Do You Want to Know a Secret? (21 page)

‘You’re always getting involved with actors you work with.’

‘I’m not looking for a life-partner, though, am I?’

She has me there, so I’d better just shut up. Honestly,
half
of me thinks, yeah, she’s right, I shouldn’t fall back into my sad old way of putting all my eggs into one basket, which let’s face it, has a success rate of zero per cent; but the other half is screaming inside, But I really
like
this guy! And now he thinks I have a boyfriend, and I bloody well don’t!

‘Could you be ignoring the obvious possibility that maybe Daniel thought you were just out with a friend?’ says Laura, kindly.

‘I appreciate your lovely sentiment, but come on, it was a Saturday night, me and a guy, just the two of us, out for dinner in a restaurant like Eden, which everyone knows is a well-known couples’ hangout . . . I’m sorry, but an intellectually challenged alien newly landed from Mars could have figured out we were out on a date.’

‘Well, in that case, isn’t it a good thing that Daniel realizes that other guys are after you? Shouldn’t that, theoretically, make him keener?’

‘If he was ever keen to begin with,’ says Barbara firmly. ‘Sorry, Vicky, but I’m afraid asking you to join him and a gang of his mates to see some open-air movie isn’t a date. I think we can safely say we’re in the friend-zone here.’

She’s right, and deep down I know she’s right. I just hate hearing it, that’s all.

‘You’re still not off any hooks though, honey,’ she goes on, stretching herself out on the sofa and kicking
her
shoes off. ‘By the non-negotiable rules of this club, you were required to go on two dates before we met up again. So, technically, you still owe us a date. And then when you’ve done that, we’ll pick another Thursday night and go out trawling the town for single, suitable guys again. Like I keep saying, it’s a numbers game and nothing more.’

‘God, Barbara, in moods like this, you make coffee nervous.’

‘So what about Eager Eddie?’ says Laura, topping up our wine glasses. ‘Any word?’

‘Got the hint. At least I think he did. It’s hard to tell, as he keeps texting me to say thanks for a great night, which proves he’s a filthy liar, as it most definitely was NOT a great night, not by any standards.’

‘You said on the phone today you had other boy news,’ says Barbara, looking at me keenly.

Ooh, yeah, I do. Good news, too, at least I think it’s good news. In fact, I can’t believe it almost slipped my mind. In fact, this probably should have been item one on the ‘project Vicky’ agenda.

‘OK, remember the miraculous night of three guys?’ I say, far more animated now. ‘Well, hang on to your odour eaters, now . . . number two only called me yesterday! Peter. Remember?’

‘Honey, I can barely remember where I was last night, never mind the week before last. Give me a visual.’

‘We met in Pravda, there were two of them, the friend was chatting you up, my one looked a bit like Ralph Fiennes . . .’

‘Oh yeah, yeah, now I have you, my one looked like a baldie Edward Norton. Yeah, gotcha. So, anyway, what happened?’

‘Well, nothing, really,’ I say, starting to hope that I didn’t build this story up too much and now it’ll be a let-down. ‘But we really did have a lovely chat, no awkward silences or long pauses, none of that, and we said we’d meet for a coffee next week. Now, I know it’s only a coffee, but it’s something, isn’t it?’ I look at her hopefully.

‘Right then, missy,’ says Barbara, knees up as she’s sprawled out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling with this really scary glint she gets in her eye when there’s devilment afoot. ‘Now maybe this is coming to me in a vision, or maybe it’s a drunken haze, but boy oh boy do I have the scariest assignment for you. If you’re man enough to take it on, that is.’

‘Shoot,’ I say, thinking, how bad can it be? Go skydiving with him? Introduce him to my messer brothers? Reveal my cellulite in all of its thundering glory?

‘I want you to go on the coffee date with him . . .’

‘Right, yes,’ I say, thinking, easy peasy, so far so good.

‘Then . . . you know your big PR dinner in a few weeks’ time? You’re going to invite him, as your date.’

I look at her, stunned.

‘And, as a sweetener, I’ll even come with you myself, with the baldie friend as my date. We’ll go as a foursome. Now come on, can I say fairer than that?’

‘You have to be kidding me.’

‘Fine, be a bloody coward. Stay single, see if I care. And me and my teenage lover will come and visit you in your old folks’ home when you’re eighty.’

‘Oh Barbara, I’m really not sure, I mean, if I ask him to the do, it might sound like I’m jumping in too fast, like a female Eager Eddie . . . it could end up being a complete disaster . . .’

‘If it does, I’ll be right there for you, with a big margarita in my hand.’

‘And most people don’t even bother bringing partners, I mean, they’d be bored stupid, it’s a work night, it’s a PR dinner for God’s sake, full of advertisers, people are really just there to network . . .’

‘Vicky, you are going, and I’m coming with you, and we’re double-dating and that’s final.’

Right then, nothing for it, but to do what I normally do, i.e., say yes now, then worry about it later. Much later. Like the night before it or something.

Anyway, in what seems like no time, it’s Barbara’s go and I get a little self-important glow as I take the floor. Not blowing my own trumpet or anything, but I really spent ages working on this, and I really think the girls
will
be blown away about how much progress we’ve made. Plus, in our little Butterfly gatherings, it’s nice to actually be in control for a change, and not be permanently stuck in my usual ‘manless loser’ corner with a big ‘serially single’ label stuck to me.

I make a big show of opening my briefcase and producing a neatly labelled file for each of us.

‘Bloody hell,’ says Barbara, sitting up on the sofa, ‘whenever I see the colouredy folders coming out, I know you mean business.’

‘OK then, ladies, let’s begin by opening the pink file labelled ‘possible directors’.

They both ooh and aah and look suitably impressed, but what neither of them realizes is that I have a bit of a trump card up my sleeve. Barbara works her way down the list, with a pencil in her mouth, muttering under her breath, ‘Slept with him . . . dated him . . . told him get lost at a drunken wrap party . . . I
think
I might have kissed him . . . he’s definitely gay, had some kind of civil ceremony on a beach a while back . . .’

‘If you’d be good enough to flick to page two,’ I say, ‘and check out the name with a star beside it . . .’ I pause a bit here for dramatic effect. OK, so I am milking it a bit, but it’s just that I cannot WAIT to see the look on Barbara’s face when she sees this. ‘Serena Stroheim . . .’ I say, trying to be as blithe and cool and throwaway as possible.

‘Serena Stroheim?’ says Barbara, now sitting bolt upright. ‘Not
THE
Serena Stroheim?’

‘The very one.’

Oh my God, you should just see Barbara. It’s hysterical, and I only wish I had a camera; she has exactly the same glazed look that big winners on the lottery get, or else people who’ve just come out top in
Big Brother
.

‘Sorry, ladies, can you fill me in?’ says Laura. ‘You’ll forgive me for being a little out of touch with the world of culture.’

‘Serena Stroheim . . .’ says Barbara, and I’m not kidding, she’s actually now beginning to stammer, ‘is so, so hot, she’s practically volcanic. She’s won . . . like, a Tony, a Critic’s Circle, an Olivier. You name it, the woman’s sideboard is practically gong central. Actors, and by actors, I mean real A-listers, practically queue up to work with her in the theatre, and by the theatre I mean Broadway, baby. She directed, like, this breakthrough production of
The Women of Troy
last year and, I’m not joking, the standing-room-only tickets were selling on eBay for, like, a hundred smackaroos.’

‘Well, are you ready for this?’ I ask, almost wishing I came with a drum-roll effect. ‘We, and by we I mean you and I, only have a lunch date with her next Wednesday.’

Laura whoops, and then remembers there’s a
slumbering
baby in the room and instantly covers her mouth with her hand, while Barbara clutches her chest and gulps for air, like some elderly dame in an Ealing comedy, circa 1950.

‘Tell me . . . tell me . . . tell me everything . . .’ she manages to splutter. You should just see her face, she’s gone snow-white, and now there’s wine actually dribbling on to her white blouse. Oh rats, I really wish I could bask in the credit for this, but, much as I’m enjoying my little moment of being the group miracle worker, I have to own up.

‘OK, so during the week I got Paris and Nicole in the office to cold-call every single director’s name on that list and pitch the idea at them. They were brilliant the pair of them, I made them rehearse first, and I ear-wigged on the calls, and hand on heart, they got everything note-perfect. Shakespeare in the park, three nights only, everyone gives their services for free, and it’s all in aid of the Children’s Hospital.’

‘The Children’s Hospital?’ Laura asks.

‘I heard on the grapevine that they had been doing the fundraising rounds and I thought, who better to be our beneficiary? Now pay attention, Bond, because that becomes critical to the plot in a minute.’

‘Go on,’ says Barbara, still looking at me with the ghostly face.

‘So the girls are working their way down the list and
keeping
me posted on what response they’re getting. A lot of the directors we targeted said they were “committed elsewhere”, which we reckoned was code for: “Couldn’t be arsed getting involved with a project that’ll take up about eight weeks of my time and that’s not even going to pay me.”’

Laura shakes her head sadly and keeps topping up our glasses.

‘So then Nicole bounces over to my desk, clutching the list and pointing madly at Serena Stroheim’s name. It turns out, she’s only a VBF of her mother’s, apparently they both have holiday homes right next door to each other in the South of France. Although, I think when Nicole says “holiday home” we would probably call it an eight-bedroomed mansion house with a pool and a tennis court and a view right over the Med.’

‘Keep talking,’ says Barbara, who’s knocked back an entire glass of wine in the last couple of seconds alone.

‘So next thing she’s only whipped out the woman’s ex-directory phone number, has actually got her on the phone and is chatting away to her goodo, while I’m sitting at my desk with a face like a slapped mullet. I’m not joking, at one point she actually calls her “Auntie Serena”. Then Nicole hangs up with a big cheerie bye and I could be mistaken, but she may even have said something about seeing her at the Monaco Rose Ball and was it true Prince Albert was bringing a new date?
She’s
so connected, that girl, I mean you wouldn’t believe some of the names that she drops . . .’

‘Never mind about Prince bleeding Albert,’ hisses Barbara, bristling for me to come to the punchline. ‘Go ON with the story.’

‘Oh right, sorry. So anyhow, the upshot is: not only has the almighty Ms Stroheim got a gap in her schedule, before she goes off to, I dunno, direct Dame Judi Dench or someone like that, with, you know, BAFTAs and Oscars hanging out of them, at the National or somewhere, Nicole told me what she was doing for the autumn and it’s totally slipped my mind . . .’

‘Go ON!’

‘Barbara, I am now pissed to the tune of two glasses of wine, so you’ll just have to bear with me if I ramble a bit. Anyhoo, she loved, loved, loved the idea, said she’d always wanted to direct
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
in the open air, but here’s the clincher . . .’

‘WHAT!’ Barbara’s on the edge of her seat now and Laura has to shush her a bit so she doesn’t wake the baby.

‘Turns out her granddaughter was a patient at the Children’s Hospital, she had to have major surgery, and apparently they took such amazing care of her, and the child is doing so brilliantly now that Serena said, and this is a direct quote, that she felt the least she could do was to give something back to them. So I do hope you
can
squeeze us both in for lunch this Wednesday, then, sweetie.’ I sit back and wink at her, if I say so myself,
thrilled
with her reaction.

‘But do you think she’ll cast me?’ says Barbara in a very small, insecure little voice. ‘I mean, she’s worked with the best of the best, and here’s me, a total unknown. Now unless Joe Public studies the “background artistes” in cholesterol commercials very closely, no one has the first clue who I am or what I’ve done . . .’

‘Honey, you’re attracting panic now, so stop right there,’ I say, holding my palm up to her face like someone on
The Jerry Springer Show
. Not a gesture I’d
ever
attempt sober. ‘You, my future Broadway star, are part of this package, and that’s all there is to it. We’ve got the meeting. It’s happening. Suck it up.’

Barbara hauls herself off the sofa and gives me a bear-hug so tight I think I might break. ‘Vicky Harper, I will be thanking you till the day I die,’ is all she says simply. And a bit tearily – unusual for her.

‘Oh, come on, honey, you are gonna be fab and you’re going to steal that show, and I’m going to make sure you get the hottest agent in the business; and in one short year, the sky will be the limit. A guest voice on
The Simpsons
, a movie role in a blockbuster, anything you can dream of, will be yours for the asking.’

‘Oh, that reminds me,’ Barbara says, the eyes still all
sparkly
. ‘Come on, girls, a quick creative visualization exercise while this miraculous peace holds out.’

Laura and I just look at her, suddenly silenced, and don’t move.

‘A creative visualization exercise?’ Laura eventually says.

‘Old actor’s trick. It’s like you dress-rehearse what you really want out of life in your head, thereby when your moment comes, you’re ready for it. Come on, if I can visualize myself sitting calmly over lunch with Serena Stroheim, like I meet with scary, hotshot directors every other day of the week, then anything’s possible. Right, shoes off and lie down. This’ll be a terrific way to turn our dreams into reality,’ she says, stretching out and lying down on the floor. ‘The book even says, as you visualize, so you materialize.’