Busy Woman Seeks Wife (22 page)

B
loody hell, not another cake, surely?” Max leaned over her and kissed Saff’s hair. “Oh God, you’re not pregnant, are you?
Or are you just trying to fatten me up so I lose all my cred as a babe magnet?”

Feeling foolish suddenly, she briskly dropped the wooden spoon into the washing-up bowl and turned over the notepad on which
she’d made some jottings. “No, no—just had a bit of time on my hands so I thought I’d try something out, that’s all. Some
banana cake…” She trailed off when she saw he wasn’t listening and was opening the phone bill on the kitchen table. She
wiped her hands on her apron and went to the fridge. “Can of lager, darling?”

“Mmm,” he murmured absentmindedly. “Christ, this bill is huge. It’s all that gassing to Alex and people you do during the
day.”

“I bloody well do not—it’s when you’re working from home, that’s what cranks it up.” Saff slammed the can down in front of
him. “Anyway, Alex is flatly refusing to talk to me.”

Max looked up. “Is she still pissed off?”

Saff peered through the oven door at the rapidly rising cake. “She must be. She won’t answer texts or voice mails I’ve left.
I’ve even left a message with Camilla at work, who promised to ask her to call me. I don’t know. It’s all a bit sad really.
She just won’t see that we didn’t mean to be malicious. We just wanted to keep the Bean happy and help Alex…”

Max took out a stack of Pringles from the tube in the cupboard and put three at once into his mouth, then wiped his hand on
his trousers. “You can’t really blame her, Saff love. It was pretty deceitful, and you should know by now, no one gets one
over on Alex, which doesn’t really explain that tosser of an American she’s seeing.”

“No. Her taste in men always has been a bit dodgy—they’re all scared witless by her.”

With Max safely upstairs saying good night to the children and persuading Oscar that his mother was right and he
was
too young for an air rifle, Saff slipped the cake out of the oven and inserted a skewer. It came out clean so she turned
it out onto the cooling rack, and took a sniff to absorb the sweet aroma. Tentatively she cut into it and popped a piece into
her mouth. The light brown sponge was warm and moist on her tongue. And bland. Saff frowned. Something was missing. Ten minutes
later Max found her poring over a pile of cookbooks she’d pulled from her shelf to scour other people’s recipes. On her pad
she’d jotted down a couple of ideas but there was nothing very different. Nothing unusual.

“Crikey. This looks serious.”

Saff pushed her reading glasses up onto her head. “Yup. Cakes are. The right cake is one of life’s treasures.”

Max reached for another can of lager in the back of the fridge. “Yeah maybe, but why the research all of a sudden?” He pulled
back the ring pull.

Saff still wasn’t sure she wanted to reveal the tiny idea that was forming in her head, thanks to Ella. It was stupid anyway.
“Oh, just ideas for Millie’s birthday.”

“Bloody hell, that’s thinking ahead. It’s not till October.”

Saff shut her book and sighed. “Yes. Silly really. Supper won’t be long.”

“Okay. I’ll just have a quick look at this script I was given today. Give me a shout when it’s time to lay the table.” And
he left the room.

Script. That reminded her. Tomorrow was Frankie’s big day. She’d been delighted to hear the excitement in his voice on her
answering machine.

“Hi, Frankie, it’s Saff.”

“Hi there.” He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her.

“I just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow. Give it your best shot.”

“Oh thanks. Yes. Yes, I will, though I’ve got a cat in hell’s chance.” He sighed deeply. “It’s such a lousy way to make a
living.”

“You’ll be fine. Have confidence and remember all your lessons from the Bean. Project, daarling!”

Frankie laughed deeply. “That reminds me. I dropped by Alex’s yesterday. I was hoping not to see her but she was there. It
was a bit difficult really.”

Saff felt her stomach clench. “Still angry?”

“Yes, still angry. And she seemed very stressed too— something to do with this launch she’s organizing.”

“She’s always stressed. Alex seems to be faced with issues that us mere mortals will never experience.” A thought struck her.
“Why did you go back, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“To collect a sweatshirt. I’d left it there in the hurried exodus. Anyway, let’s not dwell on that… what are you up to?”

“Oh, not much really.” Now, he might have an idea. “Frankie, what can I add to banana cake to make it more… you know,
interesting?” There was a long pause and Saff suddenly felt very stupid and very embarrassed. The man had a major audition
tomorrow and she was discussing baking ingredients.

“I had a girlfriend once,” he said eventually. “Strange girl. Had an unhealthy obsession with animal welfare. She kept terrapins
in the bath. But, anyway, her mother was lovely and she was a fantastic baker. Now what was it she added to her banana cake?
I know, pistachio nuts. Fabulous!”

Saff thought for a moment. “Frankie, you are a genius, and the finest actor ever. Knock ’em dead!”

T
he following afternoon Frankie was back in the theater’s rehearsal rooms in the same church hall. Considering what starry
casts the company usually had, it was a tatty old venue, but maybe the anonymity suited them. It wouldn’t do to be mobbed
by fans when they were just trying to do a job.

Frankie pushed his way back in through the thickly painted doors into the dim light, such a contrast to the bright sun outside,
and was greeted by the casting director he’d met last time. Highlighted hair, too young for her leathery, tanned face, fell
from a chignon and, once again, she was dressed in layers of washed-out linen and had a knobbly cardigan slung around her
shoulders, in spite of the warmth. She tucked her hair back behind her ears and ticked him off the list. “David’s in today,”
she breathed. “He flew in yesterday but he’s still terribly jet-lagged.”

Frankie nodded and tried to look pleased but his stomach cramped up with panic. David Herschmann was known to be enigmatic
at the best of times. Perhaps that was the privilege of a successful Hollywood actor turned theater director. With a case
of jet lag, he’d be positively gnomic. Frankie sighed. Hersch-mann anecdotes were legion on the circuit, and he racked his
brains to try and recall some of his weirder pieces of direction. “More space around it!” was one that had stumped his casts.
“Can you do it all faster, but kind of slow it down?” was another. Well, if Frankie could be a banana, he could be anything!
He went to sit down on one of the stacking chairs lined up in the hallway, nodding cautiously to the other two actors there
before him. They were both television regulars and he could almost hear them thinking, “What’s
he
doing here?”

The minutes ticked past. Frankie closed his eyes and tried to remember everything the Bean had taught him, about drawing people’s
eyes to him just by being stiller, about imagining himself filling up the space and pushing against it. The character Joel
was a complex one and, although he wasn’t the lead, it was a fantastic part. He’d seen Daniel Day-Lewis do it once, and his
burning intensity when he realized he’d been betrayed by his girlfriend and his best friend had been mesmerizing. Yet Frankie
didn’t just want to produce a copy of that performance. He shifted on the plastic chair. He was starting to feel agitated
again and struggled to bring his attention back to what he was about to do. The past few days had been such a roller coaster
of emotion, it had thrown him completely.

The other two actors were called in, one after the other. The first one was only in for just over five minutes, the second
one for more like fifteen. Was that better or worse? Frankie braced himself. If they didn’t like him enough for Joel, perhaps
they would still consider him for a walk-on. They wouldn’t have cast those yet. Should he ask? No, no. That would look desperate.
Frankie looked at his watch again. It was nearly three minutes since the last bloke had left. Maybe they’d forgotten he was
there. Maybe they weren’t going to bother seeing him at all and they’d already decided. That second one had been pretty good
in
The Bill.
Maybe . . .

“Frankie? Would you come in now, please?” The head disappeared back through the door and Frankie stood up slowly.

Two hours later, Frankie was back in Chelsea in the Bean’s cool sitting room. “So I went in and it was quite dark, and Hersch-mann
was sitting there in a great big armchair, leaning right back as if he was looking at the ceiling with his legs stretched
out. He didn’t even look at me.”

The Bean tutted. “Honestly, these power games. I find it all so tiresome. I hope you waited until he sat up properly. That’s
what I would have done.”

Yeah, right. “Well, when I’m as famous as you perhaps I will, but just for now, I think I’m better off playing the game, don’t
you?”

“Never mind all that.” The Bean gestured irritably at the chair opposite her. “Get on with it. What did they say? Did you
read straightaway or did they ask you any questions?”

Frankie lifted a pile of unopened envelopes from the chair and put them on the table next to him. “Bean, don’t you ever open
your mail? I don’t know how you can bear to just leave it.”

“Oh, it’s just tiresome stuff. I open anything that looks interesting. Now get on with the story, or I shall burst!”

“Right, where was I? Oh, yes. The casting director did all the talking. Herschmann kind of murmured his instructions to her,
just turning his head sideways. It was weird.”

“And was anyone else there? Anyone watching?” Bean helped herself to a slice of the fruitcake Frankie had found in a flowery
tin in the kitchen. “Here,” she commanded. “You try some, too. Saffron made it. It’s very good, I think.”

Frankie broke off a piece and nodded in appreciation. So that pinch of salt had worked! The Bean was almost on the edge of
her seat with impatience, so he continued. “Yes, the producer and there was someone with a digital camera recording it all.
They did ask if I minded, but I thought I couldn’t really object.”

“And? And?”

“Well, I did it the way we’d rehearsed, you know. It was pretty similar to the way I did it in the last audition, because
I thought if they liked it that time, they’d like it again.”

“Yes, yes. And did Herschmann say anything?”

“No, not at first. I thought he might be asleep, because it was quite dark in there. They’d closed some of the curtains. He
was just rolling his head from side to side on the back of his chair. And then suddenly, it was so unexpected I nearly laughed,
he sat right up and stared at me really hard. And he said, ‘Listen, you’re giving me too much. You’ve just discovered you’ve
been betrayed by the people you trust most in the world. Your life has no more meaning. It’s like they’ve reached down inside
you and ripped out your heart. I want to hear the sound of that emptiness within you.’ So I stopped for a bit…” Frankie
faltered. How could he tell the Bean that at that moment, he’d seen Alex’s devastated face before his eyes? He’d seen how,
that moment when she’d realized what was going on in her flat, she’d struggled, not wanting to believe what her eyes—those
big, hurt eyes—were seeing.

The Bean thumped him hard on the leg. “Frankie, if you don’t tell me what happened this instant, I shan’t be responsible for
my actions!”

“Oh, right. I… I toned it down completely, as if I could make it not true just by refusing to see it. It was quite different
from Day-Lewis, but d’ya know? I think it kind of worked.”

There was a moment’s silence. The Bean looked skeptical. “So you didn’t do it the way we rehearsed?” She looked slightly miffed
and Frankie answered carefully.

“I did—first of all. But when he asked me to try something different, I just adapted it. That was right, wasn’t it?” Frankie
suddenly felt uncertain.

The Bean brushed invisible lint off her sleeves. “Well, I suppose it was good in a way that Herschmann asked you for a different
interpretation. At least he’s seen your range. Well, let’s hope he likes your look. Even if they don’t use you in this, they’ll
remember you. I’m sure they will.”

Frankie felt deflated. He cleared up the tea things and took them to the kitchen, glad to be on his own for a moment. As he
dried and put the little china cups away, he opened a cupboard to find more of the brown envelopes he’d seen on the chair.
On impulse, he picked one up. Through the address window he could see red print. He picked up another, unopened, but from
Barclaycard. And another, and another. Frankie felt himself go cold. The Bean was ignoring her bills. And still spending like
the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo, from what he could tell by the parcels, carrier bags and canvases piled up in the
hallway.

Did Alex realize? Should he tell her?