no doubt it was due to the volume and
frequency of our filthy, crazy, beautiful sex life.
If we’d had
chandeliers in that grotty one bedroom flat, I have no doubt he’d have had me
swinging from them.
‘You do know I
used to be married to him, right?’
Art waves his
hand in the air, a 'comme ci, comme ça ,'
gesture that infuriates me. It's all very well for him to be flippant; it's not
his heart under threat.
‘Like, a
lifetime ago.’ He rolls his eyes in the style of a bored teenager. ‘And anyway,
it’s good that you guys have a history. It adds chemistry.’ He shrugs,
thoroughly unapologetic.
‘Chemistry?’ I
bark. ’The only chemistry around here will be the fucking poison that I tip in
his coffee.’
Art smirks,
happy as a clam.
‘I love it,’ he says,
almost rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘That’s it, girl, get yourself
good and riled. He’s reading the script on the plane today, rehearsals start tomorrow.
Fire yourself up.’
He practically
pirouettes off the stage, leaving me alone. Tomorrow. He’ll be here on this
stage with me tomorrow.
I can’t believe
it. This play is such a big bloody deal for me, I can’t walk away from it now.
Not that I’d do that anyway, my reputation would be in tatters and I’ve worked
too damn hard to get where I am to let everything go now.
But starring
opposite Reuben every night? Seriously?
I rummage around
in the bedside cabinet for the brandy Stanley’s character stores there as part
of the plot. It shouldn’t actually be the genuine hard stuff in the bottle, but
Stanley keeps switching the cold tea for the real deal, and right now I’m
beyond glad.
This play… well,
it’s incredibly intimate. It’s a two-hander, just me and Stanley, or just me
and Reuben now, so it seems.
I haven’t seen
him in more than five years, but I remember the last thing I said to him as
clearly as if it were yesterday.
‘Go on, Puss in
Boots. Go follow those streets of gold and see where they lead you. Just don’t
come back around this way again with your big old tail hanging out because I’m
putting a huge fucking no-entry sign up and activating a shoot first, ask later
policy.’
It didn’t help
that we had this conversation whilst he was dressed in costume as actual Puss
in Boots. Or maybe he was D'Artagnan or something, but to my mind he looked for
all the world as if he was about to swashbuckle his way onto the panto stage.
Oh yes he did. And did he ever test my shotgun cordon after that day? Oh no he
didn’t. Not once.
He disappeared
from my life more like the Genie of the Lamp than Puss in Boots, never to
return again. Until now, right when I’m about to take on the most challenging
and high profile role of my life. Jeez, I was already nervous. Now I’m verging
on hysterical and necking brandy straight from the bottle, which isn’t good
whichever way you shake it down.
I’m deliberately
slow getting into work the following morning. I don’t want to leave time for
Reuben to come by my dressing room beforehand for a heart-to-heart or a no hard
feelings handshake. The fact is I do have hard feelings. Hard as concrete,
mostly because no-one has managed to make me so deliriously happy since he left,
nor so pull-my-hair turned on, or so balls out furious.
And you know
what? I like my life as it is just now. I don’t need the drama, and my battery-operated
boyfriend never makes me scream with frustration. He never makes me yell out
his name in bone melting pleasure or cry big fat, happy tears either but let’s
not dwell on that.
Don't get me
wrong, I’ve every intention of being professional, but the only words I plan on
saying to Reuben throughout the entire run of this production are the ones written
in the script. Someone else’s words; not mine, and certainly not his.
In fact, I have
a plan. After a sleepless night, I concluded this morning over toast and
marmalade that the only way I'm going to get through this is to just
frequency of our filthy, crazy, beautiful sex life.
If we’d had
chandeliers in that grotty one bedroom flat, I have no doubt he’d have had me
swinging from them.
‘You do know I
used to be married to him, right?’
Art waves his
hand in the air, a 'comme ci, comme ça ,'
gesture that infuriates me. It's all very well for him to be flippant; it's not
his heart under threat.
‘Like, a
lifetime ago.’ He rolls his eyes in the style of a bored teenager. ‘And anyway,
it’s good that you guys have a history. It adds chemistry.’ He shrugs,
thoroughly unapologetic.
‘Chemistry?’ I
bark. ’The only chemistry around here will be the fucking poison that I tip in
his coffee.’
Art smirks,
happy as a clam.
‘I love it,’ he says,
almost rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘That’s it, girl, get yourself
good and riled. He’s reading the script on the plane today, rehearsals start tomorrow.
Fire yourself up.’
He practically
pirouettes off the stage, leaving me alone. Tomorrow. He’ll be here on this
stage with me tomorrow.
I can’t believe
it. This play is such a big bloody deal for me, I can’t walk away from it now.
Not that I’d do that anyway, my reputation would be in tatters and I’ve worked
too damn hard to get where I am to let everything go now.
But starring
opposite Reuben every night? Seriously?
I rummage around
in the bedside cabinet for the brandy Stanley’s character stores there as part
of the plot. It shouldn’t actually be the genuine hard stuff in the bottle, but
Stanley keeps switching the cold tea for the real deal, and right now I’m
beyond glad.
This play… well,
it’s incredibly intimate. It’s a two-hander, just me and Stanley, or just me
and Reuben now, so it seems.
I haven’t seen
him in more than five years, but I remember the last thing I said to him as
clearly as if it were yesterday.
‘Go on, Puss in
Boots. Go follow those streets of gold and see where they lead you. Just don’t
come back around this way again with your big old tail hanging out because I’m
putting a huge fucking no-entry sign up and activating a shoot first, ask later
policy.’
It didn’t help
that we had this conversation whilst he was dressed in costume as actual Puss
in Boots. Or maybe he was D'Artagnan or something, but to my mind he looked for
all the world as if he was about to swashbuckle his way onto the panto stage.
Oh yes he did. And did he ever test my shotgun cordon after that day? Oh no he
didn’t. Not once.
He disappeared
from my life more like the Genie of the Lamp than Puss in Boots, never to
return again. Until now, right when I’m about to take on the most challenging
and high profile role of my life. Jeez, I was already nervous. Now I’m verging
on hysterical and necking brandy straight from the bottle, which isn’t good
whichever way you shake it down.
I’m deliberately
slow getting into work the following morning. I don’t want to leave time for
Reuben to come by my dressing room beforehand for a heart-to-heart or a no hard
feelings handshake. The fact is I do have hard feelings. Hard as concrete,
mostly because no-one has managed to make me so deliriously happy since he left,
nor so pull-my-hair turned on, or so balls out furious.
And you know
what? I like my life as it is just now. I don’t need the drama, and my battery-operated
boyfriend never makes me scream with frustration. He never makes me yell out
his name in bone melting pleasure or cry big fat, happy tears either but let’s
not dwell on that.
Don't get me
wrong, I’ve every intention of being professional, but the only words I plan on
saying to Reuben throughout the entire run of this production are the ones written
in the script. Someone else’s words; not mine, and certainly not his.
In fact, I have
a plan. After a sleepless night, I concluded this morning over toast and
marmalade that the only way I'm going to get through this is to just
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