Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? (30 page)

‘What, what’s up?’

‘I totally forgot to tell you what should have been item number one of scandal on the agenda.’

‘Which is…?’ I brace myself to allow for the usual amount of over-egging she does.

‘You will NOT believe this, but it seems after all this time that not only is there a Law of Karma in action but it even works in a kiphole like Stickens too…’

‘Jules, would you ever tell me!’

‘Lisa Ledbetter, the Countess Dracula herself, is now officially separated from her husband, Charlie.’

‘You’re kidding me! Since when?’

‘She announced it a few weeks ago. Apparently he landed some job in London not long after Christmas, so he just upped and left. Course her story is that the long-distance commute over and back is what killed the relationship, but I reckon he just realised how much pleasanter life was with an ocean between them. And in all fairness, would you really blame the guy? So now the Countess Dracula is up at The Moorings day and night with her kids, moaning
about being a deserted wife, all while freeloading off Dan…’

It takes a few goes for Jules to convince me that she’s not exaggerating; for once, the girl is actually telling the truth. And for some reason, an alarm bell goes off in my head and my stomach ulcer suddenly starts to burn me up. A second later, my whole digestive system clenches up with worry.

Does this mean that her kids will start referring to Dan as ‘New Dad’?

And even if that were to happen, what exactly could I do about it from three thousand miles away? When, at his behest, we’re having a gap year off from being married to each other?

Absolutely nothing, except to try and put the whole thing out of my head. But try as I might, I still can’t shake off the feeling that this is bad news.

Very, very bad news indeed.

Jules takes a nap to help her get over the jet lag while I shower and get organised for work this evening. Then I walk with her to the theatre, getting as much of a kick out of her reactions to the sights and sounds of Fifth Avenue as she is herself. Honest to God, it’s like dragging a small toddler through Toys R Us; every two seconds something bright and shiny and new will catch her eye and she keeps on running into shop after shop until eventually I laughingly have to haul her out of Sephora on Fifth and remind her that I have a show to do. And that if I don’t get to work soon, my understudy will be shoved on at short notice.

‘Sorry, Annie, I just want to skip around the place,
drinking it all in!’ she chirps. Then she spots the Empire State shimmering away in the distance, the observatory at the top, crystal-clear even from street level on a cloudless day like this. Two seconds later, Jules has whipped out her camera phone and is snapping away.

‘What are you giggling at?’ she asks, all innocent saucer eyes. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘You. You remind me of me, that’s all.’

When I eventually manage to drag her to the theatre, absolutely everyone on the box office staff is warm and welcoming and lovely to Jules. The show is sold out, but I still manage to wheedle a house seat for her, which she’s thrilled about. All thanks to Hayley, or as we all now refer to her, The Queen of The Box Office. She lights up when I introduce Jules, then waddles her huge frame out from behind the box office to hug her, warning me that I’m to give her the time of her life in the Big Apple.

Then just as she’s handing over Jules’s ticket, she drops her voice a bit and asks, ‘Have you heard the good news yet, honey?’

‘No,’ I answer, ‘What news?’

‘Oh darn it,’ she almost gulps back the words. ‘Me and my big mouth! I’ll let them tell you when you get upstairs. But I think you’ll be real pleased, sweetheart.’

Not having the first clue what’s going on, I lead Jules round to the stage door and the first person I bump into is Chris, half made-up with her hair in rollers, wearing just her dressing gown and hyped up to the ceiling. I don’t even get the chance to introduce Jules to her; Chris just jubilantly hugs me, then excitedly tells me that Jack is waiting for all of us in the green room, that he has an urgent announcement to make and wants us all present and correct. So I
usher Jules in with me and sure enough everyone’s there ahead of us, cast, backstage crew, the whole lot of us.

And the atmosphere in the room is electric There’s a massive buzz in the air and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. We stand at the back of the tiny room, now packed to the rafters, eyes open and mouths shut, as Jack’s already in mid-patter.

‘Sorry to drag you all in here when you’re busy getting ready for the show,’ he’s saying calmly, dressed head to toe in a sharp black suit and looking like he should be starring in a Wim Wenders movie. ‘But the fact is that I’ve just received some exciting news, which I thought you’d all like to hear. As you are no doubt aware, the Tony awards will take place in three weeks’ time…’

‘What are the Tony awards?’ Jules hisses at me, looking completely blank.

‘Theatre of New York,’ I whisper back. ‘It’s a really big noise over here. Like the theatre world’s very own Oscars.’

‘…to be held at Radio City Music Hall,’ Jack continues as an excited murmur ripples round the room.

Next thing, with a theatrical flourish, he elegantly whips out a fax from his shirt pocket and teasingly waves it at us, looking just like Chamberlain about to declare ‘Peace in Our Time’.

‘And now…the moment you’ve all been waiting for…this has just arrived and an announcement to the press is being made concurrently…’

‘Get on with it, will you? I’ve still got to do my hair before the show!’ Chris yells at him impatiently.

‘The Tony award nominations are…for best new play,
Wedding Belles
!’

A raucous cheer goes up, there’s whooping and hugging
and it takes Jack ages to shush everyone down before he can continue.

‘The nominations for best featured actress in a play are…’ He reads out the names of four other big, marquee Broadway names, all appearing in plays that are competing alongside us. Then, to the sound effect of a drumroll in my head, he announces, ‘and finally…for
Wedding Belles
…none other than…Miss Blythe Arnold!’

Screeches of joy nearly bring the roof down and suddenly everyone’s on top of Blythe like a rugby scrum, congratulating her and hugging her to ribbons.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she calls out in shock over the din, her voice sounding smothered because we’re all trying to hug her at once. ‘Are you absolutely sure, Jack love? You didn’t make a mistake? Check that bit of paper again, will you?’

‘Definitely no mistake,’ he grins back at her, ‘now calm down everyone, I’m not even close to being finished yet!’

At this stage he actually has to shout over the excited babble to try and get us all to quieten down. Blythe looks pink with pleasure and has to be ushered to a chair, she’s that shocked. It takes another few goes on Jack’s part before it’s quiet enough for him to read on, but once he gets going again, he’s on a roll and there’s absolutely no stopping him.

The nominations keep coming thick and fast. Best lighting design…
Wedding Belles
. Best sound…
Wedding Belles.
Best costume design…
Wedding Belles
. Best set design…you’ve guessed it. Jack then takes a modest pause before announcing the nominations for best director and the room goes stony silent till he reads out, ‘And, for
Wedding Belles
, ahem, ahem…Jack Gordon.’

An eruption of cheers and now it’s almost like there’s an
impromptu party starting to break out, minus the booze. My head is swimming, unable to take in all this miraculous news. So far, we’ve a grand total of
seven
nominations; unheard of for such a low-budget show with a largely unknown cast. Unbelievable. Astonishing.

‘And now…if you’ll all just keep it down to a dull roar for one last and final nomination,’ Jack pleads with the room, ‘then I’ll let you all go, on the condition that you all join me in Sardi’s after the show. Let’s show these New Yorkers how we Irish like to celebrate in style!’

Massive enthusiastic applause and one of the assistant stage managers yells out, ‘Fine by me, Jack, but just remember, you’re paying!’

More shushing before it’s quiet enough for him to continue.

‘For best actress in a leading role, the nominations are…’ He reads out four names, again, all scarily, intimidatingly big names. The tension ratchets up a fair few notches and Jack is milking it for all it’s worth, like the sublime showman that he is. You could almost hear a pin drop as he says, ‘Stay with me here, people, still one more name to go!’

I feel Jules’s hand, small and hot, squeezing mine as Jack eventually reads out, ‘and finally…for
Wedding Belles
…Miss Liz Shields!’

We all turn to look for her in the throng…but she’s not here.

Bad, burning feeling like indigestion flares up inside me. My own personal ulcerous early warning system gone into overdrive.

When we all disperse to the four winds, I find Liz already upstairs in our dressing room, putting on her make-up. Seemingly oblivious to what’s just happened. And what’s
worse, looking like she doesn’t particularly give a shite either way.

‘Liz, you missed it…where were you?’ I ask her all excited. ‘We’ve been nominated for a barrow load of Tony awards, and guess what? You’re up for best actress!’

I make the mistake of going to give her a spontaneous hug and I’m not joking, the girl almost jumps away from me, like she’s just been physically repelled by a strong magnetic force field.

I lock eyes with her in the mirror as much as to say,
what in the name of God just happened there?
She says nothing though, just throws me an irritated glare. You’d nearly swear I’d just told her that the show was about to fold, that we were all out of a job and heading back to Ireland, barefoot, broke and having to pay our own airfares home.

Sweet Jesus, it’s like sharing a dressing room with Joan Crawford. With a bad dose of PMT.

For a split second I stare helplessly back at her reflection, genuinely shocked by her non-reaction.

‘Aren’t you even pleased?’ I eventually ask.

‘Whatever,’ she sighs, then gets up to use the bathroom, slamming the door firmly shut behind her.

She doesn’t come to the after-show celebrations either. Just disappears off into the night, saying absolutely nothing to a single soul.

It promises to be a terrific night at Sardi’s, all benevolently hosted by Jack. But Liz’s absence is a bit like Banquo’s ghost hovering over the proceedings. Harvey Shapiro, our white-goateed producer asks if there’s something wrong with her? Is she ill? And when Jack notices that she hasn’t bothered to turn up, I can practically see his antennae ratchet up to high alert.

The restaurant’s hostess, a tall leggy, swishy-haired, model-y looking one called Isabella has obviously heard the news about our clean sweep of the Tony nominations, because as she’s escorting us to our table, she doesn’t just massage our egos, she leaves the lot of us with chakras nearly humming like xylophones.

‘Such wonderful news, you guys!’ she gushes. ‘You’re all SO amazing, everyone of you deserves to win…you know I just loved, loved, your show so much!’

Then she throws Jack an overtly sexy stare, full eye contact, Bambi eyelashes fluttering like twin butterflies, the whole works. ‘And if any of you guys need a date to the Tony awards, you sure as hell know where to find me!’

For Jack’s part though, he just smiles politely and asks to see the drinks menu, like he’s used to being bombarded by part-time models who look like Bond girls on a daily basis. Which in fairness, he probably is. He expertly scans down through the wine list and without as much as raising an eyebrow, lowers his voice and says to me, ‘So, where has she disappeared off to then?’

‘I don’t know,’ I answer truthfully. No need for him to even mention her by name, we both know only too well who he’s talking about.

‘She should be here. Looks bad that she’s not. Looks very bad. If this is what I think it is…’

‘It’s not,’ I interrupt him. Only hoping to Jaysus that I’m right.

Because I’m ninety per cent certain that Liz has been staying off coke for the last while. Yes, she’s been rude and moody and non-communicative, but her work is as stellar as always, which can only be a good sign. Can’t it? Course it is, I think, brushing that particular worry to one side.

I slip off to the bathroom with Jules and meet Chris there, who’s gaping at herself in the mirror and lashing on the Touche Éclat like it’s foundation. As soon as Jules disappears off to the loo, she fires off exactly the same set of questions about Liz. Do I know where she’s gone, who she’s with and most importantly, why she isn’t here with the rest of us, where she should be?

I can’t tell you, I answer truthfully.

An impatient eye-roll from Chris.

‘But then,’ I go on, deliberately keeping my voice low so no one in the stalls will overhear, ‘she’s most likely still mortified after the whole engagement ring debacle and being around you and me can only be a constant reminder of that. So who can blame her if she fancies socialising elsewhere? She’s got to be eaten up with guilt after what happened…’

‘Good,’ Chris snaps, expertly patting the concealer all round her eye sockets. ‘In that case, I hope she eats her guilt and gains fifteen pounds. God knows, the girl could do with a bit more weight on her.’

Then she swishes back her poker-straight hair and throws me a look as if to say, subject closed, now can we just enjoy our night please?

As we all troop back from the bathroom, I steer Jules to the seat I’ve kept for her beside me and introduce her to Jack. I’m not kidding, his eyebrows nearly slant all the way up into his hairline with surprise when he realises that this is in fact, Dan’s little sister.

‘Well, well, well, the elusive Dan,’ he teases, sitting back in his chair, and slowly taking her in from head to toe. ‘I was beginning to doubt his very existence.’

‘Oh he exists alright,’ Jules beams cheekily back at him, playing with her springy curls and with two bright pink
triangles appearing, one on each of her cheeks. ‘Paid for my airfare over here, you know.’