Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? (34 page)

Simple as that.

‘I was tipsy and it shouldn’t have happened and I’m sorry that it did. But I can tell you one thing: it most definitely will
not
happen again.’

‘Oh yes it will,’ she shakes her dark curls gravely.

‘I already told you, hon, I had way too much to drink and…’

‘You only ever do things you want to do when you’re drunk.’

‘Jules, please…’

‘No, you
have
to listen to me. If I know the Jack Gordons of this world, and I think I’ve seen a fair few in my time…’

‘You have?’

‘Oh shut up, you’re in no position to get smart-alecky with me. Men like Jack are the type who’ll basically drill through concrete to get what they want. And he wants you, no two ways about that. Which is what’s making me sick with worry. All weekend, I could see clear as day this whole other parallel life that you could be leading here, with him. Instead of back home with us. And it’s not just frightening me, Annie, it’s bloody terrifying me. You’re like my sister and I love you and suppose, just suppose that by the end of this year, you decide that you don’t want to come home? No one could blame you for making that decision either, because what’s waiting for you at home? The Mothership whinging at you? The Countess Dracula bitching at you? And then Dan, gone, gone all the time, making you one promise after another and always letting you down. Supposing you say to hell with that, you want to stay here
and lead a whole new life with someone else? Then what? You’d be gone out of our lives and I’d never see you again and as for Dan…’

I take my head out of the laundry basket and am about to tell Jules that she’s taken up the tiniest germ of an idea and run wild with it, as per usual.

It’s only when I turn to look up at her, that I realise she’s got tears in her eyes.

Jules’s last weekend in New York and after the disaster of our aborted trip to the Hamptons, this promises to be a good ’un. It’s the Tony awards, broadcast live from Radio City Music Hall and the whole lot of us are like basket cases with the nerves. Barring Liz, that is, who apart from occasionally grunting at me in work, has yet to pass as much as a civil sentence to any one of us.

Because the awards are held on a Sunday night, we’re all in a mad rush after our matinee show to get home and shoehorn ourselves into evening dresses suitable for the poshest black-tie bash any of us have ever been to in our entire lives. And knowing right well that she’d refuse point blank to spend money on herself, we all clubbed together and hired a professional make-up artist to call to Blythe’s apartment, to help get her all dolled up for her big night. But when I say ‘we all’ I mean myself, Alex and Chris. I offered Liz the chance to have her make-up done professionally for the night too, stressing that this was a treat from the rest of us but all I got in return was a) a filthy glare and b) the dressing room door slammed in my face.

Christ Alive, you’d actually swear that I’d doused her in petrol, set fire to her hair, then run away cackling like Peter
Lorre, the way she’s carrying on these days. And I’ve been actively tuning it out for so long that I don’t know how much longer I can go on for.

Anyroadup, the matinee is long over, we’re all back at the ranch and it’s like an episode of
America’s Top Model
; all of us charging in and out of each other’s apartments filching bits of make-up, handbags, shoes, the works. Messing and laughing and then excitedly squealing over each other’s outfits, even though we all went shopping for them together to Loehmann’s designer store earlier this week, so what we’re all wearing is no big surprise really.

Blythe is looking gorgeous in a stunningly elegant pale green dress and long shawl, with pearls borrowed from Chris. Meanwhile Alex looks cool and funky in a YSL black trouser suit she found on sale in Century 21 and with her red hair tightly slicked back, the whole look is very
le smoking
altogether. A slash of bright blue lipstick is her only Alex-like little rebellion. Chris, of course, looks like a model: groomed and sleek with her long, straight, dark hair up in a neat chignon and wearing a deep purple crushed velvet dress that only someone as tall and pale and skinny as her could really carry off.

As a special treat and also as a farewell pressie, I bought Jules a stunning long, black Calvin Klein fishtail evening dress, which just looked so breathtaking on her when she tried it on that I knew she had to have it. She’s wearing her hair down and loose for the night, springy curls wild and abandoned, but still looks all sophisticated and grown-up, a million miles from the sloppy, oversized T-shirts she’s usually happy to stomp around the apartment in all day.

‘You sure I look OK?’ she asks me, twirling around my bedroom while I’m blow-drying my soaking wet hair,
running late and well behind schedule. ‘I feel weird with my knees covered.’

‘Stunning,’ I assure her.

‘And it’s so low in front. Promise me I don’t look like I’m dressed for an operation?’

I laugh back at her. ‘Not a bit of it, you look so elegant and chic! I’m dead proud of you, babe. We’ll have to take a load of photos to prove to Audrey how well you scrub up.’

‘Yeah,’ she grins at me, tossing the curls off her face, ‘you’re right, even if I do say so myself. I look really hot in black, don’t I? Jeez, it’s a wonder I don’t get hit on at funerals more often.’

All our invites bossily say that we’re to be in Radio City and seated by nine pm sharp, but we’ve all been invited to The Plaza hotel for cocktails beforehand, by Jack, who by the way continues to act like a perfect gentleman towards me. As much as to say, ‘I wouldn’t dream of being crass enough to embarrass you by even referring to how we leaped on each other’s bones like a pair of sex-starved animals only a week ago…so let’s just act completely normal, like nothing happened.’

Complete and utter denial that anything ever happened or that there’s any kind of problem between us? Absolutely fine by me. I’ve had years of practice at this. I’m a bleeding maestro.

Anyroadup, just as we’re all assembling in the hallway, getting ready to take cabs up to The Plaza, on an impulse, I call up to Liz’s apartment. To make her feel included, to at least let her know where we’ll all be and that of course, she’s welcome to come with. She did her usual disappearing trick after this afternoon’s show and there’s been no sighting of her since. And now there’s no answer to her door.

Worrying. To say the least.

But everyone else is in high good humour, giggling and messing as we all pile into the Champagne Bar of The Plaza hotel, tripping over long dresses we’re not quite used to and high heels we’re all stumbling around in. Five of us in total – Jules and me, followed by Alex, Chris and Blythe. Chris is on her own tonight because her husband Josh and little Oscar flew back to Ireland over a week ago, so tonight is the perfect distraction for her.

Harvey Shapiro is already here ahead of us with his wife Sherri or Terri, can never remember which, and he immediately starts handing us glasses of champagne. I look around at everyone, so proud and happy and rightly enjoying a night of celebration…and somehow, my thoughts keep wandering back to Liz. And how she should be here with us too. Because we’re a company and we’re incomplete without her. Before it’s barely begun, it’s like there’s a pallor cast over the night and I don’t know why. At least, not yet I don’t.

Jack skips in from his upstairs apartment, looking carelessly elegant in an evening suit, like he was born wearing a bow tie. I’ve hardly seen him since the Hamptons and he makes a point of kissing and greeting everyone else ahead of me, making charming comments about how fab all the girls are looking, particularly Blythe, whose professional make-up is practically soldered onto her.

‘Oh go on out of that, you old charmer!’ she laughs playfully, beaming and pink with pleasure. ‘At least I’m fairly sure that I won’t have to make a speech tonight, I haven’t a prayer of winning…but I’ve been rehearsing my “good loser” face in the mirror all week. You know, to convey just the right blend of disappointment that I lost,
tinged with genuine delight for whoever does win. But now you, on the other hand, Jack…’

‘Let’s just wait and see, why don’t we?’ he nods politely, brushing the suggestion aside.

He greets me last and lingers for just half a second longer than he probably should, giving me one of his trademark up and down looks, taking in every little detail of the dress I’m wearing. Which by the way is floor length, backless, bare-armed and white, with a skirt big enough to fit three midgets underneath it, cheekily borrowed from Chris in return for a pair of Swarovski earrings I lent her. Then he leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. Almost chastely. The usual tang of citrus from him, mixed with cigarettes.

‘Well hello there,’ he says in a deep, low voice, the eyebrows slanting sexily downwards at me.

‘Hi.’

‘You’re ravishing.’

OK, you need to stop this, stop this right now.

‘Every stitch borrowed.’

Very discreetly, so none of the others can see, I feel his hand move slowly round my waist then slowly, teasingly down my thighs, bottom, then resting momentarily on my bare back, lightly drumming his cold fingers up and down my spine…and suddenly, without warning my knees turn watery and begin to loosen.

Shit, shit, shit…no.

He’s very close to me now and I know I’m blushing like a wino, feeling embarrassed and awkward, fully aware that we’re in public, so I force myself to take a step back, further away from him. He raises his eyebrows quizzically, but is too polite to say any more.

And neither do I.

It takes two taxis to convey the whole gang of us to Radio City, and when we get there, it’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to Oscar night. Red carpet, TV cameras looking for soundbites, cameras flashing in our faces, yes even for us, the unknowns. And when I think of some of the big marquee names that have trod this very path before us? All of my great heroines in fact – Maggie Smith, Audrey Hepburn, Barbra Streisand…enough to make me feel deeply humbled and yet exhilarated at the same time.

Blythe grabs my hand nervously and I try my best to steer her inside, but it’s like every two seconds, she’s stopped by someone shoving a microphone into her face and asking her, as a nominee, the same dopey, inane questions over and over again, like how is she feeling? Is she happy to be here? She even gets a laugh when some reporter who I vaguely recognise from the Broadway Channel demands to know who her dress is by.

‘What do you mean, who is it by?’ asks Blythe, stopping in her tracks, genuinely puzzled. ‘I got this in Loehmann’s, love, have you ever come across it? It’s a great little find of a discount store and, best of all I had change out of a hundred and fifty dollars too. You really should try it, you wouldn’t believe some of the bargains. The shoes were only twenty-five dollars too and they’re so comfortable, I’d swear I could nearly do Loch Derg in them.’

Roars of laughter from the crowd of onlookers that have gathered behind her as I gently but firmly lead her away, slowly working our way further on towards the entrance. She clings to my hand in a vice-like grip, shaking like she’s in her own personal little earthquake and answers the rest of the questions she’s bombarded with as coherently as she can. I’m not kidding, at this rate, it’ll
take us the guts of an hour just to work our way inside to the auditorium.

Nine pm on the dot and it’s showtime. Our host is a TV comedian and chat show pundit, who launches into a little parody skit on all the big nominated shows, ours included. His Irish accent is dire, and we roar laughing, breaking the tension a bit. All of us are spread out over two rows and I’m roughly in the centre, with Jules on my right. Somehow, Jack has managed to sit on my left, with an empty seat right in front of him, where Liz should be.

Immediate bad, blazing feeling as my ulcer kicks into overdrive. She wouldn’t…would she? Just not turn up? I throw Jack a look of pure panic, which he interprets correctly because then he leans into me and whispers, ‘It’s OK, don’t worry, she’s here. I caught a glimpse of her being interviewed outside. Shhh, relax.’

A light graze of his icy fingers against mine and I swear, it’s like an electric current goes through me.

Dangerous. Very dangerous.

‘Aren’t you even nervous?’ I whisper back. ‘Supposing you win and have to make a speech?’

‘If I win, the first person I’ll turn to kiss will be you. In front of everyone, in front of all the cameras. And I don’t care and there’s not a damn thing you’ll be able to do to stop me, my dear.’

He leans in closer still and brushes a stray curl off the back of my neck, then I get a quick flash of his teeth shining through the darkness. But I don’t get a chance to respond because just then Liz arrives very late, slipping into the seat in front of Jack and studiously ignoring the lot of us. I stretch forward in my seat to try and catch her eye but she’s staring straight ahead, like she’d rather be
sitting anywhere, absolutely anywhere other than within spitting distance of us.

Christ Alive, it’s as if, for tonight, she’s turned down the thermostat on her relations with her fellow cast members from glacial to cryogenically frozen. She hasn’t even bothered to dress up either; she’s just thrown on all her early Madonna gear of torn tights, a lace see-through knee-length dress, which clearly shows her bony little shoulder blades jutting out like butterfly wings, all worn with bovver boots and the kind of earrings that dolphins jump through to please their trainers. Honest to God, I’ve seen her wearing this kind of stuff during the day.

After a high-octane musical interlude courtesy of the cast of
Rent
, our host kicks off the awards proper. Blythe’s category is up first, best supporting actress. We’re all leaning over to squeeze her supportively, but she loses out to an actress from
The Merchant of Venice
and as the applause rings out, she says to us all, ‘I’m not a bit bothered at all, you know, my lovelies. I had bet a few quid on your woman to win, as it happens. Easy come, easy go.’