Chapter Twenty-Seven

BUT THE SHOW must go on. Somehow Wednesday, the big opening night, comes around. I’m not quite sure how I managed to drag myself through the last couple of days, but now here we are, in the Iveagh Gardens, ready to rock and roll.

Numbness and hard work to the exclusion of all else, there you go, that’s the Vicky Harper remedy for dealing with heartache. And with every day, whaddya know, it does actually fade a bit. Or at least, that is, it will. I have to go back into Best’s next week to view the edited commercial, which Sophie’s insisting I sit in on. I’m looking forward to it about as much as I would to root-canal work, but I made this mess, attracted it even, and now, somehow, I’m just going to have to deal with the consequences, aren’t I? Besides, given the way this awful, never-ending week has played out, chances are Daniel will be avoiding me just as much as he has been since Monday. Oh God, I still wince at the memory. And what have I got to look forward to? SIX more commercials to be shot over the next few weeks, all of which are to be directed by bloody Tom and his useless, big, alcoholicky mouth.

Barbara reckons I over-attracted. ‘Huh?’ was my bewildered answer. Tried too hard, she explained, focused on too many guys at the same time with . . . disastrous consequences. In her defence, she did take full responsibility for being the architect of the multi-dating strategy, and has kindly said we’ll rethink, revise and re-launch me back on the singles scene the minute the show is over, behind her, and she gets her life back again. After the show, after this weekend.

Which bring me to my next question: and then what? Back to trawling clubs, pubs and bars again? So I can be fixed up with: a) more obsessive head cases; b) guys obsessed with their exes; or c) alcoholics? And all the while ruining any chance I might have had with the one that I really, genuinely did fall for?

Not a tempting proposition, really, when you think about it. And what are the odds that I’ll walk into some night spot, meet someone remotely acceptable, who’ll be single and available and not a mental case or a booze hound, who’ll call when he actually says he will, whose light will be ‘on’, who everyone will like, and who I’ll eventually, years down the line, end up happily married to?

Oh for f**k’s sake. I’ve more chance of all six of my numbers coming up in Saturday night’s Lotto draw.

And no word from Daniel. Not a single thing. Nothing.

It’s almost showtime and Paris, Nicole and I have been here at the Iveagh Gardens pretty much since sunrise this morning, with the usual list of stuff that can’t be tackled till the last minute. The weather just couldn’t be more perfect, mild and still after a fabulously rare sunny day, and more of the same forecast for our next two shows. But tonight’s the night, tonight’s the big one. I’ve invited five of the hottest agents in town, along with just about every casting director you can name. And what’s more they all show. It’s just gone seven thirty now, thirty minutes till curtain up, and the seats are almost full to bulging. I’ve never seen anything like it; the atmosphere is just electric. Paris had this inspired brainwave of enclosing coloured fairy wings with the invitations, the kind you buy for kids in Marks & Spencer, and some fashionistas here are actually wearing them, adding to the whole, wonderful, festive party atmosphere.

I spend the last half-hour to curtain frantically nipping out front then backstage, although everything seems to be running even more smoothly than I could ever have hoped for. I even get to give Barbara a good-luck hug backstage, where I find her near the outdoor loos, sucking on a cigarette, and paler than I’ve ever seen her looking in her life. I think she’s too nervous even to be narky, so I leave her to it, and run back to front of house, where Laura is just arriving with the three older kids and . . . Desmond.

‘How’s our girl holding up?’ she asks me, as we all hug and air-kiss.

‘Grade one rattiness,’ I say, far from calm myself. ‘Which means she’s probably on the verge of throwing up, but if she gives half the performance she turned in at the dress rehearsal, I reckon we’re home and dry.’

‘That’s wonderful, dearest, but I was, in fact, asking about you.’

‘Oh . . . me? Oh, sure, I’m absolutely fine!’ I over-compensate in front of all the others. ‘Nervous about the show, you know, of course, obviously, but . . . so far so good!’

She looks at me keenly and nods curtly, girl-code for: ‘I’ll speak to you later, in private, when we’ve time to chat properly.’

‘Now all of you thank Vicky for the tickets,’ she says sternly to the kids.

‘Yeah . . . ehhh . . . thanks very much,’ they all mutter in unison, but then chances are they’d all far rather be at Pirates of the Caribbean or whatever blockbuster is showing at the multiplex.

‘Yes, you are kind,’ says Desmond in that kindly fatherly way he has. ‘A cultural excursion for the whole family is just the ticket, really.’

Oh my God, this must be getting serious. He just said ‘the whole family’ without batting an eyelid.

My own family are here too, in force, messer brothers, smug married sisters-in-law, even my Auntie Maisie, who, judging by the flushed look of her, I think might just have had a gin and tonic too many before they all got here.

‘Why have you not got us sitting beside celebrities, Vicky love?’ she hisses at me. ‘I’d only kill to meet your man that reads the Nine O’Clock News. Look, he’s sitting over there all on his own, ah go on, why can’t you introduce me?’

I make my excuses and get the hell out of there to run around backstage. Five to eight.

‘Ready or not, here we go,’ says Serena, as I wish her luck.

‘Whatever tonight’s outcome,’ she says, in that cool, even way she has, ‘I want you to know it’s been a pleasure working with you, Vicky. You deliver on your promises, nothing is a problem for you, and you keep well out of my hair. You can count on me to come work with you any time. And believe me, there aren’t too many producers I’d say that to.’ Now I know she’s most likely only being polite, but it’s possibly the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day. All week, in fact.

Paris and Nicole excitedly whisper to me that they’re going to slip out front and watch the show from behind the back row, but I decide to stay behind-the-scenes instead. It’s been such a full-on, hectic day that it’s actually just what I need, to be alone, for the next few hours at least, right at the very side of the stage so I can see what’s going on, but so well back from the action that no one can see me. There’s a few bushes behind, which kind of shelter me, and a lovely, peaceful spot for me to gratefully plonk down on, which I do.

One quick prayer that nothing goes wrong and we’re off.

Oh my God, it’s going even more magically than I could have hoped for. Barbara’s just made her grand entrance, and was a magnet to the eye. Real star quality in action. Now we’re off to the forest, Puck and Titania are doing their thing, there are actual roars of laughter coming from the audience, and so many spontaneous rounds of applause, I’ve lost count. I hug my knees with sheer relief at how well it’s going, and now that we’re on the rollercoaster, so to speak, there’s really nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the show.

And what a show. For the first time, me, the uncultured, the one who barely knows the difference between a bona fide posh play and a kiddies’ panto, can really see what all the fuss and hype surrounding Serena Stroheim is all about. And well-deserved too: she’s woven magic out of a fairly nondescript park setting, and is really giving people a night to remember for a long, long time to come.

Next thing it’s the interval and, no kidding, the thunderous round of applause goes on for about five minutes. I head back out front, back into the throng, back to find Paris and Nicole and to check that all’s OK. I’m just about to make my way through the crowd to the front entrance, when a director from the Children’s Hospital, an elderly, brisk doctor called Muriel Stanford, grabs my arm, stopping me to chat about the show. She’s raving away, saying it’s just the best thing she’s seen in the longest time, and is just asking me why this couldn’t become an annual event when . . . no, no . . . I must be seeing things. I must be.

I do my best to focus on Muriel and gratefully accept all the sweet things she’s saying about the show, but it’s very hard to concentrate because, in the thick of the crowd, coming towards me, I’d swear I can see Daniel.

I don’t even have time to react. Muriel pulls me back into the conversation, and I’m aware that I’m being rude by glancing over her shoulder, but there’s no mistaking it. It is Daniel.

He’s been grabbed aside now by a gang of impossibly well-dressed women, all of whom seem to know him really well, and who are trying to get him to sit beside them for the second half. I can’t hear what he’s saying to them, it’s too packed and noisy and crowded, and I can’t even tell whether he’s seen me or not. And I’m nervous and jumpy now, and I don’t know why. I mean, why would he come here?

There’s no reason for him to be here, unless . . .

No, the sensible thing for me to do is to not even attempt to finish that sentence. If he had come here to see me, then why doesn’t he just come over? Instead he’s laughing away with those girls; I can even hear him loud and clear doing what sounds like his Jack Nicholson impression. Or maybe it was his Schwarzenegger, it’s hard to tell the difference with all this noise and racket going on.

On cue, the sound boys ring a loud bell, just like at a proper theatre, to let everyone know it’s almost time for Act Two to kick-off, sorry, I mean Part Two. I’m still deep in chat with Doctor Muriel, who’s invited me to come out to the hospital to visit the kids, an invitation I’m only too delighted to take her up on. The Part Two bell goes off again, more furiously this time as the interval’s gone way over time; a good sign that everyone’s enjoying themselves. I can’t linger any longer, I make my excuses and slip back to my quiet, secluded little backstage hiding place, unnoticed by anyone, I think.

I’m wrong. Totally wrong. Just as the lights come up on the second half, there’s a rustle in the hedgerow and bushes behind me. I turn around, startled, and there he is. Really.

Daniel squeezes in beside me and because the space is so enclosed and cramped, we’re now sitting side-by-side, practically on top of each other.

It’s the weirdest thing. We look at each other and though neither of us says anything, you can hear the odd Shakespearian line wafting through from the stage.

Lord, what fools these mortals be . . .

OK, so we both smirk at bit at that, then the smiling stops, and now he’s looking at me in that really intent, focused way that he has.

‘I came to say sorry,’ he eventually says.

‘I never lied to you,’ I whisper, terrified we’ll put off the actors with this play-within-a-play that’s going on under their noses. ‘You have to believe me. I had one lousy brunch with Tom . . . whatever his name is, decided he was a raving alcoholic and that was it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says softly, moving in closer.

‘And that other Scottish guy? Eager Eddie we all call him. The guy is a complete obsessive, he was just waiting for me outside the office, I had nothing to do with him being there . . .’

‘It’s OK, shhhhhhh . . .’

‘And . . . and . . .’ I’m glad we’re whispering now, because if we were on our own, there’s a good chance I might start shouting. Can’t help it, it’s just days of pent-up rage and annoyance all spilling out in one messy go. ‘You never even gave me a chance to explain. You just jumped to conclusions and ran.’

‘Vicky, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to think. I hadn’t a clue what was going on. And I didn’t want to be made an eejit of. But I just wanted you to know that I’ve really regretted the way I carried on. I thought the best thing for me to do was back off for a bit, but then . . .’

‘But then . . . what?’ I’m looking at him, hardly daring to hope. No kidding, but the entire success or failure of the whole up-till-now-disastrous ‘project Vicky’ depends on what comes out of his mouth next.

‘Well, I knew tonight was a big night for you . . .’

He trails off, looking into the middle distance, and I think, oh OK then. He just wanted to wish me luck and, well, I suppose we do have to work together, so he wanted things nice and tied up between us. He’s a nice guy that doesn’t like awkwardness, particularly with anyone he has to work with.

I’m just a loose end that needed tying up.

‘Vicky,’ he eventually says, softly this time. More like the Daniel I knew from the other wonderful night. ‘What do you say to . . .’

‘To . . .?’

‘To, well, us dating exclusively. You know, just you and me. And that’s it. And no drunk directors or mental Scotsmen or that other guy I met you with at the PR dinner . . .’

‘Ex-Files. That’s his nickname. Obsessed with his ex, who he then got back with. That very night, if I’m not much mistaken.’

‘So,’ he says, looking at me in that cute sideways-on way. ‘Do you want to think about it?’

Oh my God. This must be . . . well, religious people must feel like this when unbelievable miracles happen, out of nowhere. I feel like I should be at a Lourdes grotto and not a city-centre public park.

I pull him by his shirt, in closer to me. ‘I don’t need to think about it. The answer is a big, huge yes. Yes please, in fact.’

His lips are a fraction away from mine now, almost touching but not quite.

‘There’s nothing I wouldn’t do,’ he says, smiling now, ‘to get you to come on that proper first date with me. Like we talked about . . .’

‘Did you just say there’s nothing you wouldn’t do?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘You might just regret that . . .’

‘Why would I regret that?’

‘Because all my family are here tonight and . . . well, now you can say no if you want . . .’

‘Say no to what?’

‘Braver men have run a mile from situations like this . . .’

‘Vicky!’

‘Well, the thing is . . . do you think you’d be ready to meet them?’