The Understudy

by David Nicholls

  Stephen laughed. “Rubbish, you’re never ill.”

  “No, but what I mean is, I might be coming down with something. In the near future.”

  “Well, I’ve got some echinacea in my bag.”

  Josh looked somber. “Not a cold, Steve—seriously ill.”

  “Seriously? What is it? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking…”

  Josh looked at the floor, a choke in his voice. “The doctor says it’s…it’s…skive-alitis.”

  “What?”

  “Skive-alitis. You know—the Lurgy? Bunk-off’s disease? PlayStation Syndrome? Not now, but maybe on, say, a Wednesday and Thursday? In about a month’s time, December the eighteenth or thereabouts. My Christmas present to you. Would that suit you, d’you think?”

  Stephen was silent for a moment. Eventually—“Are you…are you suggesting…?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” said Josh, with a stage wink.

  “…because if they found out…”

  “How would they find out? If I’m ill, I’m ill.”

  “But the management, they’ll know.”

  “How will they know? It’s not like I’m going to pretend I’ve lost a leg or something. It’s just flu, or glandular fever or food poisoning, an iffy oyster or something. If I can cough myself to death onstage every night in front of eight hundred people, then I can convince Donna that I’ve got the squits. I’m an actor, remember? Lying is what I do.”

  “Well, thanks for the offer, Josh, but I’ve got to say no.”

  “Hang on a sec—you’re telling me you don’t want to play the lead role in a hit West End play?”

  “No, I’d love to play it—”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “So, it’s just that, knowing what I know, I just don’t feel…comfortable accepting, that’s all. I mean—I don’t want to feel as if the two things are in some way connected, as if I’ve made some sort of…deal.”

  “Deal?”

  “Yeah—deal.”

  Josh put one hand to his chest and took a few steps back in surprise, a response so stock and hackneyed that only an accomplished actor could get away with it. “Hang on a sec, mate—you think it’s a bribe? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You think I’m doing it just to hush you up? Keep shtum with Nora and I’ll make you a star? Christ, Steve, what do you take me for? I know you think I’m a bit of a tosser, but I didn’t realize you thought I’d sink as low as that.”

  “I don’t think that, it’s just—”

  “If you must know, I’ve been meaning to give you a break for ages, it’s just I haven’t had a chance to do it. But if it really offends your principles so much, if you really think that’s why I’m doing it—to have some kind of hold over you—”

  “It’s not that, it’s just—if I’m going to get somewhere, I’d like to do it on my own merits, that’s all.”

  Josh laughed loud. “Merits? Steve, mate, you haven’t got any merits, not as far as the public’s concerned. You could be Larry bloody Olivier, and it wouldn’t make any difference, not if no one gets to see you. But, look, if you’re really happy as the invisible man, sitting up there in that crappy dressing room, drinking tea and picking your feet, instead of showing people what you’re capable of, then sure, fine, by all means, let’s just forget the whole thing. But you know what the meek inherit? Fuck all, mate. Fuck. All.” Josh stepped out into the rain, and started walking north toward Oxford Street. “Just don’t expect the opportunity to come up again, that’s all. Like you said, I’m never ill.”

  Stephen waited a moment in the doorway, playing the old familiar scene again, on the screen in his head.

  …the roar of the audience in his ears as they rise as one. Great waves of love and respect and validation wash over him and, shielding his eyes against the spotlight, he squints out into the auditorium, and spots the faces of Alison, his wife; of Sophie, his daughter—grinning and laughing, screaming and shouting, eyes wide with pride and delight…

  “Josh—hold on a moment, will you?” he called, turned up the collar of his coat, and ran up Berwick Street. “I don’t want to appear ungrateful, Josh. I mean, I appreciate the offer—”

  “Look, Stephen, cut to the chase. Your career—with the best will in the world, you’re not exactly setting the showbiz world alight, are you?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “And you should be, shouldn’t you? I mean, you want it, you deserve it. You’re better than half those talentless clowns out there. All you need is a lucky break, am I right?”

  “Well, I suppose…”

  “And it would help for you to do a show or two? Lead role in a West End play. Invite some people along, influential people, show them what you’re capable of. I could have a word with my agent, get him along, and you can invite your family. I couldn’t see it, of course, but Nora could come along.”

  “But surely people are only coming to see you?”

  “No, they’re coming to see the play. Like The Dane says—the play’s the thing. And you’re as good as me, aren’t you? You must think you are, or you wouldn’t do it.”

  “Well…”—Stephen glanced sideways at Josh, who was grinning back at him—“I’m not bad.”

  “Well, fuck ’em, then. It’s not like we’re selling them shoddy goods. You’re the one and only Stephen C. McQueen! With a P-H! You’ll blow their fuckin’ socks off.”

  He stepped suddenly out into the street to hail a passing cab, and Stephen saw the cabbie’s smile of recognition. “Primrose Hill, please, mate,” said Josh in full-on barrow boy, and opened the cab door.

  He’s serious, thought Stephen. This is it, at last, the Big Break. This is how you make your own luck. You say yes.

  Say yes.

  “Josh?”

  Josh closed the cab door, and crossed back to Stephen. “Well?”

  “You’ll end this thing with Maxine, yeah?” said Stephen.

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ll make things all right with Nora?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The cabbie beeped his horn.

  “All right, then,” said Stephen. “Let’s do it.”

  Josh put one hand on his shoulder, squeezed it hard. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Two days, December the eighteenth and nineteenth? That’s two evening shows and a matinee. Just in time for Christmas. That’s another part of the deal by the way—you have got to be fucking sensational.”

  “I will be.”

  “Okay. It’s a deal.”

  Josh winked, and turned to get in the cab, then stopped, turned back and said, just a little too casually, “Oh, and just for my peace of mind, and completely unconnected, we’re cool about you not saying anything about you-know-what to you-know-who?”

  Stephen thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Lips are sealed.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Then just as suddenly Josh was in the cab, and driving off into the rain.

  Stephen stood watching as Josh grinned at him through the back window, mimed an imaginary gun, fired it, then drove off back to Nora. Somewhere behind all his hope and elation, Stephen had the definite sensation that he had made some kind of terrible mistake.

  Then he turned and walked south toward Trafalgar Square, and the night bus home.

  There’s No Business Like Show Business

  The international headquarters of the Creative Talent Agency Enterprises Limited were located on the further outskirts of London’s glittering West End, in Acton, to be precise, on what used to be called an industrial estate, but had now been redesignated a “business park.” Stephen did not relish going to see his agent. Frank was always supportive and cheery, but it still felt a little like visiting an enthusiastic amateur dentist. On a day like this, as he walked across the rain-swept forecourt to the low, gray sprawl of aluminum and chipboard prefabs, surrounde
d by a razor-wire fence, the business park looked more than ever like somewhere you might try to tunnel out of.

  The offices themselves occupied a compact two-room “suite” in between a dubious travel agent’s and a debt-recovery agency. A gang of big, sour, red-faced debt collectors loitered on the stairwell, eating sandwiches and smoking violently, and Stephen squeezed past them sheepishly, then stood outside his agent’s office, dried his damp hair with the sleeve of his overcoat, patted it down, assumed a confident, urbane, professional smile, knocked gently on the flimsy wood-veneer door and entered.

  Melissa, the receptionist, stood guard at the front desk, methodically scouring the bottom of a low-fat yogurt carton with a plastic spoon. A stationery catalog lay open on the desk before her, a game of solitaire flickered on the yellowing computer monitor by her side.

  “Hi, there! I wanted to see Frank,” said Stephen, smiling and, for no apparent reason, pulling on the lobe of one ear.

  Melissa glanced up momentarily from the wide selection of ring binder files, then went back to noisily digging for subatomic traces of yogurt in the bottom of the pot.

  “Is it about representation?” She sighed.

  “Well, not exactly…”

  “Because we’re not taking on any new clients at the moment. The books are full, but if you want to send us your photo and CV, we can keep your details on file.”

  “No, you don’t understand, Melissa—I already am a client. It’s me—Stephen McQueen? Frank’s expecting me.”

  Melissa sucked her teaspoon. “Oh, right, of course, sorry, Stephen, I didn’t recognize you.”

  Well, whose fault is that? thought Stephen, but didn’t say it. First rule of showbiz: never, ever alienate your agent. Melissa sat up straight, settled the hands-free headset back on her head, and dialed Frank’s extension, a slightly redundant use of the technology, given that Frank’s voice could be heard perfectly clearly through the prefabricated partition behind her.

  “Frank?”

  “I’m on the mobile, Melissa, what is it?” growled Frank from the other side of the wall.

  “Just to say Steve McQueen’s here to see you.”

  Stephen braced himself. Here it comes…

  “The famous one? Or the client?” shouted Frank.…and there it is.

  “The client,” smirked Melissa.

  “Lovely. Tell him if he’d care to take a seat I’ll see him in a minute.”

  “If you’d care to take a seat, he’ll see you in a minute.”

  “Okay, fine. And, eh, Queen of Hearts next, I think,” said Stephen, in a stab at raffishness.

  “What?”

  Stephen nodded at the game of solitaire on the computer screen.

  “Oh, I see,” mumbled Melissa, smiled for an instant, then began jabbing flamboyantly and seemingly randomly at the keyboard like a deranged concert pianist. “If you’d like to wait over there…?”

  Stephen settled on the row of seating a short distance away from Melissa, seating so low that it felt effectively like sitting on the floor, lowering himself down carefully until his knees were level with his head. Mustard-colored foam filling peeked invitingly out of a hole in the fabric, but he fought the temptation to pick at it.

  Melissa’s intercom buzzed. “Tell Steve I’ll see him now,” said Frank from the other side of the partition.

  “He’ll see you now,” said Melissa.

  “Oh, right-ee-o,” said Stephen, hauling himself up from his seat on the floor. Right-ee-o. Where did that come from? He squeezed past Melissa and headed into the inner sanctum.

  The small brown office smelled of stale fags and instant coffee, and was thick with the billows of blue-gray fug emanating from Frank, late forties, a bony, elongated man with swept-back thinning hair and teeth the color of pound coins. Even the whites of his eyes had somehow turned a bruised yellow, and he wore an almost flesh-tone polo-neck, overstretched and slack at the neck, giving him that much-sought-after slipped-goiter look. He sat twisting his chair jerkily from side to side with the nervy energy of a man who subsisted almost entirely on catering tubs of generic chicory coffee, powdered milk, room-temperature Coke, sweets and Silk Cut. On the edge of the cluttered desk, a Glade pine air freshener made the room smell like a pine forest destroyed by fire, and, next to that, a bowl of gourmet jelly beans was peppered with ash.

  “Hello, there, Mr. McQueen, and how are you?” he said, balancing his current cigarette on the edge of a Coke can and offering Stephen his bony, yellow-tipped hand. Frank had the look and demeanor of an inappropriately cheerful mortician who’s made an unusual sideways step into showbiz. In reality he was an ex-actor who’d had a long, successful stint in a soap as a randy, bigamous greengrocer. When the greengrocer had died in a freak forklift truck accident, Frank had looked forward to the challenge of taking on the classics—a chance to give his Vanya, perhaps, even one day his Lear—but all people could see was that randy bigamous greengrocer, and in the end he had crossed to the other side: “Poacher-turned-gamekeeper, if you will…”

  “Good to see you, good to see you. Sit down, sit down, help yourself to jelly beans.” Stephen gingerly sat opposite on the somewhat unstable second-best swivel chair—again, the mustard-colored foam peeked through the seat fabric. Don’t pick. Concentrate. Be firm but friendly, professional but relaxed.

  “Raining, is it?” asked Frank. Given that rain could be heard on the roof and seen through the window, “Yes” seemed the only appropriate reply.

  “So—good news, young man,” said Frank, retrieving his cigarette, and getting down to business. “I have a little something for you here.” And he searched through the topsoil of paperwork on his desk, before retrieving a slip of paper, which he snapped tight a few times in front of Stephen’s face. “A check, made out to a Mr. Stephen C. McQueen for the princely sum of £1762.24.”

  “Really? What for?”

  “Sammy the Squirrel. Foreign sales. Apparently, you’re absolutely massive in Eastern Europe.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  “Told you it was worth it, didn’t I? And it gets better. They want you back for more.”

  “They do? What for?”

  “The sequel. Sammy the Squirrel 2—If You’re Happy and You Know It.”

  Stephen’s good mood evaporated. It would have been expecting too much, perhaps, for Frank to offer him the title role in the romantic comedy he’d told Alison and Sophie all about. That had, after all, been a figment of his imagination. But Sammy? Again? It was like being told that he’d have to go back to prison.

  “And d’you think it’s going to be one of those sequels that’s actually better than the original?”

  “Didn’t you say you wanted to work, Steve? Well, you ask, and Frank provides. Think of it as an opportunity to revisit a much-loved role.”

  “And what does the part entail?”

  “ ’Bout two grand.”

  “No, I mean, what does the role involve?”

  “I don’t know, the usual—singing songs with your Woodland Pals, holding a big acorn…”

  “But have you seen a script?”

  “Not yet. I don’t think I can get you script approval or anything, but they were very keen to have you back.”

  “All right, Frank, I’ll give it some thought.”

  “Could get you noticed.”

  “Only by preschoolers, Frank.”

  “Hey, film directors have children too, Steve. And the money’s not bad. A grand and a half plus potential residuals…?”

  “I’ll think about it, Frank.”

  “What’s to think about?”

  “I’d just rather do something new, that’s all.”

  “This is new!”

  “What’s new about it?”

  “Well, the first one was about numbers, whereas this one focuses on the alphabet.”

  “It’s still dressing up as an animal, though, Frank.”

  “What are you talking about? They can see your face.”
r />   Stephen sighed and looked at the rain on the window. “Well, like I said—I’ll think about it.”

  “All right, but don’t think about it too long, yeah? Winter’s a quiet time of year and, like it or not, a grand and a half is not peanuts.”

  “Or hazelnuts,” added Stephen.

  Frank laughed and coughed at the same time. “Hazelnuts—like it, very good. You should be on the stage, friend.” Frank’s mobile started to chirrup Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer,” and he snapped it up instantly, scrutinized the display, and scowled. “Sorry, Steve, got to get this one. Bear with me, will you?” He pressed a button, swiveled the chair through ninety degrees, put his feet on the edge of the desk, and surveyed the car park—his movie-mogul stance. “Hello, there…Well, I’m with a client at the moment so it’s not the best time…Steve McQueen…No, not that one…Look, I thought we’d already gone over this…No, I’m not prepared to do anything before Friday…I don’t care…I told you, I simply do not care!…”

  If he’s going to talk tough, maybe I should leave, thought Stephen, rising an inch from his chair, nodding toward the door, but Frank gestured for him to sit back down, clearly relishing the opportunity to put on a show for a client.

  “No, money is not the issue, it’s simply a question of schedule and practicalities.…Tomorrow’s an absolute nonstarter…. No, now listen to me, we’re just going round and round in circles here”—he glanced at Stephen, shaking his head and rolling his eyes theatrically—“Friday is my final offer. If you can’t wait till Friday, then I’m afraid you’ll just have to try elsewhere.”

  Maybe Frank’s not so bad after all, thought Stephen, feeling guilty. The truth was, he’d been planning to invite Josh’s high-powered agent along to his forthcoming Big Break, hopefully jump ship soon after, then break the news to Frank—“I think we should be free to see other people.” But maybe Frank was okay. This is, after all, what you want from an agent: tough talk, fearlessness, loyalty, an unwillingness to compromise on behalf of his clients…

  “I’m sorry, no, that’s my final offer. All right, then, Friday it is…About four o’clock? And, Mum? I’ll need someone else there to help me get the fridge down the stairs…. Well, I can’t do it by myself, can I? Well, ask the neighbors. Ask whatsisname next door. Look, Mum, I’ve got a client here with me…. No one you’d know…. All right, see you Friday.” And he hung up.