The Stand-In

by Deborah Moggach

  Outside, the trees shivered soundlessly as the wind blew. Trucks slid past. Indoors it was as seasonless as California. I sat down at a table. Each table was occupied, territorially, by a single person. Some of them looked as if they had been there for weeks. The black men wore leather caps with ear flaps; they shuffled repeatedly through their collections of carrier bags, like a nervous tic. I took out my book but nowadays it was too difficult to read; it required such monumental concentration. How had I ever managed it? Big fat people sat there, too fat for anyone to love. They wore baseball caps and had Walkmen plugged into their ears. The bamboo trees looked as Chekhovian as ever; they hadn’t shed their leaves. But the tubs had been replanted since I had last been there, in November. The chrysanthemums had gone, and now spears of daffodil foliage poked between papery house-plants; they poked out like the knives in Lotte Lenya’s boots.

  I had nobody to talk to. The ache tightened around my brain and constricted my rib-cage. Sometimes I could hardly breathe. I took Seconal pills, like Lila. I used to sit in the IBM atrium for ages. Opposite was a garage. At intervals its doors slid open and swallowed a car; in the afternoon the process would be reversed, with cars emerging. High achievers were driving home to their families. Bitterness corroded my bones, like acid. In my saner moments I knew I should go back to London, but something locked me. Fury, I suppose. And despair. In fact I could hardly move. How could I possibly make all those travel arrangements when I could hardly drag myself across the street?

  I told you I plotted my revenge, but in fact I don’t think I did anything much. For two weeks I simply existed, numbly. I moved through the streets sluggishly, like a blind catfish at the bottom of the ocean. The streets were full of skips, dust and sudden gaps as shocking as a missing tooth. On either side, buildings were bandaged as if they would bleed. Lorries full of rubble jammed the streets; hoardings were removed with a flourish, like theatre curtains, to reveal new granite lobbies swarming with workmen. They stripped off the masking tape like Elastoplast; it made you wince. It all happened so fast, no wonder people got confused. During those weeks a new building was going up outside my window; day by day it rose, blocking my last gasp of a view. Soon the sun would be shut out and I would be faced with windows full of stenographers, so close I could see their charm bracelets.

  I suppose I was simply waiting for something to happen. Besides, how could I go back to England and face my mother and the few friends who thought I was in Hollywood? They presumed I was having a thrilling time working on a major motion picture.

  In fact, I phoned my mother one evening and told her my latest news. ‘We’ve been shooting on location in the desert,’ I burbled. ‘Gosh, it’s hot! Been to lots of parties and you should see my tan.’ I lay on my bed, gazing at a crack in the ceiling. It was a rent-controlled building and they were trying to kick out my landlady by letting the place fall to bits.

  And then, one afternoon, my luck changed. I knew it would, sooner or later. I had got up at noon and decided to visit the Museum of Modern Art. This was to convince myself that I could still do something. I had been starting to panic, you see. I thought I would never be able to do anything, ever again, except take long baths and lie on my bed.

  That day I managed to get dressed, eat something and take a bus uptown. I walked the last few blocks along Park Avenue, a street whose monolithic, fuck-the-rest-of-you apartment blocks made me feel as puny as a snail.

  I never got to the museum. I simply ran out of steam. It seemed such an enormous effort, to go somewhere unfamiliar. Anyway, what was the good of a few daubs on canvas? Unhappiness makes Philistines of us. Everything seemed too meaningless to be bothered with, so I bought a magazine at a news-stand and, because it was bitterly cold, sought sanctuary in the Park Avenue Plaza.

  This was an echoing place carved out of tawny marble. It was furnished with grown trees and rubber plants. Huge, shiny steel pillars supported the roof. There was a restaurant area and another, roped-off area set aside for the public. These tables were occupied by the usual mild psychotics. They gibbered like monkeys amongst the jungle of foliage. A security guard strolled past, static and babble issuing from his chest. Piped music played, from speakers hooked to the trees. Executives entered through the revolving doors and strode across the lobby, heading for the offices upstairs. They were blind to us. Some of them stood waiting for the elevators; some of them rode up on the escalator, standing motionless as they slid towards the ceiling. They looked like the chosen people riding up to heaven and leaving the rest of us amongst our litter of paper cups.

  It was then that I saw Roly, Lila’s agent. He was just entering the building. I jumped up and pretended that I was just sauntering out of the restaurant area.

  He wore a black fur coat, and was heading for the elevators. I passed him, casually, and stopped.

  ‘Hi!’ I said.

  It took him a moment to recognise me. I’m sure I looked perfectly normal, but he wasn’t expecting me to pop up like that. He shook my hand.

  ‘Hi, how’re you doing?’ he said. ‘I thought you were in LA.’

  So he didn’t know. I breathed a sigh of relief. Why should he know? Sacking a stand-in was hardly headline news.

  I smiled. ‘You told me I should get out of there and I took your advice. You work here?’

  He shook his head. ‘I have a meeting.’

  Suddenly I said, ‘Listen, Roly. I need to ask your advice about something. Can I take you out for a drink some time?’

  He grunted with surprise. ‘Sure. But wait. It’s you who’ll be my guest.’

  He took off his gloves and fished a diary out of his inner pocket. I watched him leafing through it with his pudgy fingers.

  Why had I said that? The words had sprung out of me. I hadn’t spoken to anyone for days – weeks, in fact. Maybe I was just desperate for some company.

  New Yorkers can be surprisingly polite. Hospitable, too – especially to the English. Roly looked up. ‘In fact, I have a lunch cancellation on Friday. Now why don’t I take you for lunch instead?’

  I gibbered something in reply.

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ he said gallantly. He gave me his card, and told me the address of the restaurant. Then he shook my hand, squeezing it like an uncle. The lift doors slid open, and he stepped in.

  He took me to a plush little French restaurant up on 66th Street and Madison. They obviously knew him well there, and fussed over us. In fact, as I was to discover, he had a regular table. It was one of those old-fashioned places that still served consommé. My God, it even served melba toast. It turned out that he always ate the same thing – mushroom soup followed by broiled sole and potatoes. He was pernickety about food and had a delicate stomach. But he urged me to order the most lavish items on the menu – foie gras, lobster thermidor. He was as generous as a sugar daddy.

  I had pulled myself together, washed my hair and dressed up in my one smart suit – a flecked tweed thing with a nipped-in waist and leather collar. The intended effect was that of a cool and successful professional. I asked his advice about my career.

  ‘Would I be able to find any work in New York? I’d love to stay here.’

  He put down his soup spoon. ‘You British, you’re the flavour of the month. Your shows, they do great business here. Not all, but who’s counting? Trevor Nunn comes, he has Broadway at his feet.’ He patted his lips with his napkin. ‘Over here, we’re all the time looking for new British products, new British faces. Emily Lloyd comes, she has Hollywood eating out of her hand.’

  ‘I’m a bit older than Emily Lloyd. You think I’d get anywhere?’

  He spread out his hands and shrugged. I cracked off a piece of melba toast and gazed at him.

  ‘I watched you on the sound stage,’ he said. ‘Know what you have, Jules? I know it when I see it. I feel it, here.’ He touched the back of his neck. ‘My T spot.’

  ‘T?’

  ‘Talent.’

  I blushed with pleasure. ‘Really?’

/>   ‘You have class, sweetheart. Something thoroughbred. You have a kind of energy that’s very watchable. There’s something dangerous there.’

  I looked at his glistening face. Despite his resemblance to Charles Laughton, I could have hugged him. Just for a moment I imagined kissing his pursed, squashy little lips.

  It was all happening so fast. He got down to business, settling himself more comfortably in his red velvet banquette.

  ‘Who’s your agent in London?’

  ‘Maggie Fitch.’

  He nodded. ‘She’s well respected over here.’

  I longed for a cigarette. I knew, however, that he hated smoking – I had seen him chiding Lila – so I knotted my hands together under the table. Maggie had no office in New York, so he suggested she send some tapes of my work over to his agency, Belrose Creative Management, so he could see what I had done. Thanks to Lila I already had my Green Card, and I already belonged to SEG. If BCM signed me up Roly would see about getting me my SAG membership. He said that he knew, off-hand, of two parts that were coming up for English character actresses.

  BCM . . . SAG . . . How casually he had spoken! Was he really going to take me on? I didn’t dare inspect the words, yet. I would hoard them until I was alone. It was like stumbling over a bag of bank-notes in the street and delaying the moment until I counted them, one by one, with breathless disbelief.

  Roly, who had a weak bladder, went to the men’s room. I couldn’t eat a dessert but he had ordered a large piece of cheesecake for himself. I sat there, stupefied. At the next table, two women were talking to each other.

  ‘It’s so darling to have a real fire,’ said one. ‘We bring in the logs from our place in Connecticut and Frank, our doorman, he sends them up in the freight elevator.’

  Their wrists were weighed down with gold. They had the restless eyes and pampered, porcelain looks of major-league shoppers. No doubt they both lived in penthouses, like Lila.

  I felt dizzy. Yesterday I had been down amongst the garbage, jilted and unemployed. On buses I had acquainted strangers with the sickening injustice of my emotional and professional life. The steel doors of the city had revolved around, dosing me off.

  And now, over one lunch hour, they had rolled open again. New York City’s hottest agent had taken a shine to me, and now a ravishing waiter was sweeping crumbs from my tablecloth with a small, silver brush.

  After lunch I wandered around, shellshocked. I remember standing outside Bergdorf Goodmans, gazing through the glass. He’s taken a shine to me. I repeated the simple words, over and over. I couldn’t think of any other way of putting it. He’s taken a shine to me. The mannequins gazed back at me, equally incomprehending.

  And it was true. He had. Weeks later he confessed that it was my suit that did it. He had found it deeply disturbing. He loved the idea of a cool, dominating woman with severe shoulders who bossed him about. Charlotte Rampling, whom he didn’t represent, inflamed him. He dreamed of her hard, cat’s face above him as she scolded him for his shameful impotence.

  Saturday was exhilarating – one of those freezing, sunny New York days that charge you with electricity. The city looked beautiful. The skyscraper shone, razor-sharp; the metallic Chrysler building made my eyes prickle. Somebody wanted me! Somebody who could be vitally useful! I walked through Central Park, along my old familiar paths. The entire population of the city seemed to be outdoors that day. Brawny baseball players puffed like cattle; rollerskaters sped past, armoured like warriors with helmets and knee-guards. Divorced fathers tossed footballs into the air, having quality time with their sons.

  I went back to the IMAGINE plaque and looked up, through the leafless trees, to the top of Lila’s building. The empty windows of her apartment shone in the sun. Imagine! I had lived there. For a brief moment I had become Lila; a dry cleaner had addressed me as Miss Dune. Imagine fiercely enough and anyone will believe you. Life was more bizarre than any movie. I had some unfinished business with Lila, and indeed with Trev, and now I had a good reason to stay I felt confident that I could work something out. They weren’t going to get away with it. Boy-oh-boy, no!

  I strode home on strong, muscular legs. I walked ten blocks, breathing in lungfuls of exhaust fumes. Cars passed me, dunking over the metal plates that held the streets together. These rusting panels were bolted down, like lids over the chaos beneath. The whole city pulsed with danger.

  I had forgotten to eat any lunch. In LA it was breakfast time. Lila and Trev would just be waking up, dammy from sex. ‘O my America!’ he’d be murmuring. ‘My new-found land!’ He wouldn’t, of course, but that would be the gist of it. They had stolen each other from me. I still had her keys in my handbag; at each step, they rattled. Even then, I guessed that one day I might use them.

  A woman, loaded with carrier bags, was hailing a cab. It slewed to a halt, but I got to it first.

  ‘Hey you!’ she shouted. ‘Whaddya think you’re doing?’

  ‘My boyfriend’s been hurt,’ I panted. ‘He’s in terrible trouble!’

  ‘Jesus!’ Her eyes widened. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve got to get to the hospital,’ I replied. ‘He’s dying.’

  I jumped into the cab, slamming the door. As it pulled away from the kerb I pressed my gloved hand against my mouth and started cackling.

  When I got back to the apartment the phone was ringing. It was Roly. He invited me to accompany him, as his guest, to the opening night of a new play the next Tuesday.

  Two

  I NEARLY OVERSLEPT. I had fallen asleep that afternoon, and dreamed that Trev’s nose had grown into an elephant’s trunk. Winking at me, he shook his head from side to side, his trunk swinging and thumping against the wall.

  I woke up, sweating. It was dark. The TV was on; it was some cop show and a policeman was beating a cowering Hispanic, thump . . . thump . . . with a leather truncheon.

  I was late. Panic-stricken, I switched off the TV, made up my face and zipped myself into my bronze dress. It was 6.15.

  Roly was waiting for me in the lobby. He wore a dinner jacket and his fur coat; in fact, he looked remarkably debonair. A tubby, ageing dandy.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you look ravishing.’

  He gave me a corsage – a white rose – and pinned it to my dress. I felt like a favoured niece, being taken out for a night on the town.

  Outside a limo waited for us, purring in anticipation. It wasn’t a vulgar stretch; it was a Lincoln Town Car. I sat in the back with Roly, looking at his two plump thighs next to mine. I remembered sitting in that limo with Lila, on the way to the pub in Tottenham. I crossed my legs with a faint rasping sound. Roly smelt of expensive soap. As the car pushed its way through the traffic, he chatted. The second time with somebody it’s always surprisingly different, have you found that? Tonight he seemed as familiar as a female schoolfriend. He obviously liked women, and gossip. He told me a wonderful story about Debra Winger and a sound mike.

  Gazing at his chubby hands, I speculated about his sexual orientation. I had phoned Maggie Fitch, some days earlier, to tell her my news. We had gone on to talk about Roly, and I had asked her about his private life. She’d told me that he had never been married, and that his proclivities were somewhat opaque. ‘He’s not gay; you can’t keep that sort of thing a secret in New York,’ she’d said. ‘He certainly doesn’t screw his clients, one would’ve heard about that. Besides, they’d have to be pretty desperate, wouldn’t they? The general opinion, darling, is he’s some kind of eunuch, but he likes to be seen with a pretty girl on his arm.’ Now that I seemed to be hitting the big time she had been particularly forthcoming to me, with a lot of ‘darlings’. She’d laughed, throatily. ‘Maybe you can find out.’

  So tonight I was the pretty girl – woman – on Roly’s arm. At least I had dressed for the part. Outside the Music Box the street was jammed with limos, hooting and inching forward. They filled the street like an oil slick, moving slowly, black and shiny.

  Flashbulbs popp
ed as we entered the lobby of the theatre. I wriggled like Lila; he had taken her to a première too, I had seen them on the TV. Tonight it was my turn. Crowds milled around; I didn’t recognise anybody, though people came up and greeted Roly. Later, when we were in our seats, he pointed out faces in the other rows.

  ‘That’s Frank Rich,’ he said, smiling at him and lifting his hand. ‘Over there, that’s Clive Barnes. The Butchers of Broadway.’

  I craned my neck to look at them. Maybe one day they would be sitting there, sharpening their knives and waiting to make or break me.

  ‘Across there, in the third row, that’s Al Hirschfeld,’ said Roly. ‘The world-famous caricaturist, with his wife Dolly. They always sit close to the stage so he can see to draw.’ I leaned forward and glimpsed a grey-bearded man, as stately as a Velasquez portrait. Somebody was tapping his shoulder; he turned politely and greeted him.

  I’ve always loved the buzz of first nights. Despite the unknown faces I felt that I was coming home. It had been months since I had sat in a theatre. As the lights went down I wondered why Roly had chosen to bring me. Did he really find me attractive? Did he really think I had talent? Or was I simply a temporary replacement for Lila, who was still in LA?

  The show was a vehicle for one of Roly’s rising young TV comediennes. It was based on Dorothy Parker’s writings and called You Might as Well Live. In fact, it turned out to be a somewhat arbitrarily linked series of sketches and poems, set to music. My mind wandered. During the later part of the show, as Dorothy Parker sank into alcoholism, despair and eventual suicide, I realised how relieved Trev would be if I simply overdosed. All his problems over! He would go around for a few days looking soulful – an uphill task – saying what a terrific actress I was and what a good friend. He and Lila would console each other, in public, with showbiz kisses. Forgetting our recent contretemps, Lila would witter along about how I’d been like a sister to her and given her confidence. Then they would forget all about me.