The Understudy: A Novel

  “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

  “You 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.

  One 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.

  Diazepam

  Almost immediately, he knew that something terrible had happened.

  He had been standing on the street, his finger pressed hard on the doorbell, for some time. When there was still no reply, he backed out to the very edge of the curb and shouted up at the dimly lit window, attempting to make himself heard above the sound of the traffic on the wet street. Nothing. He shouted “Nora” again, attempting to ignore the jeers from the customers inside Idaho Fried Chicken, then stepped back into his doorway, took out his phone, dialed Nora’s number, and swore under his breath when inevitably it clicked over to her messaging service. Seeing no other option, he took a deep breath and rang Mrs. Dollis’s bell.

  Mrs. Dollis stuck her head warily out of the window, like an upsetting glove puppet, a lit cigarette clamped between arthritic knuckles.

  “Go ’way!”

  “Hello, there!”

  “I said go ’way, will you? Bloody kids.”

  “Mrs. Dollis, it’s—”

  “Piss off out of it.”

  “Mrs. Dollis, it’s me, it’s Stephen, Mr. McQueen. From the top floor?”

  “It’s eleven o’clock!”

  “I know, I’m sorry, it’s just I’m locked out of my flat, Mrs. Dollis.”

  “No you’re not.”

  Stephen swore under his breath. “Really, I am, Mrs. Dollis.”

  “So how come I can hear your TV through the floor?”

  “That’s someone else, Mrs. Dollis.”

  “So who’s in your flat then? Not burglars…”

  “A friend. I gave my friend my keys.”

  She scowled down at him. “You’re not meant to give your keys to just anyone, you know.”

  “I know that, Mrs. Dollis, and I haven’t. She’s a good friend of mine.”

  “So why won’t she answer the door then? If she’s such a good—”

  “That’s what I want to find out.”

  It seemed to take an absurdly long time for Mrs. Dollis to come and open the door.

  “Foxes have been at the bins again…”

  “Not now, Mrs. Dollis, eh?”

  He squeezed past her, pounding up four flights of stairs to his floor. The door was locked. He banged hard on the plywood, his chest tight with panic now.

  “Nora? Nora, it’s me, are you there? Nora! Open the door…”

  No reply, just a ribbon of flickering gray light from the gap under the door and the blare of a film soundtrack, Some Like It Hot, he thought. He turned and hurtled back down the stairs, knocked on Mrs. Dollis’s door, and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet as he waited. Finally, she opened the door to her flat, which smelled overpoweringly of vinegar and fried onions.

  “What now?”

  “I need the spare key, Mrs. Dollis.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my friend’s not opening the door.”

  “Why?”

  “I DON’T KNOW WHY, DO I? THAT’S WHY I NEED THE KEY!”

  Mrs. Dollis snarled, “Don’t take that tone with me, young man.”

  “All right, I’m sorry, I apologize, but, really, I need the spare key as soon as possible.”

  Mrs. Dollis scowled, and finally backed into her flat to get the key, leaving Stephen to pace the hallway, frantic, running terrible paranoid fantasies about what he might find in the flat. Stock movie images played in his head—

  —pan across to find a handwritten note on the mantelpiece, extreme close-up of an empty bottle of pills rolling from a hand onto the floor…

  He snatched the key from Mrs. Dollis, turned and ran up the stairs, taking three at a time, jabbed the key into the lock and entered.

  She was lying, curled up on the sofa, wearing her black dress, in the flickering gray light of the large image projected on the wall, Some Like It Hot, the scene on the yacht between Curtis and Monroe. Nora might conceivably have just fallen asleep were it not for the fact that she was lying on the volume button of the remote control; the soundtrack was so loud that the speakers were distorting, yet still she didn’t move. Stephen gently lifted her head to retrieve the remote and pressed the mute button, then knelt in front of her, immediately smelling the whisky on her breath, noticing the empty bottle that had half-rolled under the sofa, the debris from two torn-up cigarettes on the coffee table.

  “Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Nora—can you hear me? Nora—wake up…”

  He put his face close to hers, and felt her hot, sour breath on his cheek. Her makeup was smeared around her eyes like bruises, and she smelled of sweat and booze and old perfume.

  “Nora, can you hear me? If you can hear me, open your eyes.”

  “Who’s that?” she mumbled through sticky lips. “Is that Josh?”

  “No, Stephen—it’s me, Stephen.”

  “Heeey there, Stevie. What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, Nora. Remember? How are you? How are you feeling?”

  “Me? Never been bedder. Soooo-perb. Hey, is Joshy with you?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s Joshy, then?”

  “I don’t know, Nora.”

  “Is he with her?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Is he here?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “GOOD! GOOOOOD-DA! I never, ever want to see him again, that dirty, lying, handsome bastard…”

  “Nora…”

  “…that treacherous good-looking sonofabitch…”

  “…can you sit up, d’you think, Nora?”

  She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Oh, unlikely, I think.”

  “But d’you think you could try?”

  “Nope!”

  “I really think you ought to try…”

  “Nope!”

  “Please?”

  “Just lemme sleeeeep, will ya? I want to go back to sleep again, please…” And once more he saw her eyes flutter, felt her weight go dead in his arms.

  “Nora, listen to me—ha
ve you taken anything? You have to tell me if you’ve taken any pills, any medication.”

  “What for?”

  “Just tell me, Nora.”

  “I don’t know. Just the usual…”

  “What’s the usual, Nora? Nora? Hello? Nora!” She had faded away again. He lowered her back down onto the sofa, scanned the room for her handbag, and emptied the contents onto the floor—bundles of gluey disposable tissues, lipsticks, tampons, tweezers, a toothbrush, a corkscrew, the remains of a toilet roll, a paper cocktail umbrella, a huge bunch of keys, a tiny Swiss Army penknife, a brown plastic bottle of pills, three left, rattling at the bottom. “Diazepam” it said on the faded label. “Avoid alcohol.” He clenched the bottle in his hand, stumbled back and knelt beside her. For no other reason than because he’d seen it in films, he gently lifted her eyelid—the iris was there, flickering, but looking normal enough, and the pupils were dilated, but he had no way of knowing if this was good or bad. Most of Stephen’s emergency first aid had been gleaned from playing Asthmatic Cycle Courier in Emergency Ward, but he vaguely suspected that this was one of those scenarios where it might become necessary to slap someone. He placed his hand gently on her cheek, as if lining up a shot, brought it a short distance away from her, moved it in closer, then farther away, then brought it down sharply.

  “Owwwww! For crying out loud…!” shrieked Nora, and punched him hard in the ear.

  “Owww!” said Stephen.

  “Hey, you started it, you dirty bastard,” she moaned, and tried to punch him again. Fortunately, the second blow was ineffectual, and merely glanced off the top of his head. He grabbed hold of her wrists, and felt the energy going out of her body, as she fell back and closed her eyes again.

  “Nora—I need to know something?”

  “What is it now?”

  “These pills, the diazepam—how many have you taken?”

  “Why the hell d’you…? Oh, I get it—you think I’m trying to do myself in, is that it? Because of my broken heart over old Joshy…”