had fantastic write-ups, yet you’re moping along as if the Telegraph had the knives out.” Freddie’s arm got brusquely shaken off his old friend’s shoulder.
ENCORE! ENCORE! 77
“Everest.” Francis tried to wrestle a couple of last drops from his glass.
“What the hell does that mean? The mountain or the double glazing company?”
Francis smiled despite himself; this friendship went back too far and Freddie knew him too well. It wasn’t fair when you wanted to sink into a slough of despondence to have some idiot making you laugh and dragging you out of it. “I’m at the top and people will be waiting in line to see me fall down again.”
“That’s defi nitely the booze talking. No one wants to see you fail—we couldn’t afford to lose you now.” Freddie glanced uneasily over at Owen, but he was poring over the Express with Amos Hart. He was going to get no moral support from that direction for the moment. He looked worried, almost as worried as he’d looked when Francis had rolled out of a taxi and up to his door that night, scarf tied around his arm to stop the bleeding.
The night cruising had ended in a bruising.
“Yeah, maybe. But what about when the run’s over—what’s there left except going downhill?”
“Anyone told you you’re a born optimist? Why should it be downhill from now on?” Freddie called the waiter over to come and take the wine away. He ordered coffee, black, strong and in copious quantities. “Maybe a mug of that will get you thinking straight. There’s plenty of other roles.”
“Oh yeah. Plenty of roles if I get back into trousers. I could even be Billy Flynn next time you and Owen take this on tour. Or would you prefer me singing “Mr. Cellophane”?” The bitterness in Francis’s voice couldn’t be controlled. Not even Laurence Olivier could have hidden feeling like this. “Face it, Freddie.
I’ll always be, as the guy from the Mirror so eloquently put it,
‘the bloke with the brilliant legs who looks so good as a tart I wouldn’t have said no to his Velma.’ Anything else is going to be a disappointment, for me and for the audience.”
“Then stay with the tights and the dresses.” Freddie kept looking round, waiting for the arrival of the coffee. It was on its way, past its best but still drinkable.
78 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz
“So you’ll be trying out more all-male musicals if this one’s a success?” Francis didn’t believe it, no matter how much Owen’s eyes had been lighting up at the advance sales.
“We might. Owen’s been thinking about Sweet Charity.” Graham was hovering, but Freddie kept him at bay with a fi erce fl ash of his eyes, a more incisive look than Francis had believed him capable of. “And I suppose there’s a chance I’d get the lead.” He settled back into his chair, swung an elegant ankle. “Maybe. But I can’t see this becoming a long-term thing.
You know,” Francis switched into a dark, sultry, female tone,
“Daaaaaaahling, we always do ‘The Dream’ at Regents Park the week after Wimbledon ladies’ fi nal, then it’s the men-only at Drury Lane every November.” He fl ipped back to his own, husky, deeply attractive voice. “It would just take the twinset and blue rinse brigade nicely into John Barrowman does Friday Night is Music Night and then the pantomime season.”
“Why shouldn’t it? Why can’t we establish ourselves as the musical theatre equivalent of the Globe? All these things must have started small and established themselves.” Freddie’s eyes weren’t fl ashing any more. They were hazy and full of some fairy tale hope. “It could happen.”
Well, why not? Except that these things didn’t happen to Francis Yardley. No fairy tales ever came true for him. “Okay, it might. But even if it did catch on, what would be the future for me?” Francis wasn’t being talked out of his nice little bit of feeling sorry for himself, not a second time. “Derek Jacobi and the rest of
ENCORE! ENCORE! 77
“Everest.” Francis tried to wrestle a couple of last drops from his glass.
“What the hell does that mean? The mountain or the double glazing company?”
Francis smiled despite himself; this friendship went back too far and Freddie knew him too well. It wasn’t fair when you wanted to sink into a slough of despondence to have some idiot making you laugh and dragging you out of it. “I’m at the top and people will be waiting in line to see me fall down again.”
“That’s defi nitely the booze talking. No one wants to see you fail—we couldn’t afford to lose you now.” Freddie glanced uneasily over at Owen, but he was poring over the Express with Amos Hart. He was going to get no moral support from that direction for the moment. He looked worried, almost as worried as he’d looked when Francis had rolled out of a taxi and up to his door that night, scarf tied around his arm to stop the bleeding.
The night cruising had ended in a bruising.
“Yeah, maybe. But what about when the run’s over—what’s there left except going downhill?”
“Anyone told you you’re a born optimist? Why should it be downhill from now on?” Freddie called the waiter over to come and take the wine away. He ordered coffee, black, strong and in copious quantities. “Maybe a mug of that will get you thinking straight. There’s plenty of other roles.”
“Oh yeah. Plenty of roles if I get back into trousers. I could even be Billy Flynn next time you and Owen take this on tour. Or would you prefer me singing “Mr. Cellophane”?” The bitterness in Francis’s voice couldn’t be controlled. Not even Laurence Olivier could have hidden feeling like this. “Face it, Freddie.
I’ll always be, as the guy from the Mirror so eloquently put it,
‘the bloke with the brilliant legs who looks so good as a tart I wouldn’t have said no to his Velma.’ Anything else is going to be a disappointment, for me and for the audience.”
“Then stay with the tights and the dresses.” Freddie kept looking round, waiting for the arrival of the coffee. It was on its way, past its best but still drinkable.
78 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz
“So you’ll be trying out more all-male musicals if this one’s a success?” Francis didn’t believe it, no matter how much Owen’s eyes had been lighting up at the advance sales.
“We might. Owen’s been thinking about Sweet Charity.” Graham was hovering, but Freddie kept him at bay with a fi erce fl ash of his eyes, a more incisive look than Francis had believed him capable of. “And I suppose there’s a chance I’d get the lead.” He settled back into his chair, swung an elegant ankle. “Maybe. But I can’t see this becoming a long-term thing.
You know,” Francis switched into a dark, sultry, female tone,
“Daaaaaaahling, we always do ‘The Dream’ at Regents Park the week after Wimbledon ladies’ fi nal, then it’s the men-only at Drury Lane every November.” He fl ipped back to his own, husky, deeply attractive voice. “It would just take the twinset and blue rinse brigade nicely into John Barrowman does Friday Night is Music Night and then the pantomime season.”
“Why shouldn’t it? Why can’t we establish ourselves as the musical theatre equivalent of the Globe? All these things must have started small and established themselves.” Freddie’s eyes weren’t fl ashing any more. They were hazy and full of some fairy tale hope. “It could happen.”
Well, why not? Except that these things didn’t happen to Francis Yardley. No fairy tales ever came true for him. “Okay, it might. But even if it did catch on, what would be the future for me?” Francis wasn’t being talked out of his nice little bit of feeling sorry for himself, not a second time. “Derek Jacobi and the rest of
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