Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

by Claudia Carroll

  It’s well past three in the morning before I get back to the apartment, completely buzzed up and totally ecstatic about how the night went! I’ve never in my life known an adrenaline rush like it; like something fighter pilots must feel. Or burglars maybe. The show went astonishingly, beyond-our-wildest-expectations well and the word from the producers is that we’ll easily pack out the theatre for the full year and very possibly even longer.

  Even impossible-to-please Jack actually looked reasonably satisfied afterwards and although we’re all in for another one of his long and exhaustive note sessions before tomorrow night’s show, he at least had the good grace to say ‘well done’ to each of us in turn. Praise from Caesar indeed.

  Then Harvey Shapiro very kindly insisted on taking the whole cast to this fabulous, glass-walled, glass-ceilinged restaurant on Broadway called The Blue Fin, where we all partied like life offenders who’d just been handed eleventh-hour reprieves from death row.

  ‘Still a few creases to be ironed out, but overall…not bad. Not at all bad,’ Jack said to me, leaning against the bar, looking cool and unruffled in one of his Hugo Boss suits and sipping some kind of fancy looking pink cocktail that only a man deeply comfortable in his own sexuality could pull off.

  ‘So how does it feel to have played Broadway? Not too many actresses can boast of that, you know.’

  ‘Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,’ I gushed, still having to be scraped off the ceiling from the whole experience, ‘it was just the most unbelievable experience! There were laughs where I never expected them to be, and rounds of applause that I never saw coming…and when they gave us a standing ovation at the end…’

  ‘You better get used to it. Because I can tell you right now Annie Cole, that this show could change the course of your career. Possibly even your whole life.’

  He looked at me hard, in that intense, focused way he has and I didn’t have time to even ask him what he meant before Chris commandeered the conversation, the way she somehow manages to commandeer all conversations, demanding to know exactly what he’d thought of her performance in an apart-from-that-Mrs-Lincoln-did-you-enjoy-the-play type manner.

  It was well late by then and a lot of our gang had drifted off, so I made my excuses and went to grab my bag and coat.

  Just as I was outside, hailing a taxi, Jack came out for a cigarette.

  ‘Home to ring the hubby?’ he asked, lighting up a Marlboro and casually studying me with interest.

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes I am.’

  ‘Do tell him I’m looking forward to meeting him. The elusive Mr Annie Cole.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you will.’

  Anyroadup, it’s well past three in the morning and I’m back in the apartment now, way too hyped up to sleep and just about to call Dan. Eight in the morning his time, perfect. I dial the house number and Mrs Brophy answers, yelling even louder than usual, as if to compensate for her voice travelling across the Atlantic.

  No, she screeches so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear, Dan left the house early for a call out to Lismore, but she’ll pass on the message. Will you tell him I need to talk to him urgently, I say, unapologetic about the theatrics. Best way to get his attention, I figure. I go back to bed and snooze for a bit, then try his mobile later on in the morning. Still no answer, but I’m determined to talk to him at all costs. As ever, it takes five goes to actually get hold of him, but eventually I do, at two in the afternoon my time, just as I’m heading out to the theatre for yet another notes session.

  ‘Dan? Is that really you?’

  Jaysus, it feels like I’ve just got through to the White House.

  ‘Annie, I’m sorry for not getting back to you, it’s just been…well, you know what it’s like here. Same old, same old.’

  Then a few stilted half questions from me and a few mumbled answers from him. I tell him how brilliantly last night went and he apologises for not calling to wish me luck but he’d no signal on his phone all day…then he breaks off to tell me he’s got a call coming through and is afraid it’s a client ringing about a constipated goat, or similar.

  I couldn’t quite tell because he hung up so fast.

  And so the pattern repeats itself over and over again; I leave countless messages in tones ranging from exasperated to desperate to angry, via nagging. A good three days later, he calls back at seven in the evening my time, just as I’m getting ready for the show and of course I can’t talk, so I just get snappy with him for ringing at what he must know is the worst possible time for me and he gets defensive, saying that all he’s doing is returning my fifteenth message. Then I get irritated and of course, it all ends in a bloody, blistering row.

  Unfair, I know, because it’s classic misdirected anger; what’s really annoying me is that I know it’ll be yet another three days of missed calls and unreturned messages before we actually do get to speak again. And even at that, I can already tell you exactly how that call will go: I’ll be tense and fraught, he’ll be busy, busy always busy.

  Funny to think, but at one time, my proudest boast was that it was impossible to have a row with Dan, ever. Now it’s a complete doddle. All we have to do is speak to each other. And I’m surprising myself at how bitter I’m sounding. How ground down I am by the pointlessness of it all. Even our measly little half-slivers of conversations only leave me feeling more frustrated and confused and a whole pile of other emotions that are alien to me.

  Also, a worrying number of times when I’ve rung home, Lisa Ledbetter has answered the phone, making me highly suspicious that she’s physically gone the whole hog and moved herself and her kids in, all the better to sponge off Dan. At least, I can only hope that’s the only bleeding reason she’s been hanging around the house so much.

  In fact these days, the only person I have any kind of regular contact with from home is Jules via Facebook, who’s basically been giving me a run down of all the bitching Audrey’s been doing about me behind my back since I deserted. ‘She’s off in New York, taking a marriage sabbatical,’ is apparently her killer phrase to anyone who’ll listen.

  And you know something? Frankly, from where I’m sitting, it’s not starting to look like a bad idea. I strongly suspect that Chris has been doing her fair share of blabbing about my private life too; ever since I opened up to her that night in the Edison hotel, everyone else in the cast and even some of the crew too have been gently asking me how I’m coping and if everything is OK at home.

  I’m well beyond putting on a brave face at this point, so when questioned, my policy now is just to roll my eyes heavenwards and make some smart arse comment about long-distance relationships being such a bloody nightmare. Nearly always works, bar when Chris is around, in which case I get a lecture right in the ear about how she’s in a LDR too and yet she’s able to make it work, isn’t she?

  And I’ll bite my tongue and remind myself that she doesn’t mean to be smug; she’s actually trying to help, in her own ham-fisted way. Blythe chips in her two cents’ worth too, telling me that I’m not to worry. ‘Sure all marriages go through bumps in the road, love,’ she gently assures me. ‘Did you really think you were going to dodge that bullet?’

  Blythe, I’ve noticed, is beginning to talk in Americanisms now.

  Even Liz, who was dying with a hangover said to me in the dressing room the other night, ‘You don’t need to worry about Dan being so distant from you, hon. Everything will work itself out. You two were made for each other.’

  ‘Does absolutely everyone here know about my private life now?’ I asked her frustratedly. ‘What is this, published somewhere?’

  ‘Oh relax. We’re actors, we like following real-life soaps, that’s all. And remember, this is Dan we’re talking about, for feck’s sake. Mr Perfect Husband.’

  Sad to think that there once was a time when she was right. But most definitely not now. Now it’s like Mr Perfect Husband has long since left the building and there’s some distant, remote stranger standing in his place.

&nbs
p; With less than a week to go to opening night, finally, finally, I get to say what’s on my mind to Dan. As usual, it takes approximately two dozen attempts to get a hold of him, but when I do, I tell him straight. I’d like him to come over for the opening night.

  But I’ve got to work, can’t possibly take the time off, no one can cover for me etc, etc, etc, he predictably says. But my antennae are on high alert, I’m fully ready for him and have my reply all rehearsed. It’s on St Patrick’s Day, I retaliate, it’s a bank holiday at home, surely to God you could take two days off? That’s all I’m asking for, I tell him, two lousy days, purposely keeping the stakes low. It’s Paddy’s Day, I insist, even the twenty-four hour Asian store in Stickens closes on Paddy’s Day, for feck’s sake.

  He ifs and buts and pretty soon tempers begin to get strained, with me realising that here I am, actually pleading with him to come over and how wrong that seems. How un-be-fecking-lievable, in fact. I mean, shouldn’t he actually want to come over to see his wife without my having to resort to begging?

  The conversation rapidly disintegrates fast, as they always seem to do these days, but by the end of it, I feel a sliver of hope that he might come round. Between them, Andrew and James could easily cover for you, I tell him firmly. You need the break, we need to spend time together and it means a huge amount to me that you’d be here for what’s probably the biggest career night of my life.

  And so he eventually agrees to ask them and I leave it at that, promising to look at flights for him first thing in the morning. Next day I text him, asking if I can go ahead and make the bookings and late that night when I still haven’t heard back from him, I call again.

  Miraculously, unbelievable, I actually get him on my first try. Do you think you’ll be able to make it over, I ask him straight out, utterly dog-tired and shattered with it all by now. But there’s just one condition I forgot to mention. What’s that, he says, sounding like he hasn’t slept in a week. If you do say you’ll come, then I need your absolute guarantee, your solemn word that you will not let me down.

  Because it’s like this; I cannot handle being let down one more time, I tell him, inwardly marvelling at how firm and resolute living alone in New York has made me. So if it’s no, it’s no, I say. But if it’s yes, then I need you to tell me that no power on earth will prevent you from being here for me. I need your word. I need that from you now.

  Feck’s sake, is it that much to ask for?

  OK then, yes, he eventually says. Go ahead and book the flights. I’ll make it, I’ll find the time somehow and I’ll get there.

  Well whatdyya know, I think exhaustedly, slumping down onto a chair, utterly ground down by all the plea-bargaining and begging.

  Finally, finally, finally. A breakthrough.

  Chapter Eight

  March already and the previews are racing in, each one getting incrementally better and better and I’m reasonably confident of this, mainly because our notes sessions with Jack are becoming proportionately shorter and shorter, always a good barometer. Now opening night nerves have eclipsed all else, heightened by the fact that between the rest of the cast, we have almost a planeload of people coming over from Ireland for the big night. A bit like a big gang of soccer supporters, minus the green face paint and vuvuzelas.

  Except for me, that is. I just have Dan, but that’s enough. Frankly I don’t know what I’m more stunned about, that he’s actually agreed to take time off work to be here for me, or that I’m going to be seeing him in no time at all. And that it’ll be real, proper quality time too.

  Yet more good news: my mother is travelling down from Washington for the big night too – the first time I’ll have seen her in over a year! Ever the diplomat, once she found out that Dan was coming to stay with me, she tactfully booked herself into the nearby New York Palace Hotel, so as to give us some privacy. Bless.

  Anyway, come the big day and I take one final, last look around my shining, sparkling, blonde apartment. I’ve been cleaning and tidying it like a lunatic all week, dotting candles around the place and stocking up the fridge with champagne and a load of extravagant little nibbles. I even went out to Filene’s Basement (a discount store much favoured by Blythe) and treated myself to brand new high count Egyptian cotton bed linen. Not only that – I figured, feck it anyway, not every night you open on Broadway, so I splashed out and really spoilt myself with a brand new Donna Karen dress for tonight. Cherry red, Dan’s all-time favourite colour on me. All ready for his arrival…un believably in just a few hours’ time!

  Dan’s travelling on the afternoon flight which gets in at four pm, by which time I’ll have to be in the theatre, so I’ve asked him to come straight to the apartment. I’ve left a spare key for him with Stan, our gorgeous doorman, so he can let himself in and freshen up for the big night ahead.

  It’s bizarre, almost like I’ve torn right down the middle into two different Annies. One is nearly paralysed with nerves over all the critics being out there this evening, while the other one is practically dancing round the place with excitement because in just a few short hours, it’ll almost be like a second honeymoon for me and Dan. And everyone will finally get to meet him too, at the after show party in…where else? Sardi’s the famous restaurant, which has become a bit like our canteen by now.

  Plus on top of all this, we’ve got the whole day tomorrow to look forward to as well! His time here is unbelievably tight, so I’ve got his whole trip worked out a bit like a military operation. Because let’s face it, everything works better with a plan. Weddings, murders, everything.

  Brekkie tomorrow in the Carnegie deli which I know he’ll adore, then a stroll through Central Park; lunch in Tao, this really cool Asian restaurant, then back to the apartment so I can get organised for work. Plus I’ve got him a ticket to see the show again in the evening, and last but not least…the pièce de résistance…I’ve booked dinner for the two of us after work at the Rockefeller Café which overlooks the ice skating rink, where we first got engaged all those years ago. So the two of us will be enveloped in happy memories for forty-eight blissful hours. Everything is planned right down to the last detail and right now, I’m starting to feel a bit like a character in a soap opera who says, ‘But what can possibly go wrong?’

  Time passes so extra-slowly that I nearly want to tear my hair out with nerves, so unable to take it any more I finally leave the gleaming, spotless apartment at noon. Even though it’s a drizzling, grey day, I decide to take a calming stroll to the Shubert. Fifth Avenue is all sealed off for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade and although I wish Dan was here to see it, I’m consoled by the fact that he’ll be here in the blink of an eye.

  My mind quickly does some calculations: he must be heading to Shannon airport by now his time, probably even checking in. I try calling his mobile, but it’s switched off, which I take to mean that he’s possibly already on board the flight and on his way.

  When I get to the theatre, it’s like Kensington Palace the week Diana died – nothing but a sea of bouquets waiting for all of us, filling every available nook and cranny.

  ‘Hi, Annie!’ says Hayley, the gorgeous front of house manager, ‘good to see you! So, how are those nerves then, huh?’ Hayley, by the way, is one of those fabulously positive people who make you want to spend the whole day basking in their magnificent good cheer. She’s always in good form, always laughing and messing around. I manage a weak, watery smile and she tells me she’s already put my flowers up in the dressing room I’m sharing with Liz.

  ‘Now don’t you go getting stagefright on me, honey,’ she says cheerily, clocking the rabbit-in-the-headlamps terror in my eyes. ‘You’re gonna be just fine! Just get out there and kick the living hell outta the show, babe!’

  ‘I’ll do my best!’ I grin back at her and race up the stairs, my heart thumping, wondering who the hell would be sending me flowers anyway? Dan? Would he have had time before he left Ireland?

  Three magnificent bouquets worthy of the Chelsea Flower Show
are waiting on my dressing table: one from Jack to say good luck, one from my mother to say she’s looking forward to seeing me after the show, and the third and most impressive one…impatiently I tear the card open. It has to be from Dan, I think, just has to be. He wouldn’t forget to send flowers on such a big, important night, would he?

  But they’re from Harvey Shapiro.

  You’re doing great, kid. Keep up the good work, I’m real proud of you!

  Seven thirty and I must be driving poor Liz nuts with my non-stop pacing up and down the dressing room floor. Once I get out on stage I’ll be grand, it’s just all the shagging hanging around that’s a killer. We’re both in our costumes, hair done and fully made up, all we need is for eight o’clock to come.

  Jack comes in, looking like a pagan prince in a suit so sharp you’d nearly get a paper cut off it. He hugs both Liz and me in turn, his touch both ice cold and rock hard, the only one in the building who’s not betraying the tiniest scrap of nerves. It flashes through my mind; how exactly does he do it anyway? Stay so calm at a time like this? Sedatives strong enough to knock out a rhinoceros, perhaps?

  ‘Just do what you’re doing, Annie Cole,’ he says, looking me straight in the eye. ‘And you’ll knock ’em dead.’

  A quarter to eight and I’m just about to head backstage for the act one beginner’s call when my mobile rings. It’s been beep beeping for the past hour, but I’ve just been ignoring it. I know it’s nothing urgent, just good luck messages coming through and that there’ll be plenty of time later on to read them all. But as it happens, I’m waiting on Liz who’s still messing around with her eye make-up, so I answer.

  A crackling tone, like it’s coming long distance.

  Then I hear Dan’s voice.

  Immediately my entire digestive system clenches with foreboding. Suddenly I have to remind myself to breathe.

  ‘Annie? I’m so glad I caught you…’