50 Ways to Find a Lover (42 page)

‘What about the pretty girl who plays the lesbian in the play? Amy?’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘Oh,’ I start, surprised. ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

‘You don’t sound too sure.’

‘Hmmm. He’s in advertising. He works all the time. I hardly ever see him.’

‘Is he coming to press night?’

‘Yes. I think so. He says he is. You know, work permitting.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Paul. Paul, Perfect Paul,’ I say, but I wish I could sound more convincing.

fifty-six

Normally I come on stage an hour and a half after the play has started. I say my one line and then go back to the dressing room to finish off knitting a woolly hat or carry on with my crossword.

But I open this play. I am on stage when the audience comes in. I rest on my knees in the middle of the stage, racking up lines of heroin and every so often yawning, scratching or fidgeting. Then the house lights go down and a spotlight falls on me alone. At which point I have to say a two-page monologue. Every time I look up I see a familiar face. Simon is on my left in the front row with my mum and dad. When I look in their direction with my druggy stare they all nudge each other and beam at me so I have to aim my looks out more to the right-hand side of the audience. But Selina Gutteridge, the casting director, is there on the right, next to Eamonn Nigels, so that’s not much better.

I can’t see Paul. I don’t know what I’ll do if he lets me down tonight. Aside from my birthday he has stood me up twice. Both times he cancelled dinner because he had to work late. Now that I’ll be doing a show every day for the next six weeks I don’t know what will happen. When he didn’t have me, he wanted me. Now he knows he can have me, he’s disappeared. I feel a like a gym he joined but can’t be arsed to go to. Focus, Sarah, don’t blow tonight because of a bloke, I tell myself as I finger a bit of the brown sugar and wipe it around my gums. I grimace and the house lights go down. I feel the warmth of my spotlight. I start to speak.

Suddenly we are all bowing. No one forgot any lines or fell over. The audience laughed at the jokes. Now they are clapping. We bow again. My left breast nearly falls out of my dress as I do but I catch it in time. The clapping doesn’t stop. We all bow again. In the front row, a small middle-aged man wearing glasses stands up. I assume he’s standing up to leave but he stands still and raises his hands to clap more. Two girls sitting behind him get to their feet and start to whoop. Then as though in slow motion the entire audience gets to their feet and claps us. It’s a standing ovation. It’s the best feeling in the world. If I could sell it in a bottle I’d easily be able to pay off my student loan. I hear a familiar voice shout, ‘Bravo!’ It’s Paul. He’s standing next to Julia about halfway back. He’s holding a bunch of roses. He plucks one free and throws it towards the stage. It nearly takes a woman’s eye out four rows in front of him. He makes an ‘oops’ face. I catch his eye and we smile.

I leave the stage door. Paul is there with the rest of the roses. He grabs me in a hug and whispers in my ear, ‘You were fucking brilliant. Fucking brilliant. I’m serious, Sare.’

I stand in his hug for a moment, feeling sublime. I kiss him on the lips.

‘What now?’ he says. ‘I’m starving. I want to take you to dinner.’

‘But there’s a do now with drinks and canapés and stuff, remember?’

‘Oh bugger. I forgot.’

‘You will come to the party? Please. Free champagne!!’

‘Yeah, OK, but I’d better get some canapés!’ he says, putting his arm around my waist.

Tradition clearly dictates that on the first night there shall be a first-night party. Tradition also kindly asserts that at the first-night party an actress can get inarticulately inebriated on free champagne and people who saw the show must approach said actress and call her ‘darling’ and tell her she was wonderful. Sarah Sargeant is a huge fan of first-night parties.

This party’s very glitzy. I feel like I’m in an episode of
Sex and the City
as I stand in the entrance surveying the room with Paul at my side. With any luck I’ll be getting some sex in the city tonight. I’m even wearing my wraparound dress. I look at Paul. He doesn’t look as though he is thinking about adult fun. He’s scanning the room rampantly with his eyes, a deep frown etched on his face.

‘Are you all right?’ I say to him.

‘I’m starving. Can’t we just go for dinner somewhere?’

‘It’s the first-night party,’ I whoop like a six-year-old girl who’s just been given something pink.

But Paul doesn’t look at me, he just keeps frowning and searching the room for something edible.

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look in pain,’ I enquire carefully.

‘I’m hungry, Sare,’ he snaps. I gasp.

It was definitely a snap. I hate snapping. The only things I approve of snapping at are electrical. It is fine to snap at a remote control or a dodgy microwave but not a person, not even a dog. Maybe a wasp, but not a person. I wait for an apology. It doesn’t come.

‘Find Simon. He normally stands near the kitchen so he gets his hands on the canapés first,’ I mutter to him as we take a champagne cocktail each from a waiter-held tray.

‘Oh, right, yeah. Good idea. Because we’re great mates!’ says Paul sarcastically. Please, God, don’t make Paul a snapper and please don’t let him be a grumpy wanker who will ruin my night.

I locate my mum and dad and Simon and Julia. They’re standing with Eamonn Nigels and Selina Gutteridge. They’re obviously talking about my birthday because my dad is demonstrating his ‘big box little box’ dance to Eamonn, who’s nodding. I walk towards them. They start clapping me. It’s very embarrassing. I visit various armpits as I am enveloped in hugs. I come up spluttering for air.

Dominic, the director, appears before me. He squeezes me. I start to feel like a stress reliever belonging to a neurotic menopausal housewife.

‘Thank you for her,’ Dominic says to Eamonn.

Eamonn chuckles. ‘Well done, Dom. I loved it. Loved it. And I’m nearly always bored to tears in the theatre, as Sarah will verify. And Dom, I’d like you to meet Selina Gutteridge. She works for me.’ Eamonn gestures towards my Selina, who’s supposed to be very busy at
Casualty
, trying to get me a part as a midwife.

‘Pleased to meet you, Dominic. I’m Eamonn’s new recruit. I was at
Casualty
for years but he recently poached me.’

‘Healthier than frying,’ says my dad. Everyone looks at him for a second and then starts laughing. Only a man past retirement age could get away with a joke that dreadful.

‘Have you met my bad-joke dad, Dominic?’ I say.

Selina working for Eamonn is dire news. All hope of becoming a midwife in
Casualty
has just been surgically removed.

‘Smaller than a gnat’s twat! You need a bloody microscope to see what these are!’ Paul is muttering at a tiny brown thing he’s just picked off a canapé tray. Then he gives me a pointed look, which would imply that I had personally made the bloody thing to spite him. Paul puts the small thing in his mouth and walks off following the waiter with the canapé tray.

‘What’s up with him?’ asks Si, sidling up to me.

‘He’s hungry,’ I say flatly.

‘What is he, diabetic?’ asks Si.

‘I doubt it. If a diabetic person doesn’t get sugar they die. If Paul doesn’t get food I doubt he’ll die, unless of course I find a hatchet somewhere and throw it at his grumpy head.’

Simon laughs heartily. A bit too heartily if you ask me. I watch him sadly while he composes himself.

‘Whatever you do don’t let him ruin your night. You’ve worked hard to be here. You were brilliant in the show. I mean it. This is your night.’

‘Hmm.’ I attempt a smile.

Tristan appears.

‘You must be Paul and you must be proud,’ he says, offering a hand to Simon.

‘Nah, mate, I’m Simon, Sarah’s flatmate. But I am bloody proud of her. That’s Paul over there,’ he says, pointing. We all turn to look at Paul, who is standing on his own pulling the face that men pull when they are forced to stand in women’s shoe shops. Eamonn joins us. ‘Sarah, Selina and I are going to make a move in a moment. Can we have a quick word before we do?’

‘Sure,’ I say, leaving Simon and Tristan.

‘I thought you were terrific tonight. Really,’ he says.

‘Thank you, Eamonn. That means a lot coming from you.’

‘There’s a part in Eamonn’s current film that you’d be perfect for,’ Selina says. ‘We’d like to offer it to you. It’d mean flying out to LA though. Would you be OK with that?’

I stare at her.

‘Say that again,’ I say quietly.

‘We’d like you to fly to LA to play a part in Eamonn’s next film,’ she laughs.

I continue to stare at her. Then I smile. But it’s not a normal smile because as my lips stretch outwards I start to cry. ‘Really?’ I squeak.

They nod and smile at me.

It takes two seconds to go from glamorous first-night actress to snotty mess. I wipe the tears from my eyes and my hands are black from running eye make-up. I start to laugh and cry while attempting to say thank you. They sit me down and refresh my glass. Selina rubs my back to stop the hiccups when they start.

‘I’m so pleased. I really wanted to cast you in something good. What with the Rachel Bird incident and you only having a few lines in that
Casualty
episode.’