The Understudy: A Novel

  “Hardly. No, it’s just I’m sort of out filming today.”

  “You’re filming? Of course, your movie! Your crime-thriller thing, yeah?”

  “That’s the one,” he mumbled, wondering why every third thing he said these days seemed to be a lie.

  “Mr. McQueen!” bellowed the floor manager from the doorway. “ ‘Ten Green Bottles’ please!”

  “What was that?” said Nora.

  “Nothing—look, I’d better go. I’m only scheduled here till five. I’ll phone you later, arrange a place to meet, at six-ish. I’ll give you the keys and the address, then meet you there after the show.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, Nora, take it easy, yeah? Turn the phone off, make some coffee and go to bed, and we’ll talk properly tonight. Okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “This will all sort itself out, Nora, I promise you.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see…”

  “And Nora?”

  “What?”

  “I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Why? It’s hardly your fault.”

  “No, but still.”

  “Well, thank you, Stephen.”

  “What for?”

  “For everything you’ve done. You’re a pal, Steve. I appreciate it. Really, I do.”

  And she hung up. Stephen slid down the wall and sat for a moment. There was a certain illicit pride, a shabby delight that she had turned to him in her moment of crisis, even if it was a moment of crisis that he had manufactured, but he didn’t dwell on this, and, besides, at the other end of the corridor he could see the local schoolchildren filing into the studio, supervised by Olivia the Owl, whom they regarded skeptically, as well they might.

  When working with kids, Stephen found the best, and least embarrassing, approach was to stay resolutely in character, so he popped his prosthetic teeth back in, and did a little energizing squirrel-y scamper outside the studio door, before entering and immediately seeing her.

  His daughter stood to one side of the studio, talking earnestly with a friend, and Stephen slid round behind her, crouched down, placed two big red paws on her shoulders and spun her around, his face just inches away from hers.

  “Surprise!” he shouted, and was immediately taken aback at just how long and loud and piercing a child’s scream could be.

  The Awful Truth

  “What’s French for ‘I’m sorry’?”

  “Don’t know. We haven’t done ‘I’m sorry’ yet.”

  “Well, when you learn it, will you tell me?”

  Sophie nodded solemnly.

  She sat some distance away from her father in the small, smoky greenroom. With its ashtrays, plastic cups and old tabloids, it seemed a particularly grubby and inappropriate environment for a child, and Sophie clearly felt this too, sitting awkwardly on the edge of an orange stackable chair, staring blankly at the page of her book. Out of compassion, Stephen had been allowed to step out of his costume for a while, but they wouldn’t have time to reapply his makeup, so he still had whiskers and a round mask of red and brown in the center of his face. With some justification, perhaps, Sophie was clearly finding it hard to look at him.

  “So all those kids are from the famous After School Drama Society, yeah?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “And you’re sure you don’t want to come back with me and join the others?”

  Sophie shook her head.

  “Because I thought it might be a laugh, me and you, performing together for the first time. Our screen debut together. I thought it might be fun.”

  “It’s not fun,” Sophie mumbled at the floor. “It’s just stupid.”

  Stephen leaned forward in his chair, touched her on the knee. “It’s just pretending, Sophie. That’s what I do. That’s my job.”

  “Well, it’s a stupid job!”

  “No, it isn’t, Sophie. Not always,” he said quietly, adding weakly, “And don’t say ‘stupid,’ say ‘silly.’ ”

  Sophie glared at him, her eyes wide and red. “But it isn’t ‘silly,’ though, it’s stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

  “Sophie—”

  “…stupid, stupid…”

  “Sophie, don’t—”

  “…stupid, stupid, STUPID!”

  The door to the greenroom opened. The floor manager showed Alison and Colin into the room, both in intimidating heavy overcoats and dark suits, and for a moment Stephen had the definite sensation that he was being visited in prison. Alison glanced momentarily at Stephen, narrowed her eyes dismissively, then held her arms out to Sophie. “Come here, sweetheart,” she said and, head down, Sophie crossed the room into her mother’s arms.

  “Colin,” said Stephen.

  “Stephen,” said Colin.

  “I accidentally made her jump, didn’t I, Sophie?”

  Sophie said nothing.

  “Colin, could you take Sophie and wait in the car for me for a couple of minutes?” instructed Alison, in a calm, level, professional tone, and Colin took Sophie by the hand and led her out the door. She didn’t look back.

  “I’ll phone you later, Sophie, yeah?” said Stephen, but she had already gone.

  Alison came and sat in the chair Sophie had just vacated, rested her head on her hand and looked at him levelly, like his defense lawyer, or prosecution lawyer, perhaps, he wasn’t yet sure which. She was wearing a long, black pencil skirt, white blouse, black jacket, and it occurred to Stephen, entirely inappropriately, that she looked very beautiful.

  “So…looking good, Steve.”

  “Thanks, Alison. You too.”

  “Thank you,” and with one hand she smoothed the skirt out along her legs. “Just, you know, everyday office clothes. Just what most normal people wear.”

  “I think…I think maybe I gave her a little scare.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I don’t know why—the character’s actually meant to be lovable.”

  “Maybe she was a bit”—she paused, searching for the word—“…surprised. So is this that big movie you’ve been telling me and Sophie all about? The transatlantic romantic comedy? The title role?”

  “No, that’s something else.”

  “I see.”

  “But I am the title role in this too. Sammy. I’m a squirrel.”

  “Right. Sammy the Squirrel.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, ran his hands through his hair, sighed. “I know you’re not necessarily that interested, Alison, but I’m actually really, really good in this.”

  “I’m sure you are, Steve.”

  “In Eastern Europe I’m huge. And I’m enjoying it too, working with kids. There’s nothing to be embarrassed by. You should know—you did panto, you did kids’ plays.”

  “Hey, I know!” Alison looked indignant. “There’s nothing wrong doing stuff for kids, not if it’s what you really want to do.”

  “So why aren’t you taking me seriously, then?”

  “I don’t know, Steve. Maybe it’s the whiskers.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other, eyes narrowed.

  “You don’t think I’m any good, do you?” said Stephen, finally.

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s certainly the impression you give, Alison. I mean, if you do think I’m good, then why don’t you support me?”

  “Hold on, Stephen, sorry, but I don’t think you understood me. What I meant was…no, I don’t think you’re any good.”

  A moment passed.

  “You don’t?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  Again, a moment.

  “Since when?”

  Alison closed her eyes. “Never.”

  “Whoa, hang on—you’ve never thought I was any good?”

  Alison shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “Well…that’s just your personal opinion.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think it is. I think it’s an objective opinion. No one thinks you’re any good.”
r />   “No one?”

  “No one.”

  Stephen’s mouth moved, without necessarily finding any words to use. “So, hang on, in all the years you’ve known me, nothing I’ve ever done, none of it has ever been any good. It’s all been a waste, I’ve always been bad—is that what you’re saying?”

  “No, not out-and-out bad exactly, just…not good either. Sorry.”

  “So what about The Cherry Orchard?”

  “I didn’t love it, Steve.”

  “That episode of Emergency Ward?”

  “Not great.”

  “Under Milk Wood?”

  “Your accent let you down a little.”

  “Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet?”

  “It’s Benvolio—no one notices Benvolio.”

  “You said I was the best thing in it!”

  “Well, it was a very, very bad production, Steve.”

  “So how about…I don’t know…Godspell?”

  “Okay, (a) that was nine years ago, (b) no, you weren’t that good, (c) it was bloody Godspell, Stephen.”

  “I see. So, is this you being cruel to be kind, or just being cruel?”

  “I’m telling you this because I care about you.”

  “Well, I’d hate to see you try and hurt me, Al,” he said, surprised, and horrified, to feel anger, hatred even, boiling up inside him, the same rage he’d felt at the end of their marriage. And struggling to keep his voice level, he said, “Sorry, Alison, but you’re going to have to explain that a little more clearly.”

  Alison’s face softened slightly. She sighed, leaned forward in her chair, so her face was close to his, her hands clasped tight together, and she spoke quietly. “When you and I first got together, and we were all optimism and excitement and everything, you used to say this thing to me, usually when you’d had a bit to drink—you used to say that the key to happiness is to find the thing that you’re absolutely best at, the thing you love the most, stick with it, no matter how hard it gets, and do it to the absolute best of your abilities. And I remember really admiring you, and fancying you and, well, actually, loving you for that.”

  “But now you disagree?”

  “Not at all. No, I don’t disagree at all. I think that’s a fine philosophy; find the thing you’re good at, and do it with all your heart. But, Stephen—this isn’t it. I look at you, and I don’t see a man who’s found the secret of happiness. Someone scared, and frustrated, and bitter, yes, but not happy. And it’s because you’re not living in the real world, Stephen. If you were younger, it would be fine, but you can’t just wait around hoping for some miracle, for your luck to change. It doesn’t work like that, only in films. You can’t blame luck. Luck doesn’t change, not unless you make it. You’ve got to take some control of your life. Do something sensible for once.”

  “Shouldn’t you go and get Sophie?”

  Alison stood, and was reaching into her jacket pocket now, looking for something. “Why don’t you come and see me at the office, Stephen? At the recruitment consultants…”

  “You’re not going to give me your business card?”

  “There are people you could talk to, people who could give you advice.”

  “Please—please—do not offer me your business card…”

  “You could retrain. You’re good with technology, or something creative, something with kids. Kids love you.”

  He stared at the card in her hand. “No. Sorry, thanks for the offer, but no.”

  The floor manager stuck his head around the door. “Sorry, Steve, we’re going to need you back in costume pretty soon.”

  “Okay—five minutes.”

  They stood for a moment in silence, before Alison returned the card to her pocket. “Okay. Well, I’d better be going,” she said, getting up, smoothing down her skirt in a practiced, professional gesture, and walking past him without quite being able to look him in the eye.

  “Alison?”

  Alison stopped in the doorway, and turned to him, her eyes red and wet now.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, in a calm, steady voice. “I know you’re used to being right, but this time you’re wrong. I am good at this, really, really good, in fact, and I am going to prove it to you, to you and Sophie, and I’m going to make Sophie proud. And soon. Be ready, because I swear to you, it’s going to happen any day now.”

  Alison looked at him for a long while, shook her head and said, “I hope you’re right, Stephen. Really I do.” Then she lowered her head, turned, and closed the door behind her.

  Brief Encounter

  They 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.”