Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ got black and white pictures of all her clients dotted round the office walls and through the haze of smoke I manage to make my own photo out. Taken over four years ago, but apart from a few more wrinkles and a few extra pounds…no, I’m not really all that much different. Same dark skin, same long, dark, centre-parted, wiry hair that needs enough hairspray to put a dent in the ozone layer just to get it to lie down flat…same everything.

      Funny, but looking at my own photo always reminds me of how alike Dan and I are, even the way we look. We both have the identical eye colour: deep brown, which turns straight to coal black when either of us are worn out or exhausted. We could almost pass for brother and sister. Or as Jules puts it a bit more cruelly, I look like him dressed in drag.

      Ouch.

      ‘OK, down to business,’ says Hilary, sitting forward and balancing her fag on the edge of an ashtray. ‘You’re familiar with Jack Gordon’s work, no doubt?’

      ‘THE Jack Gordon? Are you kidding me? Yes, yeah, of course I am, he’s completely amazing,’ I blurt out, wondering where this could possibly be headed.

      Jack Gordon, by the way, would be one of the youngest and hottest theatre directors in town; so unbelievably successful that you’d almost think the legal firm of Beelzebub and Faustus had a contract on file with his name scrawled on it in suspicious looking red ink. I’m not joking, actors nearly impale themselves just to get a chance to audition for him, never mind work for him. But then Jack’s reputation goes before him and boy, does he have the Olivier awards hanging out of him to prove it. His productions are always cutting edge, razor sharp and invariably the talk of the chattering classes. In fact, probably the only thing that’s slowed down the guy’s progress over the years is the deep drift of bouquets and laurels that he’s had to wade through.

      The theatre world’s Alexander McQueen, in short.

      ‘Then have a read of this,’ says Hilary, tossing a bound script over to me.

      I look at the title of the play, Wedding Belles. By a new playwright whose name I’m not familiar with.

      ‘It’s a comedy-drama and a smash hit to boot,’ Hilary goes on. ‘Set in a health spa where a group of women of different ages and all from the same family go for a hen weekend, because the protagonist is getting married. It opened at the National back in October, during the theatre festival and is still packing them in.’

      Now a distant bell begins to ring.

      ‘Yeah, that’s right…I remember reading some of the reviews when it first opened,’ I tell her, excitedly grabbing hold of the script and flicking through it.

      Fag Ash Hil just raises a Vulcan eyebrow at me, like she’s shocked that we actually do get paper deliveries down in The Sticks and don’t just communicate with the outside world via carrier pigeon. But I don’t care, because by now I’m on the edge of my seat with anticipation, wondering what all of this can possibly have to do with me and with my little life. The show is already up and running so it’s not like I can go and audition for it, now is it? Aren’t I already a few months too late for that?

      ‘The curtain goes up at seven-thirty sharp tonight. I’ve already managed to wangle a house seat for you, and I need you there,’ says Hilary, pulling so deeply on her fag that it’s like the breath comes from her toes. ‘Then you’ll go back to bog-trotter land…’

      For the sake of diplomacy, I let that one pass. Mainly because I know only too well that as far as Hilary is concerned, if you’re based anywhere further than a thirty-mile radius from Harvey Nichols, chances are you live in a mud hut and spend your spare time either milking cattle or else throwing stones at the neighbours. When you’re not worrying about the new taxes on cider, that is.

      On she goes: ‘…where you’ll spend the rest of the night studying that script like your life depended on it. Then tomorrow afternoon…’

      ‘But, Hilary, I don’t understand…none of this makes any sense…I mean, the show is already cast and in production…’

      ‘If you’d let me finish, I was about to explain that the leading actress has literally just given notice to the producers that she’s pregnant and will have to drop out of the show very soon. In a matter of weeks, as it happens. It seems that she’s almost four months gone and unfortunately for her, the pregnancy can’t be disguised any more. Plus, as you’ll see when you read the script, her role is quite a physical one, so she’s been advised by her doctors to drop out of the show as soon as possible. For the health and safety of the child, naturally.’

      ‘Pregnant?’ I repeat stupidly.

      ‘Which is where you come in. Jack Gordon remembered seeing you in a production of Twelfth Night years ago. Of course that would have been before you decided to take early retirement and disappear off into the professional wilderness…’

      Again, I bite my tongue and let that pass; I’m waaaaay too keyed up right now to bother defending my life.

      ‘…And he thinks that you might possibly be right to take over the role…’

      ‘He WHAT? He actually said that?’ I almost yell, stunned that the mighty Jack Gordon even remembered me in the first place.

      ‘So maybe if you’d shut up for two seconds together, I could get to tell you the really good news. Jack is only seeing three actresses this week to audition them for the part. And you, my dear, are one of the lucky three.’

      For the first time since I arrived here, I’m completely shell-shocked into silence.

      

      After I leave Hilary’s office, I somehow stagger to a Starbucks, find a quiet corner and desperately try to calm down, even though my heart’s palpitating so fast, I almost feel like I should be breathing into a paper bag. I grab a mug of coffee and start reading through the script, with trembling hands and eyes that won’t even focus properly; I’m that all over the place.

      The play, by the way, isn’t just amazing, it’s an absolute cracker. A wow. It’s rare enough that you find half-decent parts written for women these days, but this one really is like the gold standard. It’s an all-female cast, five women in total, ranging in age from a teenager right up to a woman in her mid-fifties. And the part I’m up for, fingers, toes and eyeballs crossed, is the bride-to-be, aged twenty four, the exact same ludicrously young age I was myself when I got married.

      I’m not just saying it, but it really would be a dream role, it’s got everything. Highs, lows, thrills, spills and a twist that never in a sugar rush could you possibly see coming. A show that lulls you into a false sense of security…then gives you a swift, sharp punch right to the solar plexus. Starts out as pure farce and ends in tragedy.

      So not all that different to my own marriage, when you come to think about it.

      In fact, I’m so utterly engrossed in reading it that before I know where I am, it’s already past seven pm. So I race for the National theatre, which is right in the dead centre of town and thankfully only a short sprint away. I call Dan on the way, of course, knowing full well that I’ll only get his voicemail. At this time, he’ll still be out doing farm calls, so I leave a hysterical message explaining what’s happened and faithfully promise to be home right after the show. The full story, I figure, can wait till we’re talking properly. Face to face. So he can’t get away from me, or tune me out, or else start talking about bovine diarrhoea.

      Course by now СКАЧАТЬ