Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? (28 page)

‘You get the hell out of here right now, do you hear me? I could sue you for this! Do you realise I could have you up for slander and defamation of character?’

‘I wasn’t finished,’ Chris snaps back, standing her ground, not for one single second threatened. ‘Now you just listen to me, missy. My engagement ring is the single most precious thing I own; it’s of massive sentimental value to me. So if you have it, I strongly suggest you hand it back to me right now. I’m offering you this one last chance. And in return, I won’t take this any further.’

‘Fuck off out of my apartment and never speak to me again, you stuck-up bitch!’

In her hyped-up, fuming, strung-out state though, Liz is absolutely no match for Chris’s well-thought-out cool.

‘Well if you
don’t
have it,’ says Chris, changing tack, ‘then I assume you’ll have no problem if I just do this?’

With that, she strides over to the hall table, where Liz’s big, oversized, overstuffed handbag is lying, a massive, glittery, gold thing, the approximate size of a small child that goes absolutely everywhere with her.

‘You put that down this instant…’ shrieks Liz, but it’s too late. In a flash, Chris has upended it and emptied the contents out onto the floor. Everything comes tumbling
down in one massive thud and for a split second Chris and I just stand there, utterly stunned.

Suddenly we both find ourselves looking at several tiny, white, see-through plastic sachets containing what looks like baking soda, but clearly isn’t. Three baby bottles of vodka tumble out and crash to the floor too, all empty. The size that you only ever see winos on street corners drinking out of brown paper bags.

In an instant Liz is on her hands and knees scooping everything up, but it’s too late; we’ve all seen what’s there and what’s more, she knows it.

There’s a horrible silence while she fumbles round the floor, then with a face like a hatchet, she looks up and almost hisses at Chris.

‘I cannot believe you just did that, you thundering bitch!’

Chris, who still has the bag in her hand, completely ignores her and is now rooting around in one of the side pockets.

‘All this stuff isn’t even mine you know,’ Liz says to me, like I’m going to believe her.

‘I’m just holding onto it for a friend as a matter of fact, that’s all…’

‘Is that so? And were you just holding onto
this
for the same friend too?’ demands Chris, triumphantly whipping out her engagement ring from a tiny inside zip pocket.

It’s definitely her ring alright; the same little red ruby stone that I’ve seen her wearing a thousand times. Chris slips it back on her finger and stands glaring at Liz, face exultant, waiting for an answer.

For a second I think I might be sick. I slump against the hall table with my head pounding, unable to take it all in.

‘Oh yeah,’ Liz mutters, unconvincingly, ‘
that
ring. Yeah…I meant to tell you, but it slipped my mind…’

‘You meant to tell me what, exactly?’ demands Chris.

‘I…ehh…found it on the stairwell at the theatre and meant to give it to you, but I never got a chance to…’

‘Don’t Liz, just don’t. You’re only making it worse,’ I say, wanting desperately to wake up from this horrible nightmare.

‘Well, in that case I think there’s nothing further to be said,’ says Chris, making for the door. ‘I told you that provided I got my ring back, I wouldn’t take this any further. This time. For the sake of the show and nothing else. But let this be a warning to you, Liz. If you ever even attempt to pull anything like this again, I’m going straight to Jack to tell all, and what he decides to do with you is entirely up to him. No second chances. Do you understand?’

Liz just nods, then slumps down onto the floor, her back to the wall, staring ahead blankly. With a curt nod in my direction, Chris is gone, slamming the door behind her with an authoritative thud.

I hunker down beside Liz and gently take her hand, which is trembling and clammy.

‘You OK?’ I ask.

‘What do you think?’ She flings me a sideways look that would freeze mercury.

Fair enough, it was a dopey fecking question.

Then she’s up on her feet again, pacing the floor, all her manic energy suddenly flooding back to her.

‘It was a stupid thing to do, OK? I know that, I realise that. But you have to understand, I didn’t know what I was doing at the time, I needed cash fast and I just wasn’t
thinking straight…there’s some people that I owe money to, you’ve no idea what they’re like…’

‘Liz,’ I gently interrupt, trying to reel her in slowly. ‘If I asked you to go and see someone, would you? We could go to a doctor…right now…and maybe get a referral to someone who works in drug rehab. I’ll go with you, I’ll be with you every step of the way…’

Now she turns on me.

‘You think I need help? You stand there, smug as you like and have the barefaced cheek to tell me I need help?’

‘For God’s sake, of course you need help! Surely you see that this is not normal behaviour? Chris could have easily pressed charges back there you know and you’re bloody lucky that she didn’t!’

‘How DARE you! How fucking dare you suggest that I’ve got a problem! This, from the girl who can’t even hold on to her own husband? Go on, feck off out of here! Get out of my apartment!’

‘Liz, just cool down, OK? I came here in good faith to help you,’ I manage to say, my head swimming at the suddenness and severity of her mood swing.

‘And no doubt you’ll go blabbering to everyone at the theatre that the rest of the cast now have me down as a thief! I’ll tell you something, Annie Cole, you can get the hell out of my sight and don’t you dare speak to me again, unless it’s to crawl on your hands and knees and beg for forgiveness!’

There’s nothing more to say. Impossible to even reach her right now. So I say nothing, just leave as quickly as I can. Liz follows me and does a door slam worthy of a daytime soap opera, leaving me standing outside in the corridor.

Alone and utterly shattered.

I’m now seriously late to meet Jack and by the time I get to the SoHo gallery, he’s already there, waiting outside for me, as ever looking like the master of elegant cool, in aviator shades, tailored denim jeans and a grey Gap sweater, with freshly washed hair flopping lightly over his forehead. He’s lounging up against the wall of the gallery, long and lean, but as soon as he sees me he immediately stubs out his cigarette and straightens up.

In an instant, his sharp blue eyes are all over mine, scanning my face, instantly sensing that something is up. I give him a wobbly smile and try to act normal but he’s too good a director not to be able to spot a hammy performance when he sees one. Now I’m one of life’s conflict-avoiders, I’ll run a mile rather than have it out with someone I care about, and so events of this morning have left me rattled and on edge and so worried about Liz that it’s nearly making me sick.

‘You OK?’ he asks me, concerned, the eyebrows knitted downwards.

‘Long, long story,’ I say, doing my best to brush the whole thing aside. ‘Sorry for the delay, it was…let’s just say it was beyond my control. So, will we go inside?’

It’ll be cool and quiet inside the gallery, is my reasoning. I won’t have to talk and I’ll be able to think clearly in there. But Jack’s having none of it.

‘Sod the sodding gallery. Let’s skip it and go and have a talk instead. I know the perfect place too. Come with me.’

Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting at an outside table in the Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker Street in SoHo.

‘This place is famous for its cupcakes,’ he tells me, passing me a menu. ‘I absolutely insist that you try one. Take a look
for yourself if you don’t believe me; these are miniature works of art.’

I give him a watery smile, even though the very thought of food is enough to make my stomach heave. But we scan through the menu, which I have to admit, is stunningly impressive. Just about every confection known to man is here: coconut, lemon, carrot, banana, you name it, and the counter top displays would make your jaw drop at the artistic heights it’s possible to scale with just the humble cupcake. We order a chocolate devil’s cake for him, an Americano for me and just then his iPhone rings. He whips it out, checks the number, then mouths at me that it’s his agent from LA so I wave at him to go right ahead and take the call. All the more time for me to try and clear my head, which frankly is starting to pound right now.

Jack chats away easily on the phone while I run a mental check list in my head.

Liz has turned to larceny. And she was most definitely using this morning, clear as day. On the plus side, Chris has promised not to take the matter any further, so at least Liz’s job isn’t at stake. For the moment.

Soon, too soon, our Americano and cupcake arrive, just as Jack winds up his call. Which means I’m going to actually have to make conversation and try to sound normal.

‘Emm…so has your agent come up with any…ehh…interesting screenplays for you to have a look at?’

Boring as arse, I know, but it’s the best I can do under pressure.

‘Annie, stop it. Stop trying to gloss over whatever’s really going on with you,’ he says, taking his sunglasses off and looking directly at me in that really intense way that he has. Like it’s just him and me alone here and I’m the sole
focus of his attention. Which, for some inconvenient reason, is starting to make me jelly-legged. And very glad that I’m sitting down.

‘Now suppose you tell me the facts and let me help.’

‘Suppose I can’t.’

‘Is it your husband? Are you having trouble at home?’

He’s leaning right into me now, his face inches from mine.

‘What? Ehh…no, no, not at all…’ I stammer, confused and at the same time relieved that he hasn’t guessed the truth.

‘Because if you are, I want you to know that I’m here for you.’

‘Well…thanks for that, but…’

‘You and I never talk about personal stuff, about our private lives, that is. And there are very good reasons for that, I know. But if you ever wanted to, you know I’m a sympathetic listener’

‘I know. And thank you.’

‘Maybe one day, you’ll trust me enough to open up to me and if you ever do, just know that I’ll be waiting for you. You will remember that, my dear, won’t you?’

Liz is behaving like a sulky child at the theatre this evening, but frankly I’m just so relieved that a) she turned up for work and b) that she’s come down from her high, that her moodiness is the least of my worries.

Word has rippled through the cast about what happened earlier today though and now there’s almost an invisible Berlin Wall that’s suddenly sprung up, with Liz on one side and myself, Chris, Alex and Blythe on the other. Chris in particular, is acting with cold disdain towards Liz, like she’s
in some way holding power over her. I could have reported you today, her body language seems to scream, but I didn’t, so therefore I’m the bigger person and don’t ever forget that you owe me. Liz, for her part, just blanks out the whole lot of us, only making eye contact when absolutely necessary, i.e., onstage.

But somehow we get through the show and Liz is as mesmerising onstage as ever, leaving me in awe of just how capable she is of pulling it out of the bag when she really needs to.

Understandably, no one is on form for going out tonight and I for one am back in my little blonde apartment early-ish, by about eleven pm. It’s a miserable, God-awful night; an almost tropical summer rainstorm hit the city earlier and there wasn’t a taxi to be had on the whole of Broadway, so I had to walk home through the monsoon and am now freezing, starving and drenched right through to my knickers.

It’s pitch dark when I let myself into the apartment and I’m just about to start peeling off my soaking wet gear when something on the doormat stops me in my tracks.

Total surprise: a letter waiting for me from home. Waterford postmark. Which is weird. Jules never writes, she either emails or sends messages to me via Facebook and it’s highly unlikely that Audrey would ever put pen to paper and write to me, bar it was to give out.

I rip it open and my eye scrolls hungrily down the page.

Darling Annie,

I know you needed space, a year off, time out from your life here…I know all that and I understand.

But that doesn’t mean that you’re not missed, every single hour of every single day.

Just thought you should know.

With love always, come what may,

Dan.

Try as I might, I can’t sleep. Well past one in the morning and I’m still tossing and turning, unable to believe that Dan actually wrote. Knowing him as I do, for him to actually find the time to write a letter, however brief, then find a stamp and then a post box in that order…absolutely unheard of!

Feck it. Sleep won’t come, but an idea slowly does. I could call him, couldn’t I? I mean, I know we’re on our marriage sabbatical and all that, but it doesn’t mean that I couldn’t pick up the phone and talk to my erstwhile best friend, does it?

So I chance it. I pick up the phone beside me and call his mobile. Past six in the morning his time, maybe just maybe, he’ll answer…

It’s months since we’ve spoken, not since that awful phone call where we both agreed to take a year off from each other and my heart’s walloping off my ribcage as I dial his mobile number with shaky fingers.

But I’m in luck. Bingo, he answers on the fifth ring, sounding groggy, like I’ve just woken him up from the deepest sleep

‘Hello?’

‘Hi.’

‘I’m sorry…who’s this?’

‘Dan…it’s me.’

‘Annie? Oh my God, it that really you?’ he says, sounding…dare I say it…really pleased to hear from me.’

‘Were you sleeping?’ I ask tentatively.

‘Trying to, but…oh Annie, it’s so good just to hear your voice,’ he says and even from the far side of the Atlantic, I can still hear the smile in his voice.

‘I got your note,’ I say simply.

‘Oh yeah…well I just wanted you to know that you’re much missed, even if you don’t think that you are.’

My throat catches a bit.