The TV monitors lined throughout the auditorium are showing Liz in glorious close-up and it’s glaringly obvious to anyone watching that she’s completely stocious and most likely high as well.
‘So to everyone here involved with Wedding Belles,’ she’s drunkenly ranting, ‘I’d like to tell the lot of you to go and fuck yourselves! Every single, rotting one of you! You’re all jealous of me and have been since day one…so fuck you and fuck off!’
The orchestra drowns her out, we cut to an unexpected ad break and the rest of us all look mutely at each other, utterly horrified by what we’ve just seen.
It’s a disaster. What should have been a night of celebration has now turned into a nightmare that I, for one, feel I’ll be recounting on some psychiatrist’s couch for years to come in all its gory detail. There’s an after show party organised in a private function room above Radio City, but understandably, not one of us is in the mood to go. Then Harvey Shapiro, ever the showman, points out to us that it would only look worse if we didn’t, so reluctantly, we all troop up escalators to a private art deco bar, trying not to look like we’ve collectively been punched in the solar plexus.
I haven’t seen Jack; he stormed out after the ceremony and Liz has taken off too, unsurprisingly. But then Blythe comes in, white-faced and stoic and tells us all that the two of them are both outside in a private corner, where I can only guess Jack is tearing strips off her. Next thing, Liz bursts into the bar, screaming, actually yelling drunkenly at the top of her voice.
Jaysus, just what we all needed, another sideshow. Just when you think the night can’t possibly get worse.
‘You think you can threaten to fire me? Well you can fuck right off! I just won a Tony, no one can touch me!’
Of course, everyone turns around to stare and it’s a minor mercy that there aren’t any TV cameras or photographers up here. A small blessing, that at least this isn’t a public hanging.
Jack grips her roughly by the arm and tries to steer her back outside, keeping his voice deliberately low. I don’t hear what he says to her, all I hear is her answer, which is downright unprintable. Then she swoops up to the bar, orders a double vodka martini, but he follows fast on her heels, barking at the barman to cancel the order.
‘I want to see you tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp,’ I can hear him snapping at her, his voice low, menacing, frustrated. It’s that cruel, scary side of him that I haven’t seen in months, not since we were all back in rehearsal.
‘And I mean it, Liz,’ he goes on, icy cold now. ‘If you don’t get help, you’re out of the show, gone. And don’t you dare make the mistake of thinking that you can push me on this. Do you understand? Now apologise to the rest of the cast for insulting them like this, then get the fuck out of my sight.’
With that, Jack stomps out of sight and Liz, now looking more frail and vulnerable than I think I’ve ever seen her, slumps down to the floor.
Chapter Fourteen
It becomes a hot story in no time. Headlines the next day, the talk of all the breakfast TV shows and worst of all, apparently Liz’s outburst at the Tony’s is now well on its way to garnering a million plus hits on YouTube. Christ Almighty, more than Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent. I’m in my apartment the following morning, frantically trying to get Jules organised for the airport, while fending off phone calls at the same time.
The phone’s practically been hopping off the receiver since first light; it seems the news has even reached as far as Dublin, because Fag Ash Hil, my agent, calls too. In her growly croak says she has five Irish journalists all wanting to talk to me and what’s more, she excitedly stresses, not only would I be able to put across the truth about Liz, but they’re willing to pay me for my story too, like this is something I should be grateful for. Hil, it seems, utterly blinded by the commission she’d make blissfully unaware that this is something I’d never in a million years contemplate.
I say no to each and every one of them. Fecking vultures.
The number one priority in all this is Liz and only Liz and for all of us somehow to get her the help she so desperately needs. Because the more I think about it, the more I think that’s what last night was for her; a big, deafening cry for help, so loud that the whole of America seems to have heard her.
I get a brisk, business-like phone call from Jack early in the morning to let me know that he and Harvey are personally taking Liz to one of the top drink and drug rehabilitation clinics in the city today, with the added threat that if she refuses to go, she’s out of the show he tells me. Simple as that.
I offer to go along with them…best not, he says. Because she may try to act out on you. But she’s more likely to do as she’s told if her director and producer are strong-arming her there. Let me know how it goes, I say and he promises to call later on in the day with an update.
‘Who was that?’ asks Jules, dragging her second overstuffed suitcase out into the hall, ready to load up the taxi for the trip to the airport.
‘Jack.’
She goes back into the bedroom, singing the words to ‘Torn Between Two Lovers’, on purpose, just to annoy me.
Then about an hour later, just as I’m about to leave for the airport with Jules, I get a call from the stage director at the Shubert. Liz has been hospitalised and for the foreseeable future, her understudy will take over her role. Starting tomorrow night, Tuesday, as the theatre traditionally goes dark on a Monday night. But we’re all to be at the theatre later on this afternoon for a full rehearsal with Liz’s understudy, followed by a dress rehearsal tonight.
Just hearing the word hospitalised sends me into a blind panic, so I ring Chris to let her know. In the meantime, it seems that somehow she’d managed to get a hold of Harvey, who gave her the latest news bulletin: Liz has been admitted under the care of a Dr Goldman to the Eleanor Young drug rehabilitation clinic in Albany, upstate from here. I immediately chime in that I want to go and see her right away, but Chris bossily shuts me up. Apparently the first step in her recovery is for her to get clean and part of that involves not having visitors until the medical team there are satisfied that she’s in a place where she can handle it. They’re very strict about that, apparently.
It’s like I feel torn in two. Half of me is devastated for Liz; bright, fun, wild, exuberant, mega-talented Liz being in hospital. The other half thinks…well, at least she’s getting help now, which can only be a good thing.
An urgent tug at my arm from Jules reminds me that we’re already running late, so I give her a hand lugging the suitcases downstairs and outside to a waiting taxi.
Jules sniffs and stares morosely out the window the whole way to JFK.
‘Come on, don’t worry about Liz, she’ll pull through.’
‘I know, that’s not what’s upsetting me.’
‘What is it then, love?’ I say, taking her hand.
‘Suppose you never come home? Suppose you choose your parallel life instead? Suppose the only way I ever get to see you in future is by coming over here? To see you living here, with Jack?’
‘Jules,’ I sigh in exasperation. Because frankly this feels like about the fortieth time we’ve had this conversation. ‘You have got to let this go. What have I told you?’
‘I know he was really amazing when I was here, with all the trips and treats and everything, but still…. Annie, I wouldn’t be a proper pal to you if I didn’t tell you the truth. Thing is…there’s just something about him that I can’t warm to. Behind all his smoothness and flashiness and the fecking teeth that would nearly blind you, take it from me – that guy is one ruthless git. Didn’t you notice it after the show last night?’
‘Yes,’ I say, but more to myself than to Jules. ‘Yes, I did.’
Liz’s understudy is an Irish-American actress called Rachel Ivors, who I’ve met several times before, but never actually worked with. She even looks like a scrubbed up version of Liz; the same wild blond hair and sky-blue eyes, but given that Liz is such a hard act to follow
, I figure it must be a tall order for the poor girl to step into such big shoes.
I take a taxi straight from JFK to the theatre, and am amazed to see a couple of hardened reporters with cameras waiting outside, already door-stepping the place. A few dopey questions are hurled at me as I try to inch my way through them to the safety of the stage door, such as, ‘Hey Annie? Aren’t you Annie Cole? Over here, Annie! Will you tell us just one thing? As part of the Wedding Belles cast, how did you feel watching your colleague berate you from the podium on live TV last night?’
I manage to keep my cool and say nothing, although the temptation to yell out, ‘How in the name of arse did you think I felt?’ is overwhelming.
I get to the stage and everyone is already here ahead of me, all set for an afternoon’s rehearsals with Rachel. Jack bounds in, taking the auditorium steps two at a time and launches straight into an intense rehearsal session. Not a word about Liz, not a single syllable passes about what’s happened or what brought us to this pass or even how she’s getting on at hospital, nothing. It’s like his sole focus now is the sacred cow that is the show, so that’s what he works on, with all the concentration of a bomb squad.
Rachel, for her part, seems well up for it, the only one of us not remotely rattled after yesterday’s events. And if I’d thought she’d be nervous, I was way wide of the mark; in fact, I hate to say it, but it’s almost like there’s a touch of the All About Eve’s about her. It’s as though she’s mildly sorry about the circumstances that brought her here, but at the end of the day, this is her moment in the sun and nothing, absolutely nothing is going to stop her from grabbing it with greedy, grasping hands.
Jack spends the whole afternoon pushing us, really working us like slaves, just as he used to back in the early days, going over all of Rachel’s scenes exhaustively and grilling the girl time and again. That cruel side of him keeps rearing its ugly head; the side that places human beings as absolutely secondary to a successful show. He’s in thunderous form, snapping at everyone for giving the wrong cues, barking at the stage manager and even losing it a bit when Harvey comes into the theatre, and interrupts practice briefly.
God almighty, it feels like we’re all spending the entire afternoon navigating his mood and then tip-toeing around it.
Bloody exhausting, on top of everything else.
But never once does Rachel crack, or betray anything other than excitement at getting to step out on a Broadway stage, to play in a Tony award winning show. She even whispers to me backstage while we’re both waiting to make an entrance, that her agent is bringing in not one but three casting directors to see her during the week. I say nothing, mainly because it’s not like she was a friend of Liz’s or anything, so why should she be concerned about her? The girl is just doing what any actor handed a golden opportunity like this would do.
I only think she’s gone a bit far when she turns to me with shining, hopeful eyes and says, ‘Annie, do you have any idea how long Liz will be in hospital for? It’s just that, if she were kept in till the end of the week, then I could get a few movie casting people to come and see me too. Any clue? Do you think it’ll be a week? Maybe longer? I only ask because you know how those drug addiction programmes can sometimes go on for ever.’
‘Liz is a friend of mine,’ I answer as haughtily as I can. ‘A very good friend. And I, for one, am just hoping and praying that she’s back to work, where she belongs, ASAP.’ This shuts her up as we both step out onto the warmth of the stage, her to do one of Liz’s big soapbox speeches, me thinking sweet baby Jesus and the orphans. Talk about blonde ambition.
We’ve got a short break before a full dress rehearsal tonight, and just as I’m about to head up to my dressing room to get organised, Jack catches up with me.
‘Hey, there you are,’ he says, lightly touching my shoulder.
I automatically move a step back.
‘I was looking for you,’ he says, staring at me intently.
‘Emm…well, I was just about to get into costume.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Some good news to report from the box office though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, it seems that on the strength of all this press attention, whether it was wanted or otherwise, we’re now looking at a sell-out show, right through to the end of fall.’
‘Right. Well, that’s terrific, I suppose,’ I answer flatly.
I’m making all the right noises, but all I can think is…fat lot of good that’ll do Liz, lying on some hospital bed, attached to a drip and a monitor, going through cold turkey.
I make to head back upstairs, when he grabs me by the arm, his touch ice cold, as usual.
‘Look, Annie, it’s been a crazy twenty-four hours, how about dinner after tonight’s run-through? Just you and I, I mean? We could talk.’
I bite my lip, wondering how I can politely get out of this. No rudeness intended, it’s just that it’s been an emotional rollercoaster of a day, and frankly all I want to do after the show is crawl home and sleep for about four days straight.
‘Would you mind if I bowed out?’ I eventually say. ‘I just…well, I really just feel like being alone this evening. I hope you understand.’
He says nothing, just eyes me up and down, then gives my hand a quick squeeze. His hand feels cool and lotioned and smooth.
And then he’s gone.
Somehow we all stumble through the dress rehearsal and Rachel acquits herself competently enough, but I have to say this though – she’s no Liz Shields. Liz had a raw, powerful, magnetic danger to her in the role: an irresistible magnet to the eye who commanded your attention and try as she might, Rachel just doesn’t even come close to her. But we all somehow stagger through and given what’s happened, that’s pretty much all any of us would have asked for.
I get home early, about eleven, try to sleep and can’t, even though I’m utterly exhausted and tired to the bone marrow. The apartment just seems so empty without Jules. I never would have thought it, but I’m missing her chatter, her high spirits and all her messing so much…by comparison, this feels like coming home to a mausoleum. God, the irony; me that once used to love and adore being alone here and it’s driving me mental.
I’m lying in bed and the sheet that’s covering me is practically knotted, I’m tossing around that much. Thinking about Liz over and over again, eaten up with guilt. About how I let her down. How she was a friend to me when I needed one and how I didn’t do the same for her, plain and simple. I should have seen the signs, I should have tried harder to find a way to be there for her, even if she pushed me away.
I am a horrible, horrible person and the worst friend imaginable.
It’s past one in the morning, when I finally give in to insomnia. I switch on the light and am just rummaging around for the TV remote control, when suddenly my mobile beeps.
ARE YOU STILL AWAKE? MEET ME AT THE MOON.
Dan. And suddenly I’m wide awake.
We haven’t been in touch with each other for a while, well over a week. Not since that disastrous weekend at the Hamptons, in fact. Guilt kept me from contacting him; or to be more accurate, a combination of guilt and cowardice, that is. Because I know I’m going to have to come clean, fess up and tell him straight out what happened and already my whole stomach is clenched with worry, just at the very thought. Every night this past week, I’ve secretly dreaded him calling, knowing the awkward, awful conversation we’d have to have. But he didn’t get in touch or even text me once, not all week, which given the pattern we’ve now established is a bit unusual. No idea why, but then I figure he’s busy, I suppose. Sure what else could it be with Dan?
I take a deep, nerve-calming breath and call him. It’s ridiculously early his time, past six am. and sure enough, he sounds like a man talking from the bottom of the sea, completely wrecked. Weird, I have a sense of inner pandemonium, as I outwardly try to act the way I always do with him.
He couldn’t sleep either, he tells me, so we chat for a bit
about Jules, who, if her flight is on time, should be landing in Shannon in a few more hours. She’ll be home by nine-ish I tell him and he seems pleased to hear it.
I’m inclined to forget just how well Dan knows me though, because next thing, it’s as if he senses there’s something up with me.
Here it comes. Just tell the truth and get it over with…who knows? He may even understand. After all, it’s not like I slept with Jack or anything, is it?
In a gentle gear shift, he asks me what’s wrong.
Tell him! Tell him now…
But I can’t bring myself to. At least, not yet, I can’t. I’m still working out how to phrase it in my head. So instead I bring him up to speed about Liz. He hasn’t heard the news, but then that’s Dan for you; even if it were all over the media in Ireland today, he’d never in a million years get time to read a paper or sit down to watch the TV.
‘Go and see her as soon as you can,’ he says softly. ‘No matter how badly she acted towards you all, remember she wasn’t in her right mind. That wasn’t the real her. But she’ll need you in the next few weeks and months and you have to be there for her. It’s the right thing to do, Annie.’
I nod and thank him and he chats on about the general news from Stickens and how Lisa and the kids are spending more and more time up at The Moorings. Reading between the lines, it seems that the Countess Dracula is now busy inveigling herself into Audrey’s good books, running round after her, doing all her little jobs, being at her permanent beck and call.
Just like I used to do, back in the days.
Immediate burning sensation flares up in my gullet. Because I can picture the scene all too clearly. Lisa playing up to Dan, feeding him all her bullshit and wheedling cash out of him, like she somehow always does. And he doesn’t see it, but then he never does; Dan only sees the good in people, never the bad. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something, but I can’t seem to find the right words.
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Page 28