait for it . . . the office space that Best’s are setting up their US branch in. (Sample sales, here I come.) By the way, it’s only on Madison Avenue, and that was the reason for his prolonged stay away; and yes, he is buying a penthouse, but just for himself to stay in for when he’s over there. (Ahem . . . and me and Laura and Barbara when the three of us skited over with empty suitcases for a shopping trip just before Christmas.)
No, amid a lot of dense competition for the title, the single most romantic gesture of the year happened just after Daniel and I got back, arm-in-arm and still all dewy-eyed, from our Paris first-date trip. It was lunchtime when we got home and, ever the gentleman, he dropped me back to my house and helped me carry luggage inside. (I’ve never been much of a one for travelling light.) Useless Builder was there, lunch roll in hand, feet up, reading the Daily Star. Well, I only wished I’d had a camcorder to record it: Daniel lit into him, demanding to know exactly what had been done since I’d been away, what was left to do, and an exact, wait for it, breakdown of what was left to do, including an estimated finish date? And this was the alpha male side of Daniel in action, not the messer side of him I know so well. Well, Useless Builder’s jaw actually dropped, as I have to say, did mine. The upshot was that, one heated exchange/blazing row later, Daniel fired him, and organized the builders Best’s use to finish the gig. Which they did, within about eight weeks and with minimum fuss.
Some mornings when I wake up in my picture-pretty little doll’s house, and pad across my carpeted bedroom to my stunning, under-floor heated state-of-the-art bathroom, I often think back to that happy day.
It wasn’t the roses, the champagne, the trips, the full-on romance that sealed the deal for me and Daniel.
It was the day he kicked Useless Builder’s arse for me.
Because that’s when I knew. Just knew.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to the divine Francesca Liversidge; believe me, I know how lucky I am to have such an amazing editor. Thanks also to everyone else at Transworld, especially Larry Finlay, Madeline Toy, Joanne Williamson, Lucie Jordan, Gary Harley, Martin Higgins, Rebecca Jones and Vivien Garrett, for all their tireless hard work. I’m so grateful to you all.
Transworld Ireland is now officially launched, so a big hi to Eoin McHugh and Lauren Hadden; I’m really looking forward to working with you.
Huge thanks, as always, to the wonderful team at Gill Hess: Gill (the man himself), Simon, Declan Heeney and Helen Gleed O’Connor. You make life so easy for all of your authors!
Special thanks to Pat Lynch for everything and for being one of those people that you just don’t know what you’d do without. And of course to the beyond-fabulous Vicki Satlow . . . please come to Ireland for a longer visit next time!
Thanks to Karen Glass in New York for all her wonderful vision. I’m so excited about Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man coming to the small screen and it’s all down to you, Karen! While writing this book, my miracle-worker agent rang with the fabulous news that the movie rights to I Never Fancied Him Anyway have been bought in the US. So a huge hi to Wendy Finerman and Liza Zupan . . . this really is dream come true stuff!
Thanks so much also to all at HarperCollins in NYC, especially Carrie Ferron, Claire Wachtel, Julia Novitch and Tessa Woodward. See you all very soon, I hope.
On a personal note, thanks, as always, to Mum and Dad, Karen Nolan, Larry Finnegan, Susan McHugh, Sean Murphy, Clelia Murphy (and madam Clara!), Pat Kinevane, Marian O’Dwyer, Frank Mackey, Fiona Lalor, Alison McKenna, Sharon Hogan, Karen Hastings, Kevin Reynolds, Derick Mulvey and all the Gunn family. Old friends are the best!
Writing is a lonely, isolated gig, so I’m doubly grateful to have friends like Anita Notaro, Patricia Scanlan and Morag Prunty who’ve all been there before and know what it’s like.
And just in case you think I’ve forgotten someone, this book is dedicated to Marianne Gunn O’Connor, who has become such a good friend . . . and who really can work miracles.
About the Author
Claudia Carroll was born in Dublin, where she still lives and now works as a full-time writer. Two of her previous books, Remind Me Again Why I Need A Man and I Never Fancied Him Anyway, have been purchased for a TV Series (Fox Television) and a film, respectively. Claudia isn’t married and both titles come from phrases she finds herself using with alarming regularity, particularly after rubbish dates.
Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 32
