“Oh, I’m all right. Little bit worse for wear, I suppose…”
“Come on up to my dressing room, we’ll have a little chat, yeah?”
Josh Harper’s large, comfortable dressing room was situated at the front of the theater, just behind the massive billboard, so that he could experience the pleasing sensation of looking down at the rumble of Shaftesbury Avenue from between his own massive thighs. There were semifresh flowers in a vase, a shiny new private kettle, a set of weights, a daybed on which Josh could recharge his animal magnetism between matinees and evening shows. There was even a complete working set of high-wattage pearly lightbulbs around the massive mirror, which was partially obscured by all the hundreds of good-luck postcards—Van Goghs and Cézannes and pictures of Burton and Olivier by way of comparison, Blu-Tacked to the mirror, as required by strict Equity bylaws. Bottles of room-temperature champagne and a thick pile of play and movie scripts humbly awaited his attention, next to a cellophane-wrapped basket of scale-size muffins with a gift card attached. Josh nodded toward the basket.
“From the movie studio. Fancy one? They’ll only go stale, and I can’t eat them, I’ll get fat,” he said, somehow managing to imply that, for Stephen, that particular battle had long since been lost.
“No, I’m all right, thanks.”
“Steve, can I just ask…What do you think of my teeth?” asked Josh, making Stephen jump by leaning in suddenly, and baring them.
“Sorry?”
“My teeth—d’you think I need them done? Be honest, now…” and, like a horse trader, he pulled his lips out of the way with two index fingers. It was a toothpaste commercial.
“I think they’re lovely,” said Stephen. Lovely? You called his teeth “lovely,” you little freak. Where did “lovely” come from?
“D’you really think so?” Josh asked, putting them away. “My agent wants me to get them whitened, or capped, or something. For ‘the movies.’ Can you believe it? She knows I hate all that showbiz Hollywood bullshit.”
“So are you going to do it?”
“Oh, yeah, probably. Hey, maybe you should get yours done too. Not that there’s anything wrong with your teeth or anything, but it is tax deductible. I could talk to my guy, see how much it would cost you.”
Stephen’s mouth puckered involuntarily, keeping the offending teeth well out of sight.
“Hey, make yourself comfy.” Josh nodded toward the daybed, flicked on the kettle, then sat astride the swivel chair and swung it around to face Stephen, his head on his folded arms, cocked at a questioning angle, an unsettling combination of the macho and the effeminate. No man looks good astride a chair, thought Stephen. It was like being ruthlessly interrogated by a member of the touring company of Chicago.
“So—what time did you get in?”
“God, can’t remember. Three?”
“You didn’t throw up in the cab, did you…”
“I think I’d remember that.”
“…’cause you were pretty out of it, you know?”
“I was aware of that.”
“Apparently you told a certain someone to go fuck himself.”
“Yeah, that rings a bell. Sorry about that.”
“ ’S all right, he probably deserved it. Still—great crack, wasn’t it? Great crack…”
“You smoked crack?” said Stephen, impressed despite himself.
Josh slipped into a top-o’-the-morning accent—“No, you know great craic, great craic.”
“Oh, right, yes. Great craic!”
“Aren’t my friends amazing? You got to talk to them, yeah? I mean, it wasn’t all work, was it? Didn’t look like it. Anyway—I haven’t been to bed yet. I am absolutely wasted today, man. Completely wasted.” He didn’t look wasted. If anything, he looked even better than usual—peachy and glowing and healthy; a slightly sweaty plastic sheen perhaps, like a mannequin, but otherwise absolutely ready for his close-up. But then he always looked like this; it would come as no surprise to discover that Josh Harper had a Dorian Gray–style portrait in the converted loft of his apartment, the difference being that the portrait looked fantastic too. “Shame you had to work, mate,” he said, adding meaningfully, “for some of it, anyway. Oh, which reminds me…” He reached into his back pocket.
There’s a standard moment in any film featuring a prostitute as a central character: the awkward-and-degrading-handing-over-of-the-money scene.
“…there you go, my friend—one hundred squid-ders exactement.”
“That’s way too much.”
“No, go on—take it.”
“I can’t. Anyway, I didn’t do anything for the last two hours, except abuse your guests.”
“Go on—take it. I’m earning way more than you, so it’s only fair. Practical socialism, isn’t it?” He waggled the wad of twenties under his nose, and even Stephen had to admire the way Josh could pass condescension off as political integrity. He palmed the money, quickly crumpling it into his pocket.
“So, you met the lovely Nozza, then!” said Josh, in an attempt to clear the air.
“Who’s Noz—Oh, you mean Nora.”
“Uh-huh. Fantastic, isn’t she?”
“Absolutely.”
“A truly beautiful woman.”
“She’s very attractive…”
“And incredibly sexy too”—closing his eyes, shaking his head slightly.
“Yes” was all Stephen could think of to say.
Josh opened his eyes. “Sorry, that’s a naff thing to say, I know, but she just is.”
“No, I can imagine,” said Stephen, who could imagine, and had imagined. “Very, very funny too.”
Josh smiled sadly, breathed out through his nose. “What, sarcastic, you mean?”
“No, you know—feisty.”
“What, because she gives me a hard time?”
“No, I just mean—”
“ ’S all right, I deserve it most of the time. Problem is, she’s just so much smarter than me, you know?”
“I’m sure she’s not.”
“Trust me, she is. Much smarter. I do all this…stupid stuff, say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing and…well, I know I’m not up to the job. But I worship her, you know, Steve? I really do, whatever she thinks. I just wish she’d trust me, that’s all.”
Stephen wasn’t sure what to say to this, so was silent, nodding sagely, listening to the squeak of Josh’s swivel chair as he moved it side to side with the tips of his toes.
“Anyway, she loved you,” said Josh, eventually.
“Nora? Did she?” said Stephen, delighted.
“Yeah. She said you were the only person there she could have a decent conversation with. She hates my mates usually. Absolutely hates ’em. ’Specially the girls. She’ll be in later; you should come and say hi.”
“Okay. All right, I will.” Stephen heaved himself up from the daybed. “See you later—have a good show, yeah?”
“Yeah—you too, mate.”
You too—that’s a laugh, thought Stephen, opening the door to leave.
“Did she talk about me, by the way?” Josh asked it as an afterthought, but the look on his face was that of an anxious schoolboy. What did he want to hear? Stephen wondered.
“No. Not really. I mean, only good things. Why?”
“Just…no reason, no reason…”
He closed the door and was about to leave, when Josh called again—“Oh, Steve!” He opened the door again. Josh was still sitting astride the chair, lighting a cigarette now. “One other thing?”
“Go on.”
“I can’t find my Best Actor Award.”
Time to do some acting. Pretend. Do your “innocent” face. Furrow your brow, let your mouth hang open a little, raise the pitch of your voice…
“What d’you mean?”
“My Best Actor Award—some wanker stole it from my bedroom.”
Innocent. Think innocent. You are innocent. Maybe chuckle a little bit as you say…
“Why-hy-hy wo
uld anyone do that?”
“I don’t know, Steve.” He folded his arms, gripping his own biceps. “Jealousy, I suppose, or spite. You didn’t see anyone with it, did you?”
“No. No, no, I didn’t, no.” Too many “nos.” Keep it real, keep it grounded…
“I mean, it’s just a stupid hunk of metal, awards don’t actually mean anything, and I hate all that showbiz bullshit, but I just don’t like to think one of my real mates would do that. Unless it was the cleaner’s, of course…”—and an idea could be seen forming behind his eyes—“or one of the bloody caterers.”
“I’m sure it’s not one of them.” Too confident, too certain…
“Why not? They were in and out of that bedroom all night.”
“It’s probably still at home, or it’s a joke, just a stupid joke, someone pissed and mucking about. You’ll get it back, it’ll turn up.” Too much dialogue. Stop talking. Remember, less is more…
“Yeah, well, funny kind of joke. I’m just glad they didn’t nick my original Storm Trooper’s helmet.”
“You’ve got an original Storm Trooper’s helmet?” Incredulity—nice touch.
“Yeah, original 1977. Only fifty still in existence. Worth a fortune too. Almost as much as my complete set of Star Wars figures.” In his pocket, Stephen felt Han Solo kick him hard in the hip. Josh sniffed, spun the chair back around to face the mirror, pulled his lips apart, and returned to the vexed issue of his lovely teeth.
Stephen backed out, and closed the door softly behind him.
In films, when a character has managed to get away with something, they signal their relief to the audience by leaning with their back against the door, their hand still on the doorknob, looking up at the ceiling, and exhaling audibly, perhaps making a noise that sounds like “Pheeeew!”
And even though there was no audience, that is exactly what Stephen did.
The Love Interest
He hid Han Solo on top of the wardrobe.
At 8:48 precisely, as he’d done exactly ninety-nine times before, and as he would do another forty-five times more, Stephen left his dressing room, went down to stand in the wings and watch Josh’s performance. Tonight, standing in his usual spot, he saw Nora and once more felt a little jolt of pleasure. He tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and she turned and gave a startled yelp, perfectly understandable, given the combination of mask and body stocking, but just loud enough for Maxine to scowl across at them from the stage-right wings. Stephen sucked his belly in, lifted the mask up, mouthed a “Sorry,” and smiled reassuringly at Nora. She smiled back, a big, crooked smile, seemingly genuinely pleased to see him, then took his hand and tugged him farther back into the wings to talk.
“Nice leotard, my man,” she whispered.
“Technically, it’s a unitard.” In the name of decency, Stephen pulled the cloak tight around him. “It’s meant to make me look sinister.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe…”
“Well, thank you.”
“I thought that whole underwear-as-outerwear thing was over. And yet here you are…”
“You like it?”
“Like it? I love it! Very easy on the eye. Awfully snug, isn’t it?” She grinned. “Button gusset?”
“No, you sort of climb into it.”
“Lycra? Spandex?”
“Lycra-mix. I’m one of the few men in London who can really carry off a Lycra-mix unitard.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be the judge of that…” she said, and there was a lighthearted tussle as she tugged at the cloak. “Is it backless? Let me see…”
Meanwhile onstage, in the throes of mortal fever, Lord Byron was giving a particularly passionate dying speech.
“That’s my cue.”
“Don’t go,” she giggled, holding on to the cloak.
“I’ve got to go!”
“Just stay here—let Josh open his own damn door.”
Stephen’s cue light was green. He summoned up a stern, professional face.
“I’m serious, Nora.”
“But I must talk to you.”
“Okay,” said Stephen, delighted. “Okay, in my dressing room…”
“I’ll see you up there.”
“Fine, fine,” he whispered, pulling his mask down, straightening his face.
“Knock ’em dead, superstar,” she whispered, pushing him onto the stage.
As he walked menacingly across the back of the stage to open the door, the Ghostly Figure struggled to suppress a smile, but thankfully it was too dark for any of the audience to notice, and, besides, he was wearing a mask.
Back in his attic dressing room, Stephen extricated himself from the catsuit with canine grace, then, when Nora didn’t arrive, took a few moments to have a good long look at his teeth. They’d always seemed perfectly adequate before, but now, after comparing them with Josh’s, they seemed particularly gnarled and smoky, like the keys on a pub piano. After an unhappy ten minutes spent prodding and scraping with a bent safety pin, he resigned himself to the fact that Nora wasn’t coming.
Just as he was pulling on his coat, she stumbled in, carrying her coat and an exquisite bouquet of red roses.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Please—step into my office.”
“Hey, they’ve really got you tucked away up here, haven’t they? Sorry it took so long. Josh urgently needed his ego massaged. Unless someone tells him how amazing he is every twenty-five minutes, his heart stops beating.”
“So you watched the whole show, then?”
“God, no! Why would I wanna do that? Still, Josh doesn’t need to know that, does he?” She lowered her voice. “Tell me, d’you think this play’s actually any good?”
“Well, it’s not really a play, as such. I mean, it’s not that dramatic.”
“No, I got that…”
“But with the right performer. Someone charismatic, like Josh…”
“Or you.”
“Or me.”
“I thought you were electric tonight, by the way.”
“Thanks very much. That’s because you were watching.”
There was a moment’s pause, as the remark wafted around the small room, and they both wondered where it had come from and what it might have meant.
They smiled at each other, and Nora said, “So…how are you today?”
“Okay. I have some mystery bruises that I can’t quite place, but I’m not too bad. Listen, I have a vague memory of you putting me in a cab last night.”
“Pouring you into a cab.”
“Sorry about that. I’d been taking these antibiotics, you see, and clearly you’re not meant to drink on them.” It sounded a little puny, put like this, but too late, he’d said it now.
“Antibiotics, eh? You rascal. And I thought maybe you were just a lousy drunk.”
“Yeah, well, I am that too. Some people get charismatic and funny and seductive when they’re drunk. I just weep and pee on the toilet seat.”
“Now, there’s a winning combination.” She smiled her staggering smile, and Stephen noticed once more the lines that formed in the corners of her eyes, how fantastic they were. “Don’t worry. We were all as bad as each other, really. In fact, that’s why I was looking for you; I’m sorry for being such a pissy old witch last night.”
“You weren’t.”
“Oh, I was. Screaming at Josh in public like that. Very attractive. I’d blame it on the drugs and the booze, but it’s all just my fault, really—I never know when to stop. And I hate Josh’s parties. After you left, that’s when it got really gruesome—the back rubs started.”
“Did you get a back rub?”
“Are you kidding? I’d break their fuckin’ fingers. And of course they found the bongos! And that was it, everyone high as kites, jamming and bellowing about their favorite sexual positions till six in the morning. I tell you, when some pretty little thing you’ve never met before starts giving your husband a massage and bellowing that she only really likes it from behind, the
n you know it’s time to call it a night.”
“Who was doing that?”
“Oh, some cute little hussy in a strappy dress—they all look the same after a while. Anyway, the point is, compared to most of the people there you were an angel. A burbling, incoherent angel, but still an angel.”
“I put my coat on this morning, and my pockets were full of canapés.”
Nora laughed. “That’s okay. They were only going to be thrown out anyway. Did you eat them?”
“I’d already sat on them in the cab, so they weren’t at their best.”
“Ni-ice. Reeee-ally nice.”
“I think there’s some of that smoked salmon tucked right down in the left-hand pocket.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
There was a silence, and they both suddenly become aware how small the attic room was. Now would have been a good time for Stephen to slip into his suave Cary Grant persona, flirting on the train with Eva Marie Saint in North by Northwest, or perhaps a more affable Jimmy Stewart type, in The Philadelphia Story. But Stephen suspected that it was hard to will yourself charismatic; he might as well try and will himself invisible. Instead he became acutely aware of the black body stocking hanging on the back of the door behind her, like some terrible skin that he had shed. For want of something to do with her spare hand, Nora twisted her short fringe between her fingers.
“Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that Josh and I have kissed and made up. French-kissed, in Josh’s case. I just wanted to come by and thank you for being such good company, and for refereeing between me and Josh,” and still holding the bunch of flowers, she reached out and squeezed Stephen’s hand.
“It was a pleasure,” said Stephen, taking the roses from her, and looking around the room. “I’m afraid, I don’t have a vase or anything…”
Nora stood looking at her empty hand. “Actually, I’m sorry, the flowers, they’re not for you.”
“Right, I see…”
“They’re for me, from Josh…”
“Of course they are.”
“…though you can have them if you want.”
The Understudy Page 11