Chapter 17
As we sat in the theatre on The Actor’s opening night, Fred looked like he was trying to resuscitate Faith. Oddly, they seemed very well suited, and not just because they both had a fondness for facials (and, I still half-suspected, penises). They were both ‘creatives’. He was technically in graphic design. In reality he drew comics, so they weren’t what you’d call a power couple. But that didn’t seem very important to them. They did seem to get each other, and I was happy for them.
All right, yes, I was also jealous, and a little bit afraid. I was really starting to wonder whether I’d thrown away a perfectly nice relationship that was, in fact, as good as it was going to get. I’d half-hoped that moving back in with Mattias would remind me why I left. Instead, it was reminding me why I liked him. We weren’t in love, true. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for him. But Kat was right. We did get along. We liked each other. Maybe it was stupid to fight that, when the alternative might be growing old with cats, making preserves and knitting my own clothes.
‘I’m nervous for him. Are you?’ Faith asked when she’d stopped tonsil-wrestling with Fred.
‘I am, but what an achievement. Even if it’s not exactly the West End.’ We’d reflexively huddled together as we exited the Tube. Even the fine (still light) June evening couldn’t dispel the feeling that we were risking our lives or, at the very least, our wallets in that neighbourhood. It was the sort of place where the Kray brothers might have gone for a bit of culture on their doorstep. ‘Imagine, being the lead in a play,’ I said. ‘Or getting a front page feature, hmm?’
Faith blushed and nodded. Her boss was letting her write a series of articles about the council cuts. We were so proud of her. ‘Did you read the article last week?’ Of course we did. ‘Did I tell you they’re letting me have two hundred more words for the feature? It does feel great. And you’ll know exactly how it feels when your singing career takes off.’
‘That reminds me, dear heart,’ Fred said. ‘I uploaded the digital version of your mum and you.’
‘Thanks, Fred. Tell me what I owe you.’ He waved me away as if a bothersome fly. ‘Well, anyway, thanks. I guess I can send it to the managers. Can you send digital stuff through email?’
‘God, B., you are a tech dinosaur. Of course you can, but you don’t need to. Just send them the YouTube link.’
He really was a good friend. ‘Now I just need about a million people to look at it and I’m off. Maybe I’ll click on it a million times.’
‘You joke but you should start thinking like that.’
‘You mean cheating?’
‘I mean being smart about promoting yourself, and doing everything you can to do it.’
‘Do you think I’ll get to sleep my way to the top?’
‘One can only hope, angel cake.’ The rest of his inappropriate response was cut off as the lights went down and a disembodied voice cajoled us into turning off our phones, threatening bodily harm if we didn’t do so. I once forgot, making me an early Christmas gift for the comedy headliner. Once bitten…
The Actor strode on stage. What a monumental achievement. And he was the lead, not just some understudy, or ‘Peasant with pitchfork’. In Shakespeare no less. I could only imagine how proud his parents must have been. Positively bursting. It was in the parents’ contract, along with pretending to like birthday cards decorated with lint and macaroni, and eating pancakes made from flour and Coca-Cola (one of my more memorable culinary forays).
What the hell? Something was wrong with The Actor. He was all… what the hell? It wasn’t that he was stilted, although he was that. He walked stiff-legged. The phrase ‘goose step’ sprang to mind. And he sounded like he was trying to talk into a wind tunnel. In fact, it was hard to understand him. His emphasis was on all the wrong syllables. Or syll-AB-les.
‘Oh dear,’ said Fred.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ hissed Faith.
‘I don’t know. Is it a modern interpretation of Shakespeare?’ We weren’t the only ones whispering. The theatre was positively sibilant.
‘He’s bloody awful!’ Frederick exclaimed sotto voce. ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou talent?’
That man could out-bitch Ru Paul when he put his mind to it. ‘Fred, be nice.’
‘I’m sorry, light o’ my life, but you can’t date this talentless bag of wind. You simply cannot. It’s beneath you.’
Where did I stand on dating a man whose talent I found decidedly absent? Surely there were other factors that made The Actor a worthy paramour. It shouldn’t really matter whether he could act, as long as he had that creative side and did something with it. I wouldn’t reject a painter because I didn’t like his paintings, or a writer because I didn’t like his articles. That would have been shallow. Besides, he was the only option aside from Mattias at the moment. I wasn’t willing to give up just yet. ‘Fred, Faith, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not bothered that his acting is different. Just try to enjoy the play, okay?’ I could see the quip on the tip of Fred’s tongue, but he nodded, and kept quiet while I squirmed through the next three hours.
‘What are you going to say to him?’ Faith asked as we waited out front for The Actor to meet us.
‘I’m going to tell the truth. That it was great to see him in the play.’ It wasn’t a lie, merely semantics.
‘What are you going to tell him, Faith?’ Fred threaded his arm through hers. ‘I’ve got my lie all lined up. I’m going to say, “That was the most interesting interpretation of Shakespeare I’ve ever seen.”’
‘Don’t you dare, Fred, he’ll know you thought he was crap.’
‘But darling, he was crap. Utter shite. A big, steaming pile– Well, hello! Congratulations! That was the most interesting interpretation of Shakespeare I’ve ever seen!’
‘Thank you very much.’ There was no trace of doubt on The Actor’s face. ‘Several people have said the same thing.’
Faith stifled a guffaw as she turned away. My friends could be so supportive sometimes.
‘We’ll leave in just a few minutes,’ he announced. ‘Mum is taking a bunch of us for a late supper. You’ll join us, won’t you? Oh, here she is!’ He began clapping, which seemed an odd filial greeting. His mum beamed. ‘To the best director in London! Brava!’
Did he say director? ‘Faith,’ I hissed. ‘Let me see the programme.’ There it was, in black and white. The reason The Actor was onstage. ‘It’s his mother,’ I said.
‘Yes, he just said so,’ she whispered back. ‘His mother. They look alike. Are you okay, B.?’
‘No, it’s not his mother. It’s his mother. The director is his mother.’ I nodded as her face dawned understanding. She whispered in Frederick’s ear.
‘Well, that makes sense,’ he said. ‘B., much as I’m revelling in this farce, I’m afraid I’m getting bored. Do we have to go to supper with them? We’d be dining under false pretences.’
‘No, of course not. I’ll make our excuses.’ As The Actor might say, something was clearly very rotten in the staaate (dramatic pause) of Denmark.
His delusional high was too great to accommodate disappointment when I begged off dinner. It shouldn’t have bothered me. His onstage performance threw ice-cold water over my initial attraction anyway. Besides, decent kissing was terrible compensation for a lifetime of cringing pity.
But the night highlighted everything I’d feared since leaving Mattias. Surely after nearly a year there should have been at least one tiny nibble from a man who didn’t need throwing back. I seemed to be fishing in depleted waters. Did all my friends have special permits? Kat stumbled on her soul mate at the roadside. Faith found Fred in my living room. And Marjorie met The Colonel over lunch. When would it be my turn?