The Understudy: A Novel (26 page)

Brief Encounter

T
hey arranged to meet outside the Burger King at Victoria Station at six o’clock, the place he’d called from the night before. Just like in a movie, he was returning to the scene of the crime.

Inevitably, filming overran, and Stephen finally stumbled, numb, out of the studios at five-thirty. Right on cue, the skies opened, fat oily drops of gray rain that stung his eyes. Drunk with power, Frank had insisted the production company hire a private car to take the film’s leading man to the theater, but Stephen couldn’t find it in the car park, and by the time he threw himself bodily into the back of the people-carrier, he was soaked. He asked the driver to take him to Victoria, then slumped in the back, dripping with rain, desperately scrubbing at his face with a fistful of disintegrating toilet roll in an attempt to remove the last of the makeup that had been stenciled around the edge of his furry headpiece. Peering at his reflection in the driver rearview mirror, it seemed as if he had a perfectly circular strawberry birthmark in the center of his face. He bunched the last of the toilet paper up into a small damp ball, and kept scrubbing until the clump disintegrated in his hand and crumbled onto his lap. His breathing was shallow, and his chest felt tight in what was either distress at all that had happened that day, or the onset of pleurisy.

Half an hour later, they pulled up at Victoria Station. Nora’s phone was turned off, and he was terrified that he might have missed her, but as he rose to step out of the car, the driver called to him.

“ ’Scuse me, sir?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Could I have your autograph, please?” said the driver, holding a pen out to Stephen.

Stephen stared dumbly at the pen in the driver’s hand.
So this is what it feels like,
he thought. He’d never been recognized before, but perhaps the driver had kids who were fans of Sammy the Squirrel. Or perhaps it was his doomed Asthmatic Cycle Courier, or Man in Bank, Rent Boy 2, Third Businessman, Mugging Victim. Perhaps Alison was wrong, and someone
had
noticed his Benvolio after all.
Could I have your autograph, please?
He looked up at the driver’s expectant grin. It was the first kind thing anyone had said to him all day. Stephen smiled modestly, and settled back in his seat.

“Of course, I’d be more than happy to—who do you want it made out to?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“The autograph. Who do you want it made out to? Your kids or something?”

“Just your name, sir. It’s for the invoice.”

Stephen nodded, took the pen and the clipboard, signed his name on the invoice, and hurried out to find Nora.

The idea of meeting at a train station had seemed romantic at the time, as if it might hold a melancholic black-and-white charm, like something from an old movie. But train stations have changed a great deal since then and, standing outside Burger King, Nora looked hunted and anxious. She stood with her back against the very phone box he’d called from the previous night, wearing a long, heavy overcoat over a black dress, the collar turned up, her wet fringe clinging to her face as she glanced anxiously around at the crowds of damp, scowling commuters. Nearby, a school brass band played “In the Bleak Midwinter,” just to hammer the point home.

“Sorry I’m late,” Stephen gasped.

“That’s fine,” said Nora, managing a smile. “Thank you for coming.” She put one arm around his neck, and pressed her cheek against his. He had a momentary spasm of anxiety that Josh’s action figure might still be nestling in the rubbish at the bottom of the phone box behind her, but thankfully he’d been swept away in the night. He turned his head to look at Nora. She seemed exhausted, her eyes red, her breath warm with whisky, and with her face inches away he could see that a small, red spot had started to form on the rim of her nostril. Stephen felt an overwhelming desire to lean in and kiss her, and was startled and delighted when Nora suddenly took his face firmly in her hands, pulling it even closer toward her, scrutinizing him intently, and with a great belly flop of pleasure he realized that she was about to kiss him. Some long-buried reflex made him lick his lips quickly, in anticipation.
Put your hand in that warm place in the small of her back, lean forward and…

“
What the hell is wrong with your
face
?” she said.

“My face?”

“Your face. It’s all brown and red.”

“Is it?” he said, rubbing it vigorously with his wet sleeve.

“You look like you’ve been punched repeatedly on the nose.”

“I haven’t. Well, not yet, anyway…”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. It’s makeup,” and he started rubbing at his cheeks with the back of both hands simultaneously in a way that was at least partially still in character. “It’s for this police marksman thing I’ve been doing today. It’s, eh, camouflage. You know, the usual macho bullshit…”

She peered closer and seemed to pinch something between her finger and thumb, and tug—a thick, synthetic black fiber. “Is this…is this a
whisker
?”

“No-ho-ho,” he laughed mirthlessly, taking the fiber from her, dropping it on the floor.
Change the subject.
“How are you feeling, anyway?”

“Oh, well, you know—considering my marriage is falling apart in the national press, I’m pretty good.”

“And have you spoken to him?”

“No. Well, briefly. I told him to go away and leave me alone, though not using those precise words.” She smiled, and there was a moment’s pause. “Hey, aren’t you going to be late for the show?”

“Absolutely. So—you’ve got the address, here are the keys. Next train’s Platform Seven, three minutes’ time, then get a taxi from outside Clapham Junction station, yeah? Right to the door. There might be some kids hanging round, shouting abuse and stuff, but don’t try and answer back, just ignore them, it’s not worth it.”

“O-kay.”

“D’you need money for the cab?”

“I have money.”

“And when you get there, just shut the door, put your feet up, watch an old movie or something. There’s DVDs and videos on the shelf. I’ll be back in, what, three, four hours. Help yourself to anything you can find, not that there
is
anything. Don’t bother looking for a fridge, there isn’t one. There was, but it died, and I’m getting a new one soon, but the milk’s on the windowsill, and there’s a fried chicken place downstairs, if you’re feeling reckless. They do spareribs too, though they’re a bit of an unknown quantity, I’m afraid. In fact, I’d hold out if I were you. I’ll bring you something when I come home.”

“Thanks for this, Stephen. You’re a star.”

“Well, not a
star
…” he protested, but she looped her arms around his chest, giving him a boozily affectionate hug, and they stood there for a moment, Stephen inhaling the scent of shampoo and smoke from her wet hair, the damp wool of her overcoat. After the events of that long, terrible day, it felt blissful. He closed his eyes, and pressed his hands against her back. The school brass band was now reversing over “Jingle Bells,” and yet despite this he’d have been very happy to stay there for a while, but the station clock read 6:25.

He pressed his lips against the top of her head, and said, “I’ve got to go. Any message for Josh?”

“Tell him to go screw himself.”

“And apart from that?”

“Just that.”

“Okay, I’ll tell him.”

She pulled away and looked up at him. “Except don’t. In fact, can you not tell Josh anything? That we’ve spoken, or where I’m staying tonight? It’s not that I’m trying to punish him or anything—well, not
just
that. It’s just I don’t particularly want to see or speak to him at the moment, that’s all. You know how persuasive he can be—he’ll get all cow-eyed and pouty and passionate and sincere, and, well, I’d like to stay angry with him for a little longer. Let’s keep it our secret.”

“Okay—our secret.” Then Stephen squeezed her hands, and turned around and ran against the tide of commuters, back toward the tube station.

The Invisible Man

“Y
ou know, if there’s a bigger tosser in the whole of London, then I’d like to meet him, Steve. Really, I would.”

Josh Harper sat on the edge of his daybed in his puffy white shirt, head in hands, his face pale, his eyes red and swollen; still handsome, but clearly shaken, as if he’d just returned from a disastrous cavalry charge. “I should have listened to you. What was I thinking, Steve? What was I playing at?” He started to rap the side of his head with his fists. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid…”

Steve wondered if he should perhaps put his arm around him, if only to try to stop him saying “stupid,” but decided that there was a real possibility that this might feel hypocritical. Instead, he leaned forward, and squeezed his knee. “So have you spoken to her?” he said eventually.

“Only for a minute—she says she’s going to stay with friends for a couple of days. God knows who—she hasn’t
got
any friends, only ones she knows through me. Hey,
you
don’t know where she is, do you?”

She’s at home, now, at
my
flat, waiting for
me…

“Of course I don’t know,” said Stephen.

Josh looked at him intently for a moment, then took the teaspoon from the neck of last night’s bottle of champagne, poured two inches into his mug, drained it in one, and winced, which is surely not the point of champagne. “Anyway, she doesn’t want to hear from me. I don’t blame her, either. God, Steve, I just hope
you
never have to go through something like that.”

“Well, you know, when I got divorc—”

“Shouting, screaming, throwing things,” Josh continued. “Crying one minute, hurling abuse the next. And when I tried to explain myself, that’s when she really freaked out, smashing up my
Star Wars
things, really laying into them.”

“You didn’t tell her any of that stuff you told me, though, did you, Josh?”

“What stuff?”

“You know—the sex-addiction, low self-esteem thing.”

Josh looked sheepish. “I might have mentioned it, yeah.”

Stephen visibly winced.

“She went crazy, Steve. I wouldn’t mind, but some of that stuff’s twenty-five, thirty years old, antique, more or less, and she was just drop-kicking it around the bedroom! My
Millennium Falcon
’s knackered, just totally fucked…”

“Five-minute call,” said the voice on the loudspeaker. “Mr. Harper, this is your five-minute call. Five minutes, please.”

“…we were meant to be going on holiday too, soon as the run was finished. Two weeks in Saint Lucia. That’s not going to happen. I’m probably not even going to be able to get my deposit back.” He reached once more for last night’s champagne, poured it into his mug.

“Is that a good idea, Josh?”

“Not to mention the
Mercury Rain
premiere next Sunday! What am I going to do, Steve?”

“Take Abigail Edwards instead?” said Steve. Josh curled his lip. “Sorry—not funny. Have you spoken to Maxine, by the way?”

“I tried, but she just threw her travel iron at me. That’s all women seem to do these days, Steve, chuck stuff at my face.” He stopped suddenly, with the mug halfway to his lips. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if she set the whole thing up in the first place.”

“That’s completely cra-a-azy…” said Stephen, with his manufactured laugh during the word “crazy.”

“Is it? I’m not so sure. The paparazzi were definitely waiting for us when we came out.”

Keep calm. Don’t sound defensive.
“You’re just being paranoid. Those places always have photographers hanging around outside.”

“This one doesn’t—that’s why we always go there. Besides, it’s exactly the kind of nasty, vindictive thing Maxine would do. ’Cept what’s the point of blaming her? It’s my fault. I am
so
stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid…” Josh curled over, and laced his fingers behind his head, pulling down on his neck as if trying to tug himself through the floor. Stephen placed one hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay to do the show tonight, d’you think?”

Josh looked up at him and scowled. “Of course I am!” he snapped, shrugging Stephen’s hand away. “Don’t you worry, Steve, mate, you’ll still get your big break.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Didn’t you? ’Cause it sounded like you were getting ready to jump in my grave, mate.”

“Not at all.”

“Don’t sweat, Stevie-boy, the deal still stands.”

“I wasn’t talking about—”

“You’ll still get your chance, three shows, the eighteenth onwards, just like we—”

“Josh, for once in your life, will you just shut the fuck up and listen to someone else speak?”

Josh’s mouth hung open in a perfect
O,
as if he’d just been punched in the face, and the effect was so gratifying that Stephen wondered if it was too late to punch him too.

Confident he had Josh’s attention, he continued, “I wasn’t talking about our ‘deal,’ which was never meant to be that kind of deal in the first place, if you remember. Of course you should go on and do the show tonight. I was just trying to be…sympathetic, that’s all. I was trying to help.”

“Yeah. Of course, you’re right.” Josh slumped back in his chair, ran his hands through his hair. “Sorry, mate, it’s just I’m a bit on edge, that’s all.”

“Yeah, of course you are. And yes, there’ll probably be some journalists out there in the audience tonight, but so what? You just go out there and do your job. That’s the main thing, isn’t it? Fuck ’em!”

“Exactly—fuck ’em!”

Josh took Stephen’s hand and squeezed it, and Stephen put a hand on Josh’s shoulder and squeezed it back, and they stood for a moment like old, old friends, mutually squeezing, until the loudspeaker system hissed and crackled.

“Beginners, please. This is your beginners’ call. Mr. Harper, to the stage please, this is your beginners’ call.”

Stephen punched the top of Josh’s arm, and Josh punched Stephen right back.

O
ne thing was immediately clear about Josh’s performance that night—he was certainly giving his all. Instead of his misery ruining his performance, it was enhancing it; he was, in actor’s jargon, “using it.” There was a great deal of weeping and expressive perspiring going on, a lot of slack-jawed, moist-eyed keening, a lot of emotion trapped in the throat, so that it sounded a little like he was suppressing a burp. It seemed to be doing the trick, though. Across the stage from Stephen, Donna, the company manager, stood in the wings crying. Stephen had previously assumed that she’d been born without tear ducts, or at least had them sealed up with gaffer tape, but there she stood, tears coursing down her cheeks, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her black leather waistcoat. Even Maxine, the woman scorned, was at it. Consequently, even fewer people than usual noticed as Stephen’s Ghostly Figure walked on (ghostly), opened door (slowly), bowed (somberly), closed door (slowly), walked off (quickly). Stephen could sense the tangible tension of the audience and, sure enough, there was a long, suspended moment, as Stephen and Josh stood side by side in the wings, like a spark fizzing its way along a length of fuse. When it started, it was overwhelming. Josh gave Stephen a little shrug, as if to say,
I, too, am bemused by my awesome power,
then gave his little high-diving-board hop-and-skip before trotting out onto the stage to accept once again all that was due to him.

Stephen was back in his dressing room before the applause came to an end. He pulled on his coat, walked unseen past Josh’s dressing room, overflowing now with friends and well-wishers, unnoticed past the crowd at the stage door, a dense pack of journalists, fans and autograph hunters, curious passersby, and paparazzi looking for a return match. He pulled his coat tight around him against the cold, and, invisible once more, he hurried home, where Josh’s wife was waiting for him.