Lucky Break (38 page)

There were at least ten seats reserved every night for people from the business. Directors, producers, actors with influence, or so they hoped, who might phone through at the last minute and book tickets to see the play. There was hardly a night now when these seats weren't full. Dan made it a rule never to ask who was in, but afterwards in the green room Michelle would read aloud the names, listed in a ring folder, with accompanying notes as to their reaction, gleaned in the last act when she lay unconscious on the floor. Visibly moved. Non-committal. Tears.

 

‘Don't you ever worry . . .' It was Sunday and Dan had got up late.

‘What?' He looked at Jemma, fiercely peeling carrots for the children's lunch.

‘That one day I might leave you?'

Dan laughed, his mouth full of toast. ‘What?' He took a gulp of tea, and then he saw that she was struggling to hold back tears.

‘Hey,' he reached over to her. ‘What's up?'

‘What's up?' She clenched her jaw and looked out at the garden where Honey was tipping muddy cups of water over Ben's head. ‘You're never here. You work two hours a day, and it seems to take up twenty-four. I mean, when did you last see the children?'

‘What do you mean?' He felt confusion rise up and numb his brain. ‘When did I last . . . I do see them. I see them all the time.'

Jemma curled her lip in disgust. ‘Like when? By the time you get up, Honey's at school and Ben's at nursery, and by the time I get back from dropping the twins at Sacha's you're usually off somewhere . . .'

‘Or at the matinée.' He felt aggrieved.

‘Yes.' She glared at him. ‘But only on Saturdays.' It seemed she'd been reminded of another hurt. ‘I mean, when Honey finishes school, where are you? Don't you think it would be nice if just once a week you could take Honey . . . well, maybe that's asking too much . . . or at least collect her from school? Don't you care you never see them? Don't you miss them?'

‘But . . .' Dan felt trapped. ‘It doesn't feel like that. It doesn't feel like that to me.'

‘Well, it feels like that to me.'

‘I see them on Sunday.'

‘Sure. Sunday. But be honest, Dan, even on Sunday, you're hardly here.'

‘What do you mean? I am here. Last week . . .' What had they done last week? All he could think of was that Saturday's performance – not always such a good show, a weekend audience was usually made up of tourists and people who felt overly entitled to be entertained, but that night something had happened between him and Michelle. They'd screamed at each other, as they always did, but this time at the height of the row, Dan had collapsed, weeping, and Michelle had come to him, held him in her arms, cooed the lines to him that only the night before had been harsh, and at the end of the performance, when the lights had finally dimmed there was a hush so deep in the theatre that even the stage management was awed. Maybe it was true. Maybe he was getting everything he needed from his job. He looked into Jemma's distraught face, but he couldn't think of a single helpful thing to say.

‘The awful thing is I understand.' It was as if she'd heard him. ‘But what do you expect me to do? Stay quiet? I've stayed quiet for the last six weeks and I can't stand it for one more day.' She looked round as if for something to slam down. ‘Never once have you made time for us. It's as if we're not here. I've even started to wonder if you're having an affair.'

‘Don't be an idiot.'

‘It takes the joy out of it.' Now she'd started she couldn't seem to stop. ‘Doing it all on my . . .'

‘Fine.' Dan stood up. ‘Why don't I take the kids out now? I'll take them all out, I'll give them lunch at the café in the park.' He slammed his own plate down in the sink. Why couldn't she have waited? Two more weeks, and the play would be over.

‘Well, you'd better be quick.' Jemma abandoned the food she was making. ‘It's nearly lunchtime now and the twins need their nap.'

Dan walked into the garden. ‘Right,' he said. ‘We're going out. Get your clothes on.' He looked at Ben, his face and tummy smeared with mud, and Lola, digging in the sandpit, her nappy sodden. Where was Grace? He found her emptying out a case of CDs, sliding them one by one on to the floor. ‘Hon, where does Mummy keep those nappies?' and Honey, imperious, busy making a mud pat on the lawn, told him they were upstairs, in the drawer with tights and socks.

‘But surely, she's got a secret supply . . .' He couldn't face another glimpse of Jemma's bitter face, and so catching hold of Lola, he wiped her down with a dishcloth, and slipped her, nappiless, into her clothes.

It was another half an hour before he managed to get them out. Where were Honey's shoes? And the double buggy seemed to be jammed shut, so that as he wrestled it open, something snapped in the hood, leaving it hanging over to one side. Eventually they stood out on the doorstep. Dan took a deep breath and momentarily closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Ben, who'd insisted on bringing his scooter, had rushed off so fast on his small legs that Dan had to run, painfully, his head throbbing, to catch him up. ‘I'm tired,' Ben decided when he recovered him, ‘I don't want to scooter any more,' and so Dan folded the unwieldy metal contraption and attempted to slide it under the buggy, banging his shin on the sharp-edged hinge as he set off again, his curse drowned out by the roar of Lola's protestations as the scooter wheel pressed through the canvas seat into her unpadded behind. ‘Can I be carried?' Ben asked, and Honey began protesting that if he was carried, she should be carried too. ‘No, you cannot. Either of you,' Dan snapped, and grimly they trudged on.

Later, guilty, he let the children order their own drinks, regretting it when they chose lurid cups of colouring and crushed ice, which left their eyes popping, their mouths bright blue, and their stomachs too full to fit in more than a few messy strands of spaghetti when it finally came. And it was all for nothing. When he got home Jemma was sitting at the kitchen table, leafing furiously through the jobs vacant section of the paper, the newsprint blistered and disintegrating with her tears. ‘Why didn't you ask me to come?' she said. ‘The children don't care, it's me that misses you,' and he held her in his arms and kissed her salty eyelids, and the sad wet bridge of her nose. ‘Hey,' he soothed. ‘We'll be all right. We'll get through this. Look, why don't you get a babysitter and come and meet me from the play?'

‘Tomorrow night?'

‘Any night. Every night.'

Jemma pressed her face into his shoulder.

‘Let's not worry about the money. Who knows, a huge job might be just around the corner.'

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘Who knows?'

 

The last two weeks of the play were sold out. People kept texting him, begging for tickets, and he arrived at the theatre earlier and earlier, pleading with box office, leaning over the counter, suggesting how they could juggle things around to free up extra seats.

We're going to be so broke when this run ends, he worried to himself when Jemma took his advice and booked a babysitter to come in four nights a week, and he tried to push away all fears of that year's encroaching tax bill, so out of step with what he was earning now. But after the show his worries floated away, and he was happy to see Jemma, free and single somehow, waiting in the bar. They stayed until the lights came on, pressed together on a banquette, talking over old times with friends – Hettie and Samantha, Pierre, Stuart, Kevin, even Charlie, surprisingly informative on the subject of Nell Gilby's meteoric success. Jonathan was there, looking well, with stories of how Silvio had finally retired, and Patrick was attempting to raise money to stage a professional production of
Hamlet
, a regional tour and then a short run somewhere in London. ‘I'm surprised he hasn't been in touch,' Jonathan looked at Dan. ‘Last time I saw him it was all he talked about. Wanting to put
Hamlet
on again. This time with you.'

Dan swerved his eyes in Jemma's direction.

‘Obviously,' Jonathan continued, ‘I was hoping he'd cast me again . . . but it's all about the investors these days, isn't it, and my name means nothing to anyone.' He laughed. ‘If I'm lucky I'll get to play the Ghost.'

‘If
I'm
lucky I'll get to play lords, attendants, guards and followers of Laertes.' Stuart sighed. ‘Obviously, if he doesn't cast Samantha.' And even Samantha laughed.

‘I think a toast's in order.' Pierre was quick to change the subject. ‘To Dan and his excellent performance, here, tonight.' And he got up to buy them all champagne.

 

‘
Has
Patrick been in touch?' Jemma asked once they were out on the street, waiting at a bus stop.

Dan shrugged. ‘He wrote to me.' He might as well tell her. ‘And asked if he could put my name forward, as part of the package, to raise money.' He felt Jemma's body cool beside his. ‘Hey, what's the harm? He'll never do it.'

‘You shouldn't even have replied. He's dangerous, really, the more I think of it . . .'

‘Shhh . . .' Dan saw the yellow light of a cab approaching. He hailed it and bundled Jemma inside. ‘Not dangerous. Just a bitter, disappointed man.'

‘You want to do it!' Jemma glared at him. ‘You do, admit it.'

Dan sighed. What actor hadn't fantasised about having their name added to the immortal list of Hamlets? He might live for ever alongside Gielgud, Olivier, Sarah Bernhardt, Michael Redgrave, Jonathan Pryce, Kenneth Branagh. ‘Don't worry,' he told her. ‘I didn't promise anything, I just said, sure, mention my name, good luck, and I never heard another thing.'

‘Strange he didn't come and see the play, though.' Her eyes flared. ‘Or did he?'

‘No! At least I never saw him.'

‘The terrible thing about you,' Jemma slumped, ‘being such a bloody good actor, I never know if you're lying.'

‘I'm not. Really. Look, if he did come,' her compliment was warming him, ‘he probably scuttled straight off. Chances are he hated it.'

‘True. He was always hating everything. But Dan, promise you won't do it. I couldn't bear it, and apart from anything else, it seems wrong, like doing publicity for Pol Pot.'

‘For God's sake,' Dan laughed. ‘I'm not saying he wasn't a tyrant, but don't elevate him above his station. He was only a teeny weeny tyrant. He lied to me, he threw you out of college. He didn't massacre our entire village.'

Jemma was silent.

Dan reached for her hand. ‘You could still try. You know that, don't you? If you miss it, acting, I mean.'

‘No.' She frowned. ‘I don't miss it. Not as much as I'd miss the kids if I was ever actually employed. And anyway, how would we manage if I went on tour? But one day . . . soon, I'm going to start translating again . . . I've found something that might even make a good play.'

He put his arm round her. ‘Listen, I know it's mad, but you can understand, can't you, about
Hamlet
, that it was sort of gratifying to be asked?'

 

The taxi drew up outside their house. The windows were dark, the street was dark. For a moment Dan thought there might have been a power cut and then he remembered it was one o'clock in the morning. ‘You can jump in our cab,' Dan told the babysitter, opening his wallet, taking out the last £20 note. ‘It'll drop you home,' and as Jemma disappeared upstairs to check on the children, he watched as she piled her A-level course work back into her bag. ‘What are you studying anyway?'

‘Maths, French and Economics,' she told him. And she smiled shyly. ‘Good night.'

The front door closed with a click and the soft rumble of the taxi gathered power as it pulled out of their road. Dan listened. The house was quiet. The dense, warm quiet of small people sleeping. ‘To be or not to be,' he murmured to himself, and, remembering he'd promised to finally get up and take Honey to school the next morning, he walked wearily upstairs.

 

The last matinée felt unreal. Every word rolled away from them, almost never to be said again. Occasionally they caught each other's eyes, just a fraction out of character, and afterwards they gathered in the green room and had a picnic tea. The stage management joined them too, and they pooled the provisions they'd all brought, bread and cheese, small pots of salad, cakes, meringues and chocolate. There were tins of lemonade, and sparkling elderflower. They clinked glasses as if it was champagne.

The director looked in before the evening's show. ‘What to say?' He held up his hands and for once it seemed he really didn't have anything to add. Later, in the wings, the actors hugged each other, as they had done on the first night, but now their bodies were so known they didn't need to speak. The music faded out, the lights came on, and Dan stepped on to the stage. He felt it instantly, the audience were different. They were breathing with him, sighing, laughing, mourning the passing of every word. He caught sight of the writer, glum as ever in the house seats by the aisle, and just to rattle him, he tried something different, a little teasing dance that almost caught Brian off-guard. But Brian picked it up, mirroring him, so that when Michelle came on she was laughing, her face open, letting them know she was ready to play.