Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? (32 page)

‘I know, I know,’ he sighs deeply, so deeply it’s like it’s coming from his feet upwards. ‘Believe me, I’ve spent a lot of time replaying the past few years in my head and asking myself what I would have done differently.’

‘Oh, come on. It’s not that you didn’t want to do things differently, it’s that you couldn’t. And that’s a vet’s life and we both know that will never change.’

Another silence.

‘Annie?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘You know I want you to go out and enjoy yourself this year?’

‘Course.’

‘Good, it’s important to me that you know that. I want you to have all the freedom that you felt you never had here.’

Half of me is beginning to wonder what he’s getting at, but as it’s a generous sentiment, I reciprocate and say the same thing back to him.

‘Same to you too,’ I tell him. ‘This is your gap year too, you know. Time for you to do some reclaiming of your youth yourself.’

Except please don’t let’s cheat on each other. Ever. I think it would destroy me. Let’s have our freedom, but with full and total fidelity on each side. Surely not too much to ask for, now is it?

‘Well, you see,’ he says so softly I almost have to strain to hear him. ‘I think there lies the fundamental difference between us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I never felt like I’d missed out on anything. Once I had you by my side, I had everything. Never once did I ever feel like I was missing out. When you were here. But I mightn’t have showed it like I should have and that’s…well, that’s something I’m having to live with now.’

Another question that’s burning me up.

‘Dan?’

‘Still here.’

‘I need to ask you something that we’ve never talked about before.’

‘Anything.’

‘At the end of this year…when the show comes to an end, I mean…’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well…have you ever wondered what will happen? To us, I mean.’

It’s the thought that dare not speak its name, but I’m certain he’s guessed what it is that I’m obliquely referring to. This job has been the single most magical experience of my life but when it comes to an end, what then? Do I just go back to Stickens and do we both just pick up where we left off? Because seeing as how we’re being brutally honest with each other tonight, we might as well continue.

Trouble is, this year out is changing both of us and what’s more, we both know it. What we once wanted at the start of the year may not be what either of us wants come December.

‘Tell you what, I’ll make a deal with you,’ he says.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Come this December, why don’t I come to New York? I could even come over for our anniversary, on December the first…’

I hardly hear what he says next. I’m too stunned by the fact that he actually remembered our anniversary.

‘…we could even meet up by the Rockefeller skating rink,’ he’s saying, ‘where I first proposed to you, all that time ago. Remember?’

‘You’re kidding me! You would actually take time off from work? Oh shit…what was that? Sorry, Dan, I got distracted by the large pig that just flew past my bedroom window.’

‘Laugh all you like, missy, but for something as important as this, yes, yes, I think I would. Course if you didn’t want me to come, then that would be different.’

Of course I’d want you to come, I’m thinking…what kind of a get-out clause is that?

‘But if you did…’ he continues on.

‘Then…then what exactly?’

‘Then, I suppose we could just take things from there.’

It’s well past three in the morning when we eventually hang up the phone, but I’m not in the least bit tired.

I feel a deep calmness, a lifting of worrying.

In fact, I feel light, light as air.

Chapter Twelve

I have to hand it to Jack; he’s making a serious effort to pull out all the stops to entertain Jules while she’s here, something I’m deeply grateful for. It’s not that she’s a difficult house guest, far from it, it’s just that museums and art galleries aren’t really her thing. I discovered this one hot, sultry afternoon when I took her to MOMA and, when I came back from the bathroom, found the girl half asleep and yawning, slumped up in a disabled access seat, barely interested enough to even throw the paintings a glance. When I asked her what she thought of a wall-length Jackson Pollock, her response was to stifle a yawn and say, ‘For feck’s sake, hand me three aerosol cans and a paintbrush and I’d do a better job myself.’

But Jack’s come to the rescue and I have to hand it to him, he’s been little short of extraordinary in trumping himself, time and again. There was one night after the show when he took Jules and me to see the observatory on what felt like the two-thousandth floor of the Rockefeller Center, Top of the Rock: utterly breathtaking at night-time, with all the lights of the city twinkling like the celestial heavens beneath you.

Not only that, but then he produced a bottle of champagne
and as he expertly cracked it open, I was vaguely wondering how we’d all drink it…maybe take turns slugging from the bottle, like teenagers with filched bottles of vodka? Not a bit of it; Jack had that covered too and astonished me by producing three long-stemmed crystal flutes from his briefcase and elegantly serving us in those. Honest to God, if he could have had a waiter floating around topping up our glasses and passing round the canapés, he would have.

I’m learning more and more about him as the summer wears on; no trouble is too much for him and few doors are unopened to him. For instance, Central Park closes to the public late in the evenings, but you can always trust Jack to know someone who knows someone and sure enough, one night the three of us were allowed a sneaky private tour of the zoo followed by a moonlit boat ride out on the lake. Unbelievable. Just magical.

Then, like he’s on a permanent quest to outdo himself, the following day he arranged to meet Jules and I at the South Street Seaport, where a helicopter belonging to one of his millionaire buddies was waiting to whisk the three of us on a tour of the five islands that make up Manhattan, with Jack acting as our guide. And boy does he know his stuff. It’s a bit like being out with Alan Whicker, minus having a camera crew in tow.

Flying over the skyline, with Jules and I clinging to each other and squealing like two schoolkids on an excursion, not only was he able to tell us exactly which skyscraper was which, but the whole history behind each one too. For instance he told us how the Empire State was built during the famous nineteen thirties ‘race to the sky’ and that the famous lightning tower was added on just so that it could
be taller than the Chrysler Building, which was at the time, threatening to rival it height-wise.

Most amazing holiday she’s ever had in her entire life, Jules reckons. Then, best of all, to celebrate the end of her second week here, Jack pulls yet another rabbit out of the hat. Turns out he’s got a pal who has a summer share in the Hamptons and he calls one afternoon to ask if Jules and I would care to join him there for the weekend? He even has it all worked out: we’ll leave right after the Sunday matinee and stay till the following Tuesday afternoon, getting me back to the Shubert in plenty of time for the curtain.

Jules is beside herself and I’m quite looking forward to the trip as well, until the Sunday morning that we’re due to leave, when she and I are up in my apartment packing all our beach clothes, getting ready to go.

Next thing, she pads barefoot into my room, collapses onto the bed and then hugs her knees to her chest, staring worriedly at the ceiling, exactly like a ten-year-old would.

‘What’s up, hon?’ I ask her. ‘Why aren’t you packing?’

‘Because I had a deep and disturbing thought. A rarity for me, you’ll agree, so I figured I’d better share it with you. Now, before I forget.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Well…it’s you. More specifically, you and Jack.’

‘Oh for feck’s sake, Jules,’ I answer back, flinging a pair of socks at her. ‘Don’t you know better than to listen to backstage gossip?’

‘I’m serious, Annie. Why do you think he’s doing all this for us? It’s hardly for my benefit, now is it? I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you don’t notice. If you ask my professional opinion as a serially single girl, I really think he has it bad for you.’

‘I’m not even entertaining this,’ I find myself snapping at her, without meaning to.

‘Can’t a woman just be good friends with a guy without it giving rise to all this shite-ology?’

‘Not when one of them has the serious hots for the other. You mark my words, Annie Cole, I foresee trouble ahead and as we all know, I’m never wrong.’

‘You were wrong about who’d win
X Factor
last year.’

‘Stop messing. I’ve given this a great deal of thought,’ she says primly, sitting up now and dangling her long, thin legs off the edge of the bed. ‘If you ask me, Jack is the kind of guy who’s used to having women queuing up for him…and yet here he is, blatantly single, blatantly not seeing anyone.’

I’m in the middle of packing cleanser and toner into a wash bag, but stop for a split second. Because that much
is
true and I’ve often wondered about it myself. In fact, I’ve pretty much spent the whole summer witnessing women fling themselves like blow-dried missiles in slingbacks at Jack. Happens all the time, in fact. Waitresses, hostesses, the entire female phalanx of the Shubert theatre box office, and never once does he as much as bat an eyelid.

‘So ask yourself this, Annie. Does he ever act on this and go out with any of them, like a normal guy would? Or even just drag them home for quickie one-night stands?’ she goes on, correctly reading my thoughts. ‘No, not once. Now ordinarily, I’d write him off as gay, because let’s face it, the guy does know how to dress and he always smells better than you or I, but that’s clearly not the case either.’

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ I interrupt her. ‘Jack doesn’t do relationships. If I’ve heard him saying that once, I’ve heard him saying it a hundred times. I think his exact
phrase is that he finds “the whole business of Eros so boring”. ’

‘Excuse me, did I say I was finished? Which leads me to the logical conclusion that you have inadvertently become his ultimate challenge. Because you’re not encouraging him and you’re actively
not
looking for love, it’s like the biggest turn-on in the world for him. Your unattainability is bringing out obsession in him and I for one know trouble when I see it coming. You mark my words.’

‘Jules, I’ve done nothing, absolutely nothing to encourage any of this. Besides…he’s never tried it on with me. Never once. And I see him all the time.’

‘Just wait. He will. He’s a director for feck’s sake, he knows how to pick his moment. Trust me, Annie, it’s a question of when, not if.’

By five that evening, the show is well over and the only instruction Jack has given Jules and me is to wait for him at the theatre; that he’ll pick us up there. I’m innocently assuming in a cab, so we can get to Port Authority Midtown and take the Jitney bus on from there. Although somehow, the idea of Jack doing something as mundane as taking public transport doesn’t quite seem to sit right in my brain.

The rest of the cast have scattered off to the four winds after the show and Jules and I are just waiting outside the box office, basking in the late afternoon sunshine, when next thing a long, black stretch limo glides elegantly round the corner, driven by a chauffeur wearing an actual uniform. Two seconds later, Jack bounds out of the back seat, looking effortlessly casual in jeans and a Gap T-shirt, then throws his head back to guffaw when he clocks our stunned expressions.

‘Jump in, ladies, we’ve a barbeque to get to this evening!’
he grins delightedly, helping us both into the limo with our overnight bags, then slamming the door shut with an expensive clunk.

‘Mother of God, where are you getting all your money from?’ Jules blurts out. ‘Are you secretly a rapper or something?’

‘Glass of champagne?’ he asks smoothly, producing a bottle of Bollinger, an ice bucket and three long-stemmed glasses from a concealed mini-bar along one of the car’s side panels.

Jules shoots me a significant
all-this-is-for-your-benefit-not-mine
look which I do my level best to ignore.

‘So would you ladies care to hear what I’ve got planned for your evening’s entertainment?’ he asks, handing round a china plate with olives and antipasti immaculately laid out on a linen napkin. Fecking hell, it’s like the Four Seasons on wheels in here.

Jules stuffs a fistful of olives into her mouth then spits out the stones, as Jack tells us that some other friends of his who live close to the beach house we’re staying at are having a barbeque this evening and we’re all invited along.

‘And there’s someone coming who I’d particularly like you to meet,’ he grins at Jules, the white teeth gleaming. ‘An old pal of mine and a great investor in the theatre. Newly single, attractive, successful and dying to meet someone new.’

‘Jesus! Are you setting me up on a blind date?’ she squeals excitedly. ‘For real?’

‘Well yeah, if you want to call it that. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Are you kidding me? Once he’s straight, single and not recently paroled, then he passes the Jules test.’

‘How come you’re single anyway? Surely you must have
boyfriends back home in…what’s the name of that place you’re from again…Stickens, isn’t it?’

She sips on her champagne, starts playing with one of her jet black, springy curls, then launches off on her favourite rant – the complete and utter lack of eligible guys aged between eighteen and thirty in the greater Waterford area. Sparing time to elaborate on her pet theory that local girls like her are a bit like the women left behind during World War One, when a whole generation of young men were wiped out in the trenches and so there was no one left for them to marry.

I can see Jack smiling at all her youthful high spirits and harmlessly insane chatter and he roars laughing when he offers her the plate of olives again and she waves them away saying, ‘Are you kidding me? If I’m being matched up on a date tonight, then that’s the last thing I’m eating.’