by Judy Nunn
Julian didn’t delude himself. It was borrowed time and he knew it. His own work ethic wouldn’t allow him to wallow in books and music and long walks for more than a fortnight, anyway—he needed to write. He also didn’t delude himself about the longevity of his other diversion. David wouldn’t last either.
They’d been together three months now, ever since the auditions, and naturally they’d had to keep their affair strictly under wraps. Only Harold knew and, even then, Julian hadn’t told him. He’d guessed. ‘Takes one to know one, dear boy,’ he’d said. ‘I’m very happy for you.’
David Arncliffe was an up-and-coming young leading man in the theatre. Very few people guessed that he was homosexual. The infamous Roger Kingsley didn’t even bother making his customary advances, so convinced was he that David was straight.
‘I suppose that’s my chance with The Way In Theatre out the window,’ David said to Julian. ‘I couldn’t bear to let him know I was “one of us” though. He’s such a terrible old queen.’
‘I wouldn’t worry: poor Roger’s a dinosaur well and truly on the way out,’ Julian replied. ‘There’s half a dozen new brooms all lined up ready to do the sweeping—it’s only a matter of time.’
What would Alex say if he found out the ‘hot new actor’ signed to play the male lead in I, Me and Us was homosexual? Julian wondered. He smiled to himself. What would Alex say if he knew the leading role was based entirely upon him? What a perfect irony.
Julian hadn’t quite been able to believe it himself that first time. He and David had been discussing the play, the characters, then theatre in general. They’d been talking for hours; early dawn was lightening the sky; they were seated comfortably in Julian’s lounge room; when David stood up, Julian, disappointed, assumed he was leaving. ‘Shall we continue this discussion in bed?’ David suggested. They weren’t even drunk.
As they undressed each other, a nervous Julian—it had been such a long time—joked, ‘If you want to screw your way to the top you should never choose the writer, you know.’
‘Damn,’ David said. ‘I thought you were the producer.’ Then he kissed him.
They spent the night together at least once a week after that, but it was when David moved in to Julian’s house at Bondi Beach for the halcyon fortnight before production that the affair truly blossomed. With the exception of Harold, they saw no one in the industry, they wined and dined at out-of-the-way restaurants and spent mornings walking along the nearby beachfronts like any other young lovers.
The small Federation-style house Julian had bought a couple of blocks back from the beachfront was a cosy little nest for two. He had spent much of his hard-earned television money on renovations resulting in a vine-covered courtyard out back with a sundeck above where one could catch glimpses of water views. ‘Well, if you risk life and limb by standing on the railing you can,’ he laughed to David when he gave him the guided tour. ‘It’s a perfect suntrap in the winter, though.’
‘Great,’ David said. ‘We’ll loll around and sunbake together.’
Julian couldn’t help but thrill to the words—he so wanted the relationship to last. Then he chastised himself: Don’t be so bloody stupid; it’s far too good to last … just enjoy it while you can.
David actually did very little ‘lolling around’. An avid sportsman, most of his mornings off were spent surfing at Bondi. Even though it was early September he would stay in the water for hours.
‘How do you do it!’ Julian exclaimed. ‘It’s bloody freezing!’
‘See this?’ David laughed, snapping the wrist band of his wetsuit. ‘It’s called a wetsuit, dummy, you should give it a go.’
But Julian was perversely proud of his lack of ability and interest in any form of sport whatsoever. ‘You have to have the exception to prove the rule,’ he insisted, ‘and I’m it. Five generations Australian and useless at every sport known to man. I can’t even hit a dartboard at ten paces.’ And he refused to budge.
He enjoyed walking, though, and he always ended his morning walk with the view from the cliffs of the south headland. To his right, further down the coast, he could see Waverley Cemetery sprawled untidily on the side of a hill which spilled out into the ocean. To his left was the magnificent expanse of Bondi Beach with its buildings so evocative of the thirties. And below, at the base of the headland, was the tatty old Icebergs Clubhouse and pool, famous home of the first Winter Swimming Club (Men Only) and bastion of the last of the true-blue Aussie mysogynists who needed to escape from their women.
There were always Council promises to give Bondi a facelift but nothing ever happened. Julian was rather glad. Bondi was as tatty as the Icebergs and equally colourful.
He’d always loved Bondi Beach. He remembered those early days at NADA when he and Alex would pile into Maddy’s red MGB and the three of them would race down to Bondi to eat home-made pies from the corner shop and watch the ocean while they made their grandiose plans for the future. The pieshop was still there, the pies were still good, and Alex’s and Julian’s grandiose plans certainly seemed to be coming to fruition. The only thing missing was Maddy. Julian never stopped wondering what had become of her.
She was somewhere in the UK, he knew that much. His constant nagging at Helena had finally forced Robert McLaughlan’s address from her but that was as far as Julian could get. ‘She went to England with her father,’ was all Helena would tell him.
Both Julian and Harold wrote to Maddy but their letters were neither acknowledged nor returned. It saddened him to think that he would never see her again.
It was years later, when he was writing his first play and stripping himself bare in the process, that Julian realised he must have been jealous of Maddy. He’d been aware of feeling a touch envious of her and Alex, of course—who wouldn’t wish for such an all-consuming love? But no, he eventually admitted, it was Maddy herself of whom he’d been jealous. Deep down he’d wanted Alex to love him like that.
Julian hated the insight his plays had given him, he hated his obsession for Alex—at times, he hated Alex for being the object of his obsession. Now, for the first time in years, Julian could feel the weight being lifted from him. With David in his life Alex could at long last be relegated to an emotional back seat. Julian intended to keep it that way. And to prove it, he decided his next play, for which he was already making notes, would be nothing whatsoever to do with Alex Rainford.
There was an impromptu round of applause following the read-through and Alex gave Julian a triumphant wink. He looked at the other people seated around the table: Susannah, David the new leading man, Harold Beauchamp, Rosie Lee, the two young bit-part and understudy actors, the stage director, the set designer, the costume designer and Julian himself. The applause was for Julian—or rather for his play. The casting was spot-on, of course, thought Alex smugly. They were the right actors for the right roles, they were talented and they had all performed the reading beautifully. But the play’s the thing, he told himself, and Julian’s play’s bloody terrific.
‘Terrific, Julian,’ he said, standing up. ‘Terrific read, everyone. Bloody terrific.’ Then Alex wished everyone good luck and left them to it as he’d told Julian he would.
‘Nothing worse than an interfering producer,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t you worry, I won’t hang around.’ Julian had been surprised and grateful. He’d been sure that Alex wouldn’t be able to relinquish his hold on I, Me and Us and that his directorial interference could well lead to serious friction.
‘We’ve got a great team, buddy,’ Alex continued, ‘and I’ve got to get those bums on seats, so I’ll see you around.’
‘Thanks Alex, I’ll keep you posted.’ And Julian didn’t see Alex for nearly two weeks.
By the end of that first fortnight the ‘limited twelve week season’ was sold out. Alex had advertised the ‘limited season’ in case the show was a flop but he’d actually put a tentative booking on the theatre for a full six months and a further nine-month national tour was in the pipeli
ne.
The new ads now read: Extended by popular demand. And that’s even before the show’s opened, Alex gloated, justifiably proud of himself. Such was the power of publicity. By Christ, the reviews had better be good.
The weekend before they were to start final dress rehearsals and previews Alex decided to throw a party.
‘Just before production week, Alex?’ Susannah was mildly horrified.
‘On the Saturday, Sooz. Everyone’s got Sunday to recover and we don’t have to make it a massive crowd.’
Susannah finally capitulated, as long as it was a luncheon party, the numbers didn’t exceed thirty and everyone was encouraged to leave before nightfall. It was exactly what Alex had had in mind, so he sighed heavily and pretended to give in.
Alex loved entertaining in their new five-bedroom mansion on the peninsula. And he particularly loved daytime entertaining so that everyone could admire the magnificent view over Pittwater from the landscaped garden or from the indoor swimming pool.
‘What a wonderful host you are, dear boy,’ Harold said, as he surveyed the lavish smorgasbord set out on the terrace.
‘I had a good teacher, Harold.’ Alex had made a study of Harold’s impeccable entertaining style and now delighted in returning the old man’s years of hospitality. Harold was warmed and flattered. He was fully aware that Alex loved to show off but then he was young, successful and wealthy, so why shouldn’t he?
The years had not diminished Harold’s love for Alex. And the more he saw how manipulative and self-obsessed Alex was, the more he forgave him. Licence must be granted to truly charismatic people, he believed. There were too few of them around; they should be encouraged. The world would be such a drab place without them.
‘Try the glazed ham,’ said Alex, carving a choice sliver, ‘I get it from a great new deli in Crows Nest where they smoke their own.’ He popped the piece of ham in Harold’s mouth.
‘Heaven,’ Harold rolled his eyes ecstatically. ‘Sheer heaven.’
‘They’ve got the best range of imported cheeses, too. You should take a look.’
‘I never shop on the north side, dear boy, I’m an eastern suburbs lad born and bred. But you must get in some stock for me and I shall trust your judgement.’
It was strong praise, indeed, and Alex accepted the compliment for what it was. Harold never allowed anyone to purchase his food supplies; they were bound to get it wrong. Alex started then and there to make a mental shopping list.
‘Isn’t the ham divine? Would you carve some for me too, darling?’ Susannah put an arm halfway around Harold’s ample back and held her plate out to Alex.
‘Further proof of your excellent cuisine, Alexei, it’s such a relief to see this one eat something other than a quail egg at long last.’
‘I had to,’ Susannah smiled, ‘I got sick of your nagging.’ She leaned over Harold for the bearnaise sauce. ‘Have you tried the fresh asparagus? Alex steamed it himself. Oh, there’s Myra Nielson, trust her to be so late.’ And Susannah sailed off to play hostess.
Alex watched as she took Myra’s hand and kissed her on the cheek, then shook hands with Myra’s companion, all the while balancing her plate of food gracefully and moving like a dancer. Everything Susannah did was graceful. Except in bed.
They’d been halfway through the first week of rehearsals when Susannah had brought her stage role home. She became sexually harsh, aggressive and masculine. Alex, complying to her every order, found it fascinating to lie, stand, kneel wherever she wanted and passively allow himself to be used. I’m her own flesh-and-blood dildo, he thought. It’s as if the dick’s hers, not mine.
Myra’s companion was a tall woman in her mid-forties with red hair and a slightly hard face. Susannah gestured towards Alex, Myra smiled and waved, Alex waved back and the three women crossed the terrace.
‘Hello, Alex, sorry I’m a little late. I don’t think you’ve met Anita.’
She looks like a dyke, thought Alex as he shook hands with the woman. Her handshake was as strong as any man’s and when Alex caught the look in Myra’s eyes he knew he was right. So this was why Myra hadn’t wanted to resume their affair … ‘I think we’ll give it a rest for a while, Alex,’ she’d said. He hadn’t bothered to ask why, presuming there was someone else in her life and, although his ego was piqued, he hadn’t really cared. After all, Susannah was sexually active enough for any man.
‘You look wonderful, Myra.’ His smile was genuine. ‘But then, you always do.’ Alex no longer felt piqued. He hadn’t lost, after all. If Myra chose another woman, then there was no competition and therefore no winner.
Myra read his smile and smiled back. It didn’t bother her if Alex’s ego chose to believe in a stalemate. She knew better. She had declared the contest over, therefore she was the winner. ‘Thank you, Alex, I feel wonderful.’
Susannah finished her plate of ham and asparagus, took a bottle of Moët Vintage from one of the drinks waiters and circulated.
‘Top up, boys?’ She joined Julian and David who were standing in the far corner of the terrace admiring the yachts heading for Broken Bay and the open ocean beyond.
A bottle of champagne and twenty minutes later the three of them were still talking about the show. And they would have continued to do so if Susannah hadn’t looked at her watch. ‘I’d better circulate,’ she said. Twenty minutes, she thought to herself, time’s up. ‘You two should mingle too, we’re being shockingly in-house, we should all be talking about current affairs or something.’ And with that she blew them a kiss and headed off for the most distant upstairs en suite.
‘She’s right, you know, we are being a bit exclusive,’ Julian said. ‘People are probably already talking.’
‘Stuff them,’ David replied. He was full of champagne, the joy of spring and his love for Julian. ‘Stuff the lot of them.’
And Julian, who was in very much the same condition, felt a rush of emotion. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe they would last. He pulled himself together—someone had to practise discretion. ‘Let’s mingle,’ he said.
Susannah finished brushing her teeth, gargled, checked her make-up and hair then flushed the toilet a second time, just to be sure. She sprayed a second round of Chanel about too, although she knew it wasn’t necessary.
Susannah had it down to a fine art. She always excused herself from the table well within half an hour of eating. That way the bile hadn’t had time to get to work and it wasn’t really unpleasant at all. Not like vomiting, just a gentle little purge and she felt wonderful afterwards, purified, tummy muscles tight.
She always carried a miniature kit of toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthspray and cologne, even in her evening bag, so that she could never be caught out. Discovering the perfect way to stay slim and avoid the nagging of people concerned about her diet had been a vast relief to Susannah. And there was the added pleasure of actually being able to enjoy the taste of food without the sickening knowledge that it was going to make her fat. The hideous feeling of nausea that used to accompany any attempt to eat normally was a thing of the past.
Of course she didn’t abuse the privilege. She only purged herself several times a week after dinner parties or restaurant outings; the rest of the time she stuck to her rigid diet. It always amused her when she decided to pig out at a party.
‘Where do you put it?’ was the inevitable comment when she piled her plate high, ‘You’re such a tiny little thing.’
‘To a wonderful company and a wonderful show.’ Alex raised his glass in tribute. ‘Thanks for all your hard work.’ He nodded and a waiter appeared carrying a giant chocolate cake with I, Me and Us emblazoned across it in white icing. ‘Here’s to a magnificent opening night. May it be everything every one of us is hoping for, and more!’
It was. Thanks to the massive publicity campaign the world premiere of I, Me and Us was the glittering social event of the season. More importantly though, the critics were unanimous in their praise for two of the most exciting new talents in the Austral
ian theatre, Alex Rainford, entrepreneur and Julian Oldfellow, playwright/director.
‘Their collaboration resulted in the most stimulating evening I have spent in the theatre in all of the twenty-five years I have been writing for this newspaper,’ gushed Old Bill Foley. And nobody bothered pointing out that fifteen of those years had been spent covering rugby league matches, because everyone agreed with him.
‘We did it, Julian.’ Alex leaned back in his seat behind the massive desk in the production office and toasted Julian with his coffee cup. ‘We bloody well did it. Congratulations.’
‘To you too, Alex.’ Julian returned the toast with his own coffee cup but his smile was a little fixed. He knew what was coming next and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He had a feeling Alex’s reaction to the decision he’d made wasn’t going to be good.
It was nearly a week after opening night. Alex had called the meeting: ‘Just the two of us, we need to decide where we’re going.’
‘So what’s the plan of attack, do you reckon?’ Alex put his coffee cup down and prepared for action. ‘If I grab the rights to a pretty safe bet, some middle-of-the-road Broadway hit, do you think you could keep writing while you direct it?’ When Julian didn’t answer immediately he added, ‘Of course I’d give you strong backup.’ Julian still hesitated. ‘We can’t just sit around and wait while you finish your next play, Julian, we need to keep our names hot.’
Julian shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Well, for Christ’s sake, you are writing another play, aren’t you?’ Alex snapped.
‘Yes. Sure.’
‘So, when will you have it finished, and can you direct one play while you write another?’ Alex repeated impatiently.
Julian took a deep breath, thinking he might as well get it over and done with. ‘I want to go alone for a while, Alex.’ The pause seemed interminable. ‘Well not alone, of course, but with another producer.’
‘Why?’ Alex’s face was completely unreadable.