When I arrived back, the theatre was alive with rumour. Dan had walked out. Ricky had walked out. God was the new director. Someone even said Izzy was dead and the whole show was being cancelled. My instinct, as always, was to lead the company from behind, but KT came to find me while I was reserving David’s tickets.
‘Oi, Top Turn. What you doing hiding out here?’ The box office manager looked shocked – he was old-school chiffon scarf and handbag; leading ladies were to be addressed as Miss unless they were Dame. ‘You’d better get back in there and tell those twirlies what’s going on. They’re twitching like a ferret with fleas.’
I knew he was right. KT was a far better den mother than I was. He herded me on stage and called the cast to order.
‘Eleanor’s got some parish notices for you, so shut up and take the weight off your sling-backs.’ He turned to me. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Um…well…I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of conflicting stories but you’re not to worry. Dan’s still our director and there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘What’s that American in the headscarf doing here then?’ It was the bolshy Glaswegian, Lee’s sidekick.
‘No idea. All I know is Dan’s still the boss. Okay?’
Flossie came to my rescue. ‘Izzy and Viola want him to fizz up the dance routines and I think that’s great. God and I are too close – a fresh eye would be good. I think it’s going to be great for the show.’
The cast drifted off, reassured, and I was left with a vague sense of embarrassment. Playing someone else, I was happy to do the dance of the seven veils in bin liners with my bottom painted purple, but standing up as myself always made me squirm. So it was with some relief I pulled my threadbare character around me and went out in front of 600 complete strangers.
By the interval there was a rehearsal call up on the noticeboard:
THREE P.M. CURTAIN CALL. FULL COMPANY.
We had to break at five, so it was going to be a two-hour call. Two hours on the ‘who’s best?’. That was about an hour and three-quarters longer than Dan had given it. Izzy had always hated Dan’s egalitarian shambles, with the chorus having the final bow instead of me. I didn’t mind, but Lee had thrown a strop which boiled over into mutiny when God and Glenda were given their bow after his.
‘No, no, I don’t think it’s right. Not for myself, you understand.’ The unmistakable sound of gears of crashing into reverse. ‘No, really, I don’t care where I go. But Susan and the others should come after them. And then there’s billing. I’ve got billing and so has Barry.’ The deaf actor cupped his hand round his ear to signify he hadn’t heard. Lee yelled: ‘I was just saying – you’ve got billing – on the poster and in the programme after Eleanor – you should come on after Glenda and God. They’re only dancers, after all.’
And Nelson Mandela was just an ex-con.
God said, ‘Jiliobollas.’
‘What did he say?,’ asked Lee.
Glenda smiled. ‘Dickhead.’
This would probably be Ricky’s first ‘improvement’ but, rather than find out, I avoided the bar after the show. Through the window I saw Lee, Susan and their followers around the Leather Queen and his slimy agent.
‘The company call him Rudolph the Brown Nosed Reindeer,’ I told Dan when we met in the Italian restaurant that hovered on stilts over the sea. Knowing he could relax for two days, he was pleasantly drunk before I arrived. By the time the coffee arrived, his head had fallen onto my shoulder. This wasn’t in the Worshipped Mistress manual.
‘Oh, Eleanor. I love you. You’re so strong. Amazing.’
He was fantasising me as much as I was him.
But later, in bed, under the influence of exhaustion and alcohol, and at inebriated half-mast, Dan still gave a better account of himself than David, finally falling asleep on top of me, having forgotten what he was there for. I pushed him off and listened to him snoring beside me. This was the real consequence of losing one’s virginity. A hymen is just a membrane of illusions.
‘I’ll see you on Saturday night then,’ he said the next morning, when he’d regained the power of speech.
I quivered my lower lip and gave him a moist-eyed look, but didn’t argue. A couple of days apart would do wonders for my romantic image of him and, anyway, David was coming on Friday night with his unlikely temptress. Much as I wanted to hold Dan up as my shield, I didn’t want him caught up in the sordid disintegration of my marriage, or to witness the inevitable confrontation.
Suffering from his rare indulgence of the night before, he went back to his flat to sleep and rehydrate. I went for a happy aimless wander and sat for an hour, wrapped deep in my coat, looking out towards Drake’s Island, dreaming of flying low over the sun-specked sea with the gulls. I’d just decided to go mad and have an ice cream when my mobile rang.
‘Eleanor? It’s Cedric.’ Floppy floral bow tie, Bordeaux breath and public school manners.
‘Hallo, Cedric. How’s the Street of Shame?’
‘Ah, Eleanor,’ I could feel his nostalgia. ‘Those were the days, before Murdoch, before Fortress Wapping. Before lunch hours. I ask you, what can one possibly accomplish in an hour? Barely time for the wine to breathe.’
Cedric was a rare surviving dinosaur in a backwater of arts reporting, preserved by his newspaper to deflect accusations of tabloid tendencies. His rambling good nature disguised a still sharp hack whom I’d first met when he was sent to interview the latest flavour of the television month. Me. We got on so well, I’d have slept with him if I’d had the courage. Or if he’d asked.
‘What can I do for you, Cedric?’
‘Well, my dear, I’m hearing some strange whispers about your producer. That he’s possibly not top-drawer.’
‘Bargain-basement, Cedric.’
‘American egomaniac?’
‘Broadway producer who seems to have produced nothing but hot air since 1983 when he had some money in a musical of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.’
Cedric rumbled appreciatively. ‘Well, Eleanor my dear, how would you like to pen me a few words about your new show, mentioning, of course, your producer? Something racy, without being libellous of course. You know the house style.’
‘I’m not sure, Cedric –’
‘I know, I know, darling girl, you don’t want to be seen breaking rank.’ He was as warm and jovial as Father Christmas. ‘You actresses are supposed to be as pliable as geishas, I know that. But just in case you have anything you want to say…you know where I am.’
‘Thanks, Cedric. I’ll definitely think about it.’
There was no way I was going to be writing a gossip piece for him. Problem shows were like families riddled with child abuse, you didn’t tell, you suffered and moved on, talking only between yourselves about what had been done to you in the name of love.
My daydreams of floating on thermals above the bay were now invaded by thoughts of Izzy. I stood up and walked briskly away from them.
•
The second and final sacking of Dan put an end to my determination not to spill the accusatory beans all over the papers. At seven o’clock on Friday evening, Ruby’s voice came over the tannoy:
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, please make your way immediately to the green room. Full company to the green room immediately please.’
The urgency of his tone ensured we quickly grumbled and shuffled into the upstairs room where smokers had once been welcome. A faint odour of social sin still hung in the air.
Izzy and Ricky were already there. The Leather Queen looked nervous, his pale lashless eyes watching us for signs of dissent. Sweat darkened his bandana and his hands left marks on his shiny calfskin trousers. Rudolph sat behind him like a compliant but watchful wife. Izzy, by contrast, was already grandstanding, pacing up and down, chewing the cigar and flashing looks of baleful warning at those who entered his sacred space with irreverence. Finally we were all assembled. Ruby languidly draped his anorexic frame across a trestle table. Jonty, Izzy’s presence on earth, nervously chewed the side of his already well-chewed index finger. He knew what was coming.
‘Okay, guys, everybody here?’
Ruby nodded.
‘Yes, Izzy, all here,’ said Jonty quickly. ‘Except Viola.’
As he spoke she came in, head up, chin jutting out defensively, eyes flicking round like a snake’s tongue.
‘Okay, guys…’ Izzy held his breath, building the tension.
‘I want you to meet your new director. Ricky Ricky.’
He put his hand on the LQIB’s back and presented him as if he expected us to fall to our knees shouting, ‘Habem’ Papam.’ Glancing round the room, I could see only expressions of disbelief and horror. Who would speak up for Dan? Who would defend him? Susan broke the silence.
‘I’ve got to get my make-up on, it’s very nearly the quarter. I just want to do my job.’ And she flounced out, pulling her self-righteousness round her.
Lee’s head was tilted, calculating which was best for him: to argue for Dan or fall in with Ricky. He stayed silent.
‘So, you guys are having a company meal tonight?’ With steamroller sensitivity, Izzy continued. ‘We’ll come along and join you.’ He turned to Ricky. ‘So you can get to know the company.’
They were smiling broadly as they left, trailing Viola in their wake. Lee, thinking no one was watching, slipped out after them as pandemonium broke out. Several of the girls burst into tears, one of them, a pretty version of the young Liza Minnelli, was distraught, unable to encompass or comprehend the betrayal of Dan. As I listened to the cries of distress around me, I realised she was in the minority. Most were simply indignant and angry at the thought of the Ducks and their creature coming to our company meal.
In their anger, most had forgotten Dan. But only because they were young. The old men stayed silent, fearful of backing the wrong horse. I was already mentally accusing them of spineless acquiescence when KT came up. He was wearing grey sweatpants rolled low on his hips and a tight white vest over his slim torso.
‘What’s you bastering problem?,’ he said, broad Welsh, deep-voiced. His right hand, iron flat, was held up against my objections. ‘Where’s your tongue, my gell? Bastering cat got it?’
His comic outrage jerked my mouth into action, even though my mind was still in shock.
‘Let them come tonight,’ I said loudly, ‘and I’ll talk to them. Please, don’t let’s panic.’
KT took over: ‘Just do the show as usual and don’t take any of this crap on stage with you. The punters haven’t paid to see a bunch of hysterical twirlies. Eyes, teeth and tits, all right? Oh… It was never like this in the fol-de-rols.’
He finished by shooing the cast out. Only I saw his desperation to get outside the stage door to have a fag, to breathe deep and find some calm. He turned to me. ‘You better watch Susan and Lee, they’ll be up Ricky’s arse quicker than a colonic irrigation.’ He put his delicate fingers on my wrist. ‘You’re on your own if Dan goes – they can’t stand you, you’re cleverer than them, more talented than them and more famous than them.’
‘And better looking.’
‘Don’t push your luck.’