by Louise Lyons
What's Up, Pussycat?
by
Louise Lyons
COPYRIGHT
What's Up, Pussycat? © 2017 Louise Lyons
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.
WARNING
This book contains material that is intended for a mature, adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
More from Louise
Chapter One
Cupping cold hands around my mouth, I breathed out and rubbed them together to warm them. A thick frost covered the ground, and the January air stung my nostrils. I watched my breath curl from my mouth like steam and blow away in the breeze.
Stillness blanketed the graveyard. No one else was crazy enough—or desperate enough—to visit their loved ones in the middle of the night in sub-zero temperatures. But I’d lost Andrew at exactly two o’clock in the morning on a Sunday, six months earlier. Every week since then, at that exact time, I religiously visited Andrew, whatever the weather and however I felt.
Tears welled in my eyes and tracked down my cold cheeks. I felt their faint warmth as they made their way to my chin and dripped onto my jacket. I blinked and glanced around the area. The moon, bright in the cloudless sky, cast an eerie light over the grave stones. I returned my gaze to Andrew’s stone, from which a long shadow almost reached my toes. Stretching out one foot until the shadow covered it, I let out a shaky sigh. I was lost. Lost and alone.
It had been a freak accident that took Andrew. No other vehicles had been involved. Andrew’s car left the road on a bend when its tires hit a patch of spilled oil. An unforgiving road sign had been in the way. The doctors reported he died instantly and wouldn’t have suffered any pain. I hadn’t been with him at the time, and not a day had passed since, when I hadn’t wished I’d been in the car, too.
Andrew had been performing in a theater in Leicester. His troop had already played in their home city of Nottingham for three months, and the Leicester run had almost been at an end. After that it would have been Birmingham and finally, London.
Andrew refused the offer of accommodation in Leicester, and insisted on driving home every night so he could be with me as much as possible. The journey was only thirty miles and he’d done it six days a week. On one of those days—usually Fridays—I made the journey instead so I could watch the show, and we spent the night in a hotel. I never grew tired of seeing Andrew perform, however many times I saw whichever musical he’d been a part of. That time it had been Cats. Andrew played a character named Mistoffelees—a black cat with white “paws” and face, who danced and performed magic. He was magnificent, and I watched each dance in awe. Sometimes I wished I’d made more effort to continue my own acting and dancing career, but I never had the confidence of my lover. I took a step back and concentrated on writing instead.
“Why did you leave me?” I whispered aloud. It was a question I’d asked many times, usually when I sat on the bench just feet away from where Andrew had been laid to rest. “Seven years wasn’t enough. You said we’d have forever. Remember? Every year on the anniversary of the day we met, you said it was one more year in the rest of our lives. What am I supposed to do now?” My voice cracked and more tears rolled down my cheeks, quickly becoming a stream. The agony of losing the man I’d been with since I was eighteen—the only man I’d ever been with—hadn’t lessened since we’d been parted. Twenty-six visits and each one had seen me paralyzed on the bench, blinded by tears and unable to see a way forward.
“I’m sorry, darling. What must you think of me?” I scrubbed at my cheeks and sniffed hard. My weeping always ended the same way—with apologies and promises to do better, that I never managed to keep. “I can almost hear you saying, ‘come on, man, get a grip. Life won’t live itself.’ Remember saying that? I’d get all upset about absolutely nothing sometimes and you’d tell me how silly I was being and… and k-kiss my tears away.”
Another sniff and I wiped my face with my sleeve. I shivered from head to foot. The cold had seeped through my duffel coat and jeans, and my feet were numb. I’d forgotten to wear gloves, and I could barely feel my fingers as I pushed up my sleeve to look at my watch. Almost three. I’d been there an hour.
I stood slowly and looked down at the yellow rose I’d placed on Andrew’s grave when I arrived. I always brought one flower of a different type or color each week, because Andrew had been a keen gardener and loved a lot of color. He’d always complained that winter was mostly green and brown. I couldn’t tell a flower from a weed, so I visited a florist every Saturday and purchased a single bright bloom from the kind, elderly lady behind the counter.
“I have to go now, my love. I’ll see you next week. Don’t go anywhere, okay? I love you.”
I returned to my car and started the engine. Ice had already begun to form on the glass. I turned up the heater and sat there for a few minutes to thaw out both myself and the car. By the time the ice had turned to water and trickled down the windshield, I was in control again.
I drove home to the little house with its overgrown garden that I’d shared with Andrew since our first anniversary. I didn’t bother to switch on any lights. I went upstairs, stripped down to my underwear, and crawled into the narrow bunk in the guest room. I hadn’t been able to sleep in the master bedroom since I lost Andrew.
Sleep came quickly and at last I could forget, for a few short hours.
Chapter Two
“Finley, you look terrible, love. Did you go to the grave again last night?” Carol McInnes, Andrew’s mother, bustled around the kitchen, helping herself to coffee and grimacing over the sour milk. She visited at least once a month to check on me. She and Andrew’s father had coped much better than I had. They’d been devastated by the loss of their son, but they still had two other sons they doted on. They’d welcomed me from the first day Andrew introduced us, and treated me as part of the family.
“I go every week,” I reminded her.
“I know, and it’s not good for you. You can’t live in the past forever. What do you think Andrew would have said to you?”
“Get a grip,” I answered automatically. “Life doesn’t live itself.”
“Exactly. You haven’t been living since he left us. Don’t you think he’d want you to move forward and try to be happy?”
I nodded and shrugged at the same time.
“He wouldn’t want you to spend your life alone and unhappy,” Carol went on.
“I’m not ready to see anyone else. I can’t even imagine it.”
“I didn’t suggest you go out and find a date, unless you want to. If you think Andrew would have any objections to that, then you’re wrong. He’d want you to find love again. But aside from that, you need to find an interest or some friends. Something to get you out of the house and occupy you. I hate to see you so despondent. You work and sleep and talk to him, and that’s all.”
“I know. I’ll be okay. I just need a bit more time.”
“It’s been six months, sweetie. I wish you’d come over and have dinner with us sometimes at least. Do you visit your own folks?”
I shrugged again. I hadn’t forgiven my parents for refusing to visit Andrew and me. They’d tolerated it when I came out to them at seventeen, but their disapproval had been evident. They’d always been aloof, as far back as I could remember, but finding out they had a gay son had widened the gap between us. They met Andrew on a couple of occasions, but they hadn’t wanted to acknowledge their son meant to spend the rest of his life with another man—or seven years of it. Since Andrew died, my mother telephoned me and visited a few times, but I made it clear I’d rather she continued to keep her distance. The last time I saw or heard from her had been two months ago.
Carol stayed a couple of hours and made use of my kitchen to cook a light meal for us. She’d been more of a mother to me than my own flesh and blood, and I loved her dearly. Every time I looked at her face, I saw Andrew. He’d been so like his mother, with his chestnut hair and bright turquoise eyes. Strangely, he’d had nothing physical in common with his father except for the dimple in his chin.
I spent the rest of the day sprawling on my large leather sofa, watching TV and thinking. Several times my attention was drawn to the pictures around the room that I hadn’t had the heart to put away—pictures of Andrew and me. There were several shots taken on various holidays: standing together on a beach in Barbados, at the top of a mountain in Austria, and on a cruise in Canada. We’d traveled a lot and loved to explore new places. I couldn’t imagine going abroad somewhere new without Andrew.
My gaze landed on the framed photo on the coffee table—the one of Andrew as Mistoffelees. He was sitting in his dressing room, beaming from ear to ear after the first night of the show. He still had full makeup on—whiskers and all. His eyes shone with delight at how well things had gone, and I remembered exactly what he’d said after I took the photo.
“I wish you were doing this with me, babe. You’d have made a gorgeous cat.”
I hadn’t been on the stage in three years, and I wondered whether I’d be capable of performing. I’d never taken a lead role in anything, but I’d been in the Lion King for a year as Scar. That had probably been the only time I enjoyed myself on stage. It had all been downhill from there, and I accepted it wasn’t for me.
I picked up the entertainment magazine with Andrew’s name on it, that continued to arrive in the post every month. I’d never bothered to contact them to cancel it, and I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open it. The six copies I received sat on the bottom shelf of the coffee table, still in their plastic wrappers.
I tore open the latest issue and flicked idly through the pages. There were pictures and articles on the current London shows, and several pages about smaller musical troops, including the Nottingham-based one Andrew had been a part of. They had a two-page spread on Cats, with an advertisement in the middle.
“Auditioning for Skimbleshanks, Mistoffelees, and Victoria, January 31. Roles to start March 1 for a six-month run in London. Call for an appointment.”
The troop had changed actors every so often when the existing ones needed to move on, or weren’t doing a good enough job. After Andrew died, his understudy played Mistoffelees for a month while they ran auditions. A young guy named Matthew Cartwright had played Mistoffelees ever since, but apparently he’d had enough, or they’d had enough of him. It sounded as if he were meant to finish the Birmingham shows, then a new actor would take over for London.
Sighing, I tossed the magazine aside. I could never do it. I couldn’t even imagine auditioning, let alone performing on stage night after night in front of hundreds of people. I turned my attention back to the TV, but my gaze was drawn to the photo of Andrew in his cat costume again and again. It was almost as if my lover was speaking to me.
“You can do anything you want, babe. Anything you put your mind to. I believe in you.”
“Could I?” I wondered aloud. “Could I be Mistoffelees?” I tried to picture myself in that costume, with white legwarmers and gloves on, and my face painted to resemble a cat’s. I knew the songs and the solo dance Mistoffelees had to perform. I’d rehearsed it with Andrew over and over, until Andrew could do it perfectly without thinking about it. I was the same height and build as Andrew—five seven with a slim, toned body. Mistoffelees was supposed to be small and the height limit for his character was five eight.
I imagined how it would feel to get on the stage again—terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I remembered what it felt like to look out over the sea of faces watching, and hear the cheers from the crowd at the end of an act. I was sure I wouldn’t have the confidence to do anything about it, but how proud Andrew would be if I tried and somehow managed to succeed. Maybe it was just what I needed. If I could play the role Andrew had played and do it well, I’d no longer have to worry about how much I was letting him down with my endless moping and pining. He would be proud of me.
I snatched up the magazine again and leafed through the pages to find the article. Scanning through the ad until I found a telephone number, I pulled out my cellphone. I tapped in the number before I could change my mind.
“Good afternoon, this is Forest Theater Company. How may I help you?” A woman answered, sounding stiff and uninterested.
“Hello, my name’s Finley Harrington. I’m calling to arrange an appointment to audition for the role of Mistoffelees. I understand you’re auditioning on January 31.”
“We’ve had an awful lot of calls. I’m not sure if there are any slots open. Hold on, please.”
I listened to a clunk, followed my rustling and throat-clearing. Then the voice came again. “Eight thirty in the evening. Name, please?”
“Finley Harrington,” I repeated. My heart thumped with nervous excitement.
“You’ll need to present yourself at the company headquarters fifteen minutes prior, to sign in. Please bring a photo identification such as your passport or driver’s license,” the woman reeled off. “Do you need to take down the address?”
“No, I know it, thanks.”
“Thank you. Good-bye.” The phone went dead before I could say anything else. I put down my phone and looked at the photo of Andrew once more.
“I did it, Andy. I got an audition.”
Chapter Three
I arrived at Forest Theater Company’s large building at eight o’clock. I’d spent the past two weeks practicing Mistoffelees’ solo dance at every available opportunity. It hadn’t been easy in my small living room, but I managed. I could hardly prance around the garden, six inches deep in snow as it had been for the past week.
I visited Andrew on Saturday nights as usual, and I still left with my eyes and throat sore from crying, but at least I had something positive to say. I’d been able to tell Andrew about the audition, and I imagined I heard my lover encouraging me, the way he always had.
“You can do it, babe. Believe in yourself the way I do.”
I presented my passport at the desk in the lobby of the building and signed a form. I was instructed to go up to the second floor where there was a changing area, should I wish to change my clothes. I ran up the stairs two at a time and found the large room, already occupied by at least twenty young men and women in various stages of dress. The girls must have been auditioning for Victoria, the white cat in the musical. The boys would be either for Mistoffelees, or Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat.
A few people glanced in my direction, but no one spoke. All were engrossed in what they were doing. Some were putting on outfits and makeup to appear as cat-like as possible, while others donned leggings, leotards, and ballet shoes. I stood in a corner as I stripped off my fleece tracksuit to reveal the leggings and lycra T-shirt I wore underneath. Over the leggings, I wore loose shorts, feeling shy about the clingy outfit that drew attention to my crotch. I took off my socks and slipped my feet into the black da
nce shoes I’d dug out of my closet two weeks earlier when I began to practice.
Don’t let me fuck this up, I prayed silently, as I sat down and looked at the clock on the end wall of the room. Ten more minutes.
A door opened and two girls came out, one dressed as a white cat and the other in a leotard. The door swung shut and they went to where they’d left their belongings and began to change. The speaker on the wall above my head crackled and a tinny voice issued from it: “Catherine Clarke and Mike Jones, please.”
A girl and a boy rose from their seats and disappeared into the room. I folded my arms and tried not to fidget. My heart raced and my stomach churned. I hoped I wouldn’t throw up, and I took deep breaths in an effort to quell the nausea. It was only then I remembered the terrible stage-fright I’d suffered in the past. It made me question whether I was doing the right thing. If I got the role, I’d dread every show, and this time I’d be putting more pressure on myself than before—I wouldn’t want to let Andrew down.
I’m out of my mind. The small amount of confidence I’d summoned to enter the building slipped away, and my imagination saw me tripping over in the audition, and falling on my ass in front of whoever was judging the performances. I’d make a fool of myself, and I’d have to visit Andrew the next day and admit I failed.
“James Broughton and Finley Harrington, please.”
I jumped at the sound of my name. Several minutes had passed and I hadn’t noticed the previous applicants leave the room. I got up and walked to the door. A tall blond man wearing a waistcoat and carrying a cane got there ahead of me. James Broughton was apparently after the role of Skimbleshanks, judging by his outfit.