The Understudy: A Novel (31 page)

White Christmas

S
tephen packed the contents of his dressing room into a spare plastic bag, and hung up his body stocking in the wardrobe for the last time. He drank down one more glass of the warm, flat celebratory champagne without really tasting it, turned out the lightbulbs around the mirror, then the overhead light, and pulled the door closed. Then, as he had done one hundred and twenty-three times before, and knowing that he would never do it again, he made his way down the treacherous back staircase that led to the stage-left wings.

Most of the team had gone home, but he said good-bye to the few of the crew who remained—stage management, the costume department, the crew, the people he genuinely liked and would miss. He took care to avoid eye contact, and thankfully no one asked any awkward questions, or mentioned what had happened, though everyone seemed to know that he wouldn’t be coming back. They all shook his hand, said well done for tonight, mate, you were fantastic, Steve, good luck in the future, mate, see you around. He even took a couple of phone numbers from people, knowing that he’d never actually be able to bring himself to use them.

He stopped off at Josh Harper’s dressing room, and took the stolen
Star Wars
figurine from his pocket, the one he’d accidentally taken from the party, and leaned the tiny Han Solo against Josh’s door, his gun hand raised in salute, or defiance, he wasn’t sure which. Then he said good-bye to Kenny the stage door keeper, shook his hand, wished him well and stepped out into the night.

The snow was falling, thicker now, great smudgy gray clumps that hovered in the air as if unwilling to touch the ground. The traffic stood immobile the length of Shaftesbury Avenue, and the crowds shuffled rather than walked through the soupy gray sludge on the pavement. Stephen walked toward the entrance to Piccadilly Circus tube, but couldn’t face the wet, steaming, drunken Friday-night crush on their way to or from office parties, so instead he crossed the road, and waited outside the Trocadero for a Number 22 bus. As he stood in the shop doorway, his phone bleeped, and he opened the text message. It was from Frank.

He deleted the message, then sat, immobile, mute, numb and a little drunk, on the top deck of the bus as it crawled down Piccadilly toward Chelsea. On this crowded Friday night so close to Christmas, the snow was having a calamitous effect on the city. People staggered on and off the bus, wet and gasping, drunk most of them, laughing and flirting, but Stephen kept his gaze fixed out of the window, his plastic bag on his lap, watching the snow and the crowds slipping and shuffling along Piccadilly, Knightsbridge, Sloane Street, the Kings Road.

He sat and thought about Alison, thought about how strange it was that someone he had loved so much could have a child that had nothing to do with him, that Sophie would have a brother or sister who had absolutely no connection with him at all. There wasn’t even a term for that relationship; the child’s mother’s ex-husband; it didn’t have a name. He thought about the look on her face when she had told him, the joy apparent behind the embarrassment and awkwardness, and he was pleased with the way he’d reacted to the news, much better, much calmer than his reaction had been when she had told him she was getting married again. At least he hadn’t punched any walls this time. He’d been gentlemanly, this time. Generous. Grown up, even if inside he had wanted to scream.

And as for losing his job, he couldn’t really blame Josh. He’d deserved it, after all. He felt “Judas” was a bit strong, perhaps, but still, he hadn’t played fair and there was a kind of justice to how things had turned out. He couldn’t help thinking it was a shame that more people hadn’t seen him, though, because in the end he’d been…all right. In his mind, he tried to imagine what the billboard might look like outside the theater, his own face transposed with Josh’s, sword drawn, shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

“
More
Than Adequate,” screamed the critics.

“Stephen C. McQueen
Is
Okay!!”

“Absolutely
Fine,
Considering!”

“Not Nearly as
Bad
as Some People Expected.”

“He Tried! Really, He Did!”

“I’ve Seen
Worse
!!!!”

Oh, well. Maybe next time.

He decided that there was never going to be a next time.

He decided, there and then, on the Number 22 bus, that he was going to give up.

The bus was halfway along the Kings Road now, idling in traffic. Suddenly claustrophobic and panicky, Stephen squeezed out of his window seat, went downstairs and stepped out onto the street, shuffling on frozen pavement south toward the river, and the lights of Albert Bridge.

Of all the London bridges this had always been his favorite; an almost absurd romantic structure, the one most favored by lovers, and suicides. He stood at the center of the bridge, his breath hanging in the icy air, and stared east along the Thames. He was suddenly aware of how cold his hands were, and looked down at the plastic bag with all the souvenirs from the dressing room—the good-luck cards, his annotated copy of the script, a chipped and stained coffee mug, the manuscript of the useless, pointless one-man show he’d been writing for years, the flowers Sophie and Alison had brought him for tonight. He imagined the flowers yellowing and wilting in a jug in the flat, and felt a sudden terrifying surge of almost overwhelming despair, a looming blackness that he hadn’t felt for many years, and had hoped never to feel again. He felt his head get hot, his eyes start to burn, panic starting to rise in his chest.

He decided to get rid of the flowers, to get rid of it all. Quickly standing a little way back from the rail of the bridge, he started to swing the bag in great swooping circles; then, when it reached the lowest point of the arc, he let go and watched, exhilarated, as the bag sailed high up into the sky, then split, sending the pages of script tumbling out into the air, and falling with the snow into the Thames. He leaned as far as he could over the parapet, and watched the paper bobbing on the black water, illuminated by the white lights of the bridge for a moment or two, before being carried away by the river, and to his surprise, he felt a sense of relative calm and relief—the same shaken relief you might feel when a car comes to a halt after an accident, when it stops spinning and tumbling and you realize that you’re all right, you’re okay, you’ve survived. He had had his Big Break after all. Giving up, surrendering, stopping, that was the Big Break. The world of show business would just have to struggle on without him, that’s all.

He would be a better person from now on. He didn’t know quite what he’d do for a living yet, but he would try to be a better person, and live a life free from all that envy and bitterness, spite and regret. He would forget about his imaginary life, the chances he’d never had, what might-have-been, and concentrate instead on making the real thing better. No more Ghostly Figures, no more Dead Guys. Instead, he would be
the
Steve McQueen—not the famous one, perhaps, but the happy one. He’d be caring and friendly to his ex-wife and his daughter, and he’d find a new job that he loved, or at least liked, something that he could do well, and work hard at it; learn sign language, maybe, or open a café, or work with kids—hadn’t Alison said he was good with kids? Or he could go back to college next September and retrain in something. It was probably too late to become a doctor or an architect, but, that aside, he could do almost anything he wanted. Eventually, given enough time, he might even forget about Nora. It was actually pretty exciting when he came to think about it.

He peered down into the river, watching as the last of the pages drifted off into darkness, and he felt the fear and panic subside a little, as if his luck might finally, finally,
finally
be about to change. It was a sensation that lasted for a good minute and a half, right up until the police car pulled up alongside him.

The Long Good-bye

I
n the end, the policemen were quite reasonable.

They asked him to sit in the back of the car and, once they’d ascertained that he wasn’t drunk and disorderly, and that he wasn’t going to throw himself off the bridge, they gave him what was, to Stephen’s mind, a perfectly reasonable lecture about dumping rubbish in the Thames. Without giving them the full story, Stephen apologized, and they drove him home, Stephen perversely enjoying the ride, feeling quite tough in the back of a police car.

“You live
here
?” said the policeman as they pulled up outside his house, giving him a worried look.

“Uh-huh.”

“Get much hassle from those kids?”

“Oh, nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yeah, well, watch your step, won’t you? Don’t try and answer them back, it’s not worth it.”

“I won’t—and thanks for the lift.”

“And please use the litter bins in future, won’t you, sir? That’s what they’re there for.”

“Yes, Officer. I will.”

The police waited in the car until he’d got safely to the front door, then drove off. Stephen stamped the snow from his shoes, brushed it from his shoulders, shut the front door behind him and wearily climbed the stairs. He let himself into the flat, felt warm air on his face, and noted with irritation that he’d left the electric fire on. He crossed the room and turned it down.

“D’you mind? I’m freezing my ass off here.”

Slowly, Stephen turned around.

Nora lay curled up on the sofa, half-asleep, using her coat as a blanket, and Stephen felt a tremendous surge of pleasure and relief.

“I let myself in. I still have your keys—hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

Nora curled her knees up, making room on the sofa, patting the seat next to her. “You’re late back.”

“Well, you know—it’s been quite a night.”

“Signing autographs, talking to fans?”

“Something like that.”

“And how did it go? Did you set the show business world ablaze?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Show ’em how it’s done?”

“Absolutely…”

“Crowds screaming for more?”

“Of course.”

“Groupies?”

“Hurling themselves from the balcony.”

“Waves of love pouring over the footlights?”

“All of that.”

“And was it everything you ever dreamed it would be?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh. Bad audience?”

“No audience.”

“Ah.”

“Or only a small one.”

“How small?”

“Eleven, I think. To start with, anyway. Down to about eight by the end.”

“Well, maybe it was the weather…”

“No, they all got there. It’s just not that many stayed, that’s all.”

“Oh. I see. Still—small but appreciative.”

“Exactly.”

“And it’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Actually, there isn’t going to be a tomorrow. Professionally speaking, anyway. I’ve been fired.”

“Who by?”

“By Josh, I think.”

“Yeah? Me too,” and she nodded toward a small overnight bag at her feet.

“Where is he?”

“At home. I thought it would be a little mean to make him stay in a hotel tonight, so I left him there, groaning and bleeding on his pillow. After I got him back from the dentist, I put him into bed and got the hell out of there.”

“So you’re not going to stay with him?”

Nora wrinkled her nose, poked him with her toe. “After what he did? You know, Stephen, I sometimes think you seriously overestimate the persuasive powers of that man. Even if he wanted me back, which he doesn’t, not after what I did to his precious teeth, what possible reason would I have to go back to Josh?”

“So—if you don’t mind me asking…”

“Why am I here?”

“Why are you here?”

“Well, I know you’ll think it’s strange,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, looking solemnly at the floor, “but I realized that I could never, ever be happy until I found out what happened to that damn squirrel.”

Stephen laughed, and found himself surprised by his ability to laugh. “I thought you were still angry with me.”

“Oh, I am, don’t you worry about that. You’ve done some pretty…strange things, Stephen. And as for covering up for Josh…”

“He told me he was ending it.”

“I know, but, still, whatever reasons you may have had, it wasn’t especially nice of you.”

“No, you’re right. And I’m sorry.”

“And I accept your apology.” Nora swung around and pulled her legs up on the sofa so that she was facing him. “Also, there were some things I thought we ought to clear up.” She leaned forward, took his hand in hers, opened it and looked at it intently, as if trying to read the palm. “This whole…in-love-with-me thing. I have a theory. Would you like to hear my theory? It’s a good one.”

“I’d love to.”

“Okay, here goes.” She shuffled forward in her seat. “I think you were lonely, and unhappy, and you sensed that I was lonely and unhappy too, and you thought that might be enough. And I have to admit, I’ve enjoyed it, us keeping each other company, it’s been fun. I’ve looked forward to seeing you, and I’ve…thought about you. When you weren’t there.” She sighed and closed the fingers of his hand over. “But it’s not a particularly healthy starting point for a romantic relationship, is it? Mutual despair.”

“It’s not just that, though, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Well, what else is it, then?”

“For a start, I think you’re…extraordinary.”

Nora screwed her eyes shut, and pulled a face. “And why would you think that, Stephen? Why would you
possibly
think that?”

He thought for a moment.

“Because wherever we are, whoever we’re with, I always know that you’re the best person in the room. The smartest, the funniest, the wisest, the person I most want to talk to, or to be with. The best. By far. Nobody else comes anywhere near.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “And is that from a movie or something?”

“No, that’s how I feel. In real life.” Quickly, before he could think about it too much, he leaned over and kissed her, very lightly, for a moment or two, and if she didn’t respond exactly, neither did she pull away.

They sat, foreheads resting gently together, until eventually Stephen said, “So—what do we do now?”

Nora sat back. “Oh, try and get a flight back to New York tomorrow, I guess, spend Christmas with my folks. Give a little time over to comfort-eating. Have my mom tell me, ‘I told you so.’ I’m looking forward to it, really I am. How about you?”

“Go back to the Isle of Wight for Christmas. Overeat. Have Mum and Dad tell me, ‘I told you so.’ ” Nora smiled, then Stephen spoke, quite calmly and plainly.

“I’ve just realized that after tonight, I have nothing. No job, no plans, no ambitions, no idea what I’m going to do. No money or prospects. Absolutely nothing. I’m going to have to start all over again, completely from scratch.”

“Me too. But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? A fresh start.”

“Is it? I don’t know.”

“We’re just starting a little late, that’s all.”

“I suppose.”

“You know, I think I should be on my own for a while. That’s the sensible thing to do at least. Just go back home, see some friends, work out what I want to do with my life, try and remember who I was before I became Mrs. Josh Harper. But I have to admit—I will miss you, Stephen.”

Without stopping to think, Stephen said, “Don’t leave, then.”

“So what do I do?”

“I don’t know, but you don’t have to go back to New York. Not just yet, anyway.”

Nora glanced around the room. “Please don’t ask me to stay here. Don’t take this the wrong way, Steve, but this place is a depressing shithole.”

“I know. I’m going to sell it, I think.”

“Good idea. So. Where else can I go?”

Without waiting to think too hard about it, Stephen said, “We could always go to Paris.”

Nora laughed. “
Paris?
”

“With me. For a holiday. They’re paying me up until Christmas, anyway, so we could both go, me and you.”

Nora looked skeptical. “I don’t know…”

“Trust me, it’s an excellent idea.”

“You want me to go to
Paris
…”

“Yes.”

“…with you. Paris…”

“You don’t like Paris?”

“No, I love Paris.”

“Good. Me too. I spent my honeymoon in Paris.”

Nora laughed aloud. “I’m sorry, Stephen, but isn’t that a reason
not
to go to Paris?”

“Well, we won’t do all the same things, obviously.”

“Well,
obviously
.”

“But we could get the first train. They leave from Waterloo in about, what, five hours’ time. We could be there in time for breakfast. Find a cheap hotel, walk around, sleep. Just for a few days, a week maybe. Get away from here, from all this, just me and you. Escape. What d’you think?”

Nora looked at him in silence. The room was fairly dark, the only light coming from the fire effect, and the streetlights outside, so it was hard to make out her face clearly, and she certainly didn’t smile as such. She just put her head slightly to one side, blinked once, very slowly.

Say yes,
he thought.
Say yes, and there’s still a chance for me, a chance that things might turn out all right.

With one hand, she brushed her fringe across her forehead, and said—

“I don’t have my passport.”