Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  Jenny nodded and looked around the bar. ‘I must say you all look pretty stupid,’ she grinned.

  Like Maddy, most of the cast had become a little blase about the recent bomb hoaxes and, like Maddy, they’d headed for the bar. While the anxious public hung back in the streets watching the police activities, nine actors in various forms of ancient Japanese costume and make-up lounged around over their beers, brandies and lemonades.

  Maddy looked at herself in the mirror behind the bar, the white face, the black wig barely covered by the scarf and the peculiar shape of her dressing robe with the heavy kimono underneath. ‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘we look bloody ridiculous, don’t we?’

  But they were not called back in and they didn’t get on with Act Two. This time the audience had been right. It had been no hoax. The bomb threat was real and no one was allowed back inside the theatre.

  As she sat in the back seat of the cab with Jenny, Maddy’s chest was tight with fear, her face bloodless under the white make-up. The voice of the front-of-house manager was still ringing in her ears. ‘They found it under the step by one of the aisle seats. Right hand, centre block of H row.’

  The seats in the centre block of H row were always reserved by the management as house seats. And Jenny had been sitting on the right-hand aisle.

  Fortunately Jenny had no idea that the bomb had been discovered beside her seat. She didn’t even know which row she had been in.

  Now Maddy tried desperately to cover her jangling nerves as she waited for Douglas to come home. She kept herself busy changing and taking off her make-up, avoiding Jenny’s discerning gaze and talking all the while.

  ‘Well, that was some way to spend a thirteenth birthday, wasn’t it? You can dine out on that one.’ She tossed a handful of tissues into the bathroom wastepaper bin, turned on the tap and started filling up the washbasin. My God, I look terrible, she thought, as she caught sight of her tight face and frightened eyes in the mirror.

  ‘I wonder if geisha girls look as bad as this when they take their make-up off,’ she said, trying to smile.

  After three washes with the liquid cleanser she put out her hand. ‘Towel.’ Jenny handed her the towel. ‘Do you still want to go to supper or shall we rustle something up here?’ She poured some astringent onto a make-up remover pad and started dabbing at her face. ‘Hey, we could get takeaway. What do you reckon? Really pig out on all the favourites.’

  ‘You’re very nervy, Mum,’ Jenny finally said. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all over. Nothing happened.’

  That was it. Maddy dropped all pretences. She hugged the child to her so hard that it hurt. ‘Oh, Jenny,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, Jenny, baby, baby, baby.’

  Jenny stroked her mother’s hair comfortingly. Poor Mum, she thought, she’s really in a bad way.

  When Douglas arrived twenty minutes later Maddy was pretty much recovered. ‘It was just shock,’ she told Jenny. ‘I needed a howl—it’s good therapy.’ Which was true.

  Douglas had been told of the bomb when he arrived at the theatre and he was duly sympathetic. ‘So you didn’t even get to see the whole show? What a bummer. Still, it’ll make a great story for your mates at school.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Mum said.’

  Maddy felt unreasonably irritated. Douglas was doing exactly as she’d done herself, underplaying the situation for Jenny’s sake, but what right did he have? He hadn’t been there—he didn’t know where the bomb had been found. Hell, if he’d turned up as he’d promised it might have been his bloody seat!

  Oh no. Suddenly Maddy felt ill. Surely it couldn’t be possible … It couldn’t have been meant for Douglas. If a bomb went off it didn’t get just one person anyway, did it; a quarter of the theatre would probably have been wiped out. If someone wanted to kill Douglas, surely they wouldn’t do it that way? Would they?

  The takeaway arrived. Maddy pretended to eat.

  But it often did happen that way, didn’t it? Terrorists didn’t care how many they killed if the person they were after was important enough. So how important was Douglas? He’d said military. What military? Who? Why?

  Maddy’s brain was screaming. And still she pretended to eat and join in the chat which was mostly about the play.

  Finally it was time for Jenny to go to bed and, alone with Douglas, Maddy was able to drop the pretence. She got straight to the point. ‘The bomb was found beside Maddy’s seat,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ Douglas’s reaction said nothing.

  ‘It could have been meant for you, couldn’t it?’ She felt her self-control disappearing as he remained silent. ‘Well, couldn’t it!’ She wanted to scream but didn’t dare let Jenny hear so it came out a venomous hiss.

  For the first time Douglas seemed to register how genuinely upset Maddy was. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t realise …’

  Maddy pulled away from him. ‘Answer me, Douglas. Was it meant for you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  Maddy waited for more but nothing appeared to be forthcoming. ‘Oh, Jesus, what am I supposed to do? What’s going on?’

  ‘Now listen to me, Madeleine.’ Douglas pulled her to him. ‘Whichever organisation it was, they were not after me, do you understand? You’re worrying yourself into a frenzy at the thought that Jenny could have been killed but I’m sure you’ll find the morning news reports will say it was a hoax.’

  ‘A hoax? But they found—’

  ‘I’m sure the bomb would never have gone off.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘Call it a publicity campaign—a public awareness exercise. They want to make people realise how easily they can do such things.’

  Maddy sat back in the sofa, exhausted. She didn’t know what to think any more. Her mind was numb.

  As it turned out, Douglas was quite right. The following morning it was reported that the IRA had claimed responsibility for the mock bomb planted amongst the theatre’s seats normally reserved for VIPs. Furthermore, the bomb had been planted during a capacity performance. That such a threat could be carried out so easily was positive proof of the efficiency of their organisation.

  Relieved as Maddy was that Jenny’s life had never been in danger, her misgivings were not entirely eased. She couldn’t persuade herself that Douglas wasn’t in some indirect way connected with the bomb threat. It was too coincidental. And it was one thing for him to place himself in danger, but Jenny …

  Douglas was aware of her tension. ‘Do you want me to go?’ he asked several days later. He’d taken Jenny to see Rashomon, then the three of them had had their belated birthday supper afterwards. Now he and Maddy were lying in each other’s arms. She didn’t answer.

  ‘I know how worried you’ve been,’ he continued. ‘Do you want me to go?’

  It was agony for Maddy. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. But then Jenny … As she clung to him she felt him harden against her thigh. Oh Christ, this wasn’t the right time to ask.

  ‘No, I don’t want you to go,’ she said, and kissed him, her mouth opening hungrily.

  Maddy managed to persuade herself not to feel too guilty about her decision. Jenny would be back at school in a week and well out of harm’s way. If, indeed, there was any harm. She was probably overreacting anyway, she told herself.

  Then, several days after Jenny left, there was an exciting turn of events which completely distracted Maddy.

  Viktor Hoff was offered a chance to direct for the National Theatre.

  ‘Moliere’s Misanthrope, Madeleine,’ he crowed, ‘and you are to be my Celimene.’ Viktor was justifiably thrilled with the offer. It meant that after only one stage production in England, he’d been accepted by the Establishment.

  ‘I shall give them pure Moliere, such a classical production like which they never have seen.’

  ‘But maybe they’re offering you the production because they want something avant-garde, Viktor,’ Maddy pointed out. ‘With your reputation they’re probably expecting you to set it in Manila in the
1980s or something.’

  ‘No, it will be seventeenth-century Paris—powdered wigs and silk breeches, Moliere will be pleased. Of course,’ he added with a cheeky grin, ‘I don’t straight away tell the National that I direct it half in English and half in French. Moliere will be even more pleased, yes?’

  Maddy laughed. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘I can’t wait, Julian,’ she said over the phone that night. ‘It’s four months before we go into production and Viktor’s working on the original French and two of his favourite translations and he’s going to direct it so that it can be played in front of either English or French audiences. God only knows if it’ll work, of course, but it’s certainly bold.’

  ‘Wonderful. I’ll look forward to seeing it.’

  ‘You’re joking. Really? You’re coming to London?’

  ‘In December. We had offers from two West End managements for The Conjurer and we’re going to sound them out for future business but we’re actually accepting the ’85 Chichester Festival. It’s a safer way of going about it rather than heading straight for London. If the show goes well it’ll transfer anyway, and if it flops then hopefully the whole world won’t know about it.’

  Maddy was thrilled. She longed to see Julian. ‘Six months away, though—it seems an age.’

  ‘It’s tomorrow, Maddy, believe me.’

  ‘How’s everything else going?’ she asked. He seemed a bit down.

  ‘Oh fine, fine.’

  Things weren’t really fine, Julian thought as he hung up. Normally he would confide all to Maddy but what was there to confide? By rights he should be ecstatically happy. He had a hit play about to be launched internationally and investors were queueing up to fund the new play he was writing for Alex. That was what wasn’t fine, of course. He was writing the play for Alex.

  ‘Author! Author!’ the audience had yelled after the opening night performance of The Conjurer and Alex had literally pushed Julian down the aisle towards the stage. When he’d taken his three self-conscious bows and walked offstage Alex was waiting for him in the wings. ‘Welcome back, Julian,’ he said as he hugged him very close.

  And now Julian was writing his next play for Alex. And probably the next one after this, he thought. And the next, and the next. He was back in Alex’s pocket and Alex knew it.

  ‘What’s the next play going to be about, Julian?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Oh, about a modern day Faustus,’ Julian had answered off the top of his head, ‘except my character sells his soul to his friend instead of the devil.’

  Alex laughed. ‘How pertinent. Make it a comedy.’

  And Julian had. These days he did everything Alex asked, he thought gloomily, feeling very manipulated. But then if it was success he was after … Hell, he’d even agreed to holiday with Alex in Europe before their business meetings in England at the end of the year.

  ‘The Austrian Alps, Julian, you’ve never been there, have you?’ Alex enthused. ‘And after Chichester we’ll go to Scotland. I believe there’s a great resort at Aviemore. I’ve never skiied in Scotland, have you?’

  ‘You know bloody well I haven’t, Alex. I had a day’s lessons at Thredbo ten years ago and I wasn’t very good at it.’

  ‘I’ll teach you. You’ll love it.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I can always hire a toboggan instead.’

  Harold was thrilled that his boys were reunited. ‘To friendship,’ he toasted, raising his gin and lime.

  As the three of them clinked glasses Julian looked at Alex. The eyes smiled back at him with genuine affection and Julian wondered why he felt such foreboding.

  ‘We need more limes, dear boy,’ Harold said to Alex. ‘Only three left in the box.’ Alex still did Harold’s shopping for him: the more exotic items that Harold couldn’t get from the corner deli half a block away.

  ‘That box was full a week ago, Harold,’ Alex said, cutting up one of the three remaining limes. ‘You’ve been nudging the gin a bit, haven’t you?’

  ‘I eat limes with crayfish too,’ Harold said defensively. ‘And oysters.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’re an old soak.’

  Alex’s love for Harold was his one true redeeming feature, Julian thought. Harold could be very difficult to take at times; lately he’d been ill and he was a terrible invalid.

  The truth was that Harold had never ceased to amuse Alex. Harold himself knew it and he was always at his wittiest in Alex’s company. Even his whingeing took on an extra colour when Alex was around.

  ‘Stoicism is not a characteristic I admire,’ he pronounced, although secretly he did. ‘The only pleasure to be reaped from pain is in letting everybody know that you have it.’

  Harold’s health had deteriorated rapidly over the past year but he refused to see a doctor. ‘What for?’ he’d say in reply to Julian’s nagging. ‘There’s no cure for mortality. I turn eighty next year.’ He’d stopped lying about his age at seventy-five. Now he boasted about it.

  ‘Four score years it shall be before I shuffle off this mortal coil. And over sixty of them spent treading the boards. Not to be sneered at, dear boy, not to be sneered at.’

  It was because of his illness that Harold refused the role Julian had written for him in The Conjurer.

  ‘But it’s a gem of a part,’ Alex insisted. ‘Pure Beauchamp. It’s only in Act One; you wouldn’t have to stay for the curtain, so you’d be home by interval.’

  ‘My favourite sort of role, my dear Alexei, I admit. And I’m deeply grateful for the opportunity but I intend to take this year out.’ Harold ignored Alex’s attempt to interrupt. ‘I’ll allow my arm to be twisted for the odd well-paid film cameo but theatre is banned for ’84, I’m afraid.’ And he refused to budge.

  ‘So much for loyalty,’ Alex complained to Julian. ‘Harold knocks us back and Susannah accepts another offer.’ It was only a token whinge at Harold, but Alex was genuinely annoyed with Susannah. She was moody, she was sullen and now she was letting him down.

  ‘A nine-month tour!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’ll be fun,’ she said. ‘It’s a frothy piece and the change’ll do me good. Besides, I’m looking forward to getting away from Sydney for a while.’

  Susannah and Alex didn’t bother hiding the rift in their relationship. Not that they had screaming rows—it might have been healthier if they had—and publicly their image remained the same but, to those close to them like Julian and Harold, it was obvious that the marriage was over.

  Susannah had discovered not long after her brother’s death that Alex had been unfaithful to her. A slighted rival actress had been only too happy to boast of her own one-night stand with Alex, and she’d been even happier to hint at the unsubstantiated rumour of his long-term affair with Myra Nielson.

  Although she hadn’t suspected Alex of infidelity Susannah believed the actress. But she wasn’t destroyed by the knowledge. Nothing could destroy her now. The worst had happened. Michael was dead. And she’d survived. Alex hadn’t really meant anything to her, anyway, Susannah decided, just as she hadn’t really meant anything to him. They had been of use to each other, that was all.

  Michael was the only one she’d ever loved and, without him, there was nothing but work. Susannah maintained her pride in her work but, outside of the theatre, there was not one thing that interested her, least of all herself. Her erratic eating habits worsened as her self-esteem hit an all-time low. Left to her own devices while Alex worked with Julian on the script or wooed investors in ski chalets, Susannah binged and purged relentlessly. On her way home from the theatre, having starved herself all day, she would lust after forbidden food. Not just one pie but three, and chips, and a Chiko roll. These were never enough and she’d search the pantry cupboards for biscuits and cakes, and the freezer for ice cream until finally, clasping her distended stomach in both hands, she’d weave her way to the bathroom, disgusted, and vomit the lot.

  She knew that it was wrong. She’d heard it diagnosed as bulimia nervosa and discussed
as an illness but she didn’t believe she was ill. Before she binged she would persuade herself that if she wanted to eat, why not go the whole hog? And each time she purged herself and was lean once more she felt as if she’d done a penance.

  No matter how Susannah justified her behaviour though, there was always the odd time when she looked in the bathroom mirror. The time, just before she knelt by the lavatory bowl, when she thought of the goose in Mondo Cane. She’d seen the film when she was a child and she’d never forgotten the goose. Its webbed feet nailed to the floor, unable to exercise, it was force-fed through a funnel until its liver enlarged, ruptured and the animal died. Susannah had never eaten goose liver pate since.

  On those odd occasions when she looked in the mirror and saw the goose, Susannah knew she was in a real mess. And it was the morning after one of those moments of insight that she picked up the phone and accepted the nine-month tour of My Fat Friend.

  She could have laughed out loud at the choice of play. It was about a girl with an eating problem who goes from very fat to very thin. And a comedy at that! But then maybe it was the play itself which had signalled her. Whatever it was, it would get her away from Alex who was totally unsympathetic to her depression, and it would get her out of Sydney. Whether it would get her away from herself remained to be seen.

  Susannah didn’t keep in contact with Alex during the Fat Friend tour and, with the excitement of The Conjurer production and the success of the Sydney season, he barely noticed her absence. By the time he and Julian were entering negotiations for the UK production he had, in true Rainford fashion, virtually forgotten she existed. It therefore came as a surprise, but no great disappointment, when Susannah phoned him from Adelaide to say the tour had been so successful that the management had extended the season to include six-week runs in Perth, Hobart and New Zealand. There was a month’s break before the new leg of the tour and she was going to holiday in Bali. She would be away from Sydney for another six months at least.

  ‘Have a nice holiday,’ Alex said. He was pleased when she hung up and he could get back to the first rough draft of Friend Faustus that Julian had given him.