head. “I’m falling apart, Alice.”
“What’s up?”
Jack gave a bark of laughter.
“Sorry. I meant, what’s the matter?”
He sighed. “That film you asked me about, Teacher’s Pet . . . I knew perfectly well what it was. I took it because it was the only work I was offered last year—that and another one like it.”
“What was the other one?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes I do.”
“ About the Size of It. That was the title. It was about a flower and produce show—all these randy village women competing to see who can grow the biggest marrow and this young stud who helps them with the gardening. . . . It was the usual tired old rubbish with them chasing him round the carrot patch and shots of his bum going up and down between the raspberry canes. . . . Like I said, you don’t want to know.”
“Well, what about now? You said you were doing a play.”
“Charley’s Aunt.” He reached over, picked up a book from the bedside table, and put it under my nose. “Help yourself. Starts rehearsing next week, then we go on tour: Windsor, Brighton, and a few other places, then it comes into Richmond, and the West End—if it’s any good, which I doubt . . .”
I rolled over onto my stomach and started flicking through the pages. “Which one are you?”
“Charley’s aunt. Lord Fancourt Babberley.”
“You’ll have to wear a frock.”
“That’s about all I’m fit for nowadays.”
“Oh, come on . . .” I turned the book over and read the bit on the back. “It sounds quite fun.”
Jack was silent for a moment, and then he said quietly, “I don’t think I can do it.”
I sat up and looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“The play. Even thinking about it frightens the life out of me. I can’t go through with it.”
“Why not? It’s a good play, isn’t it?”
“It’s very good. It’s ten times better than most of the shit that comes into the West End. That’s one thing Findlater’s right about.” Jack sighed. “He keeps telling me I need a comeback—as if I didn’t know—and chewing my ear off about new directions . What he means, of course, is that it’s a chance to prove I can do something without Lenny. Cunt’s been dead six years and people still think we’re joined at the hip. I might as well be dragging a corpse about—God knows I did it often enough when he was alive.”
“Jack, don’t.”
“Alice, I’d been carrying him for years.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Two years. More. Do you know what he did, Alice, when we were in the States? He’d disappear in the middle of the night and they’d find him staggering around on the freeway, drunk out of his mind . . . there’d be fucking great Mack trucks coming straight at him and he could barely keep himself upright . . . this was three, four nights a week. I used to go after him. I thought I could talk him round—Christ knows why I thought he’d listen. I’d be on the road dodging cars like a bullfighter, trying to reach him, shouting my head off, and when I got there he’d just push me away, I mean, literally push me, he didn’t give a fuck about the traffic. He’d got to the point where he didn’t care about anything.
“The only thing he was interested in—apart from drinking everything he could get his hands on—was the script. He’d get obsessed about different lines, keep showing them to people on the set and saying, ‘Is this funny? Do you think this is funny?’ It would be some electrician or makeup girl or something, what were they supposed to say? I could have told him, it isn’t funny after you get through with it, it’s fucking tragic . . . . He didn’t know what he was doing half the time, couldn’t even see the camera. . . . The last night before they fired him, I’d managed to track him down after Christ knows how long and I was standing beside this road watching him weaving about all over the place, and I thought, I can’t do this, step into this traffic, I’ve
“What’s up?”
Jack gave a bark of laughter.
“Sorry. I meant, what’s the matter?”
He sighed. “That film you asked me about, Teacher’s Pet . . . I knew perfectly well what it was. I took it because it was the only work I was offered last year—that and another one like it.”
“What was the other one?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes I do.”
“ About the Size of It. That was the title. It was about a flower and produce show—all these randy village women competing to see who can grow the biggest marrow and this young stud who helps them with the gardening. . . . It was the usual tired old rubbish with them chasing him round the carrot patch and shots of his bum going up and down between the raspberry canes. . . . Like I said, you don’t want to know.”
“Well, what about now? You said you were doing a play.”
“Charley’s Aunt.” He reached over, picked up a book from the bedside table, and put it under my nose. “Help yourself. Starts rehearsing next week, then we go on tour: Windsor, Brighton, and a few other places, then it comes into Richmond, and the West End—if it’s any good, which I doubt . . .”
I rolled over onto my stomach and started flicking through the pages. “Which one are you?”
“Charley’s aunt. Lord Fancourt Babberley.”
“You’ll have to wear a frock.”
“That’s about all I’m fit for nowadays.”
“Oh, come on . . .” I turned the book over and read the bit on the back. “It sounds quite fun.”
Jack was silent for a moment, and then he said quietly, “I don’t think I can do it.”
I sat up and looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“The play. Even thinking about it frightens the life out of me. I can’t go through with it.”
“Why not? It’s a good play, isn’t it?”
“It’s very good. It’s ten times better than most of the shit that comes into the West End. That’s one thing Findlater’s right about.” Jack sighed. “He keeps telling me I need a comeback—as if I didn’t know—and chewing my ear off about new directions . What he means, of course, is that it’s a chance to prove I can do something without Lenny. Cunt’s been dead six years and people still think we’re joined at the hip. I might as well be dragging a corpse about—God knows I did it often enough when he was alive.”
“Jack, don’t.”
“Alice, I’d been carrying him for years.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Two years. More. Do you know what he did, Alice, when we were in the States? He’d disappear in the middle of the night and they’d find him staggering around on the freeway, drunk out of his mind . . . there’d be fucking great Mack trucks coming straight at him and he could barely keep himself upright . . . this was three, four nights a week. I used to go after him. I thought I could talk him round—Christ knows why I thought he’d listen. I’d be on the road dodging cars like a bullfighter, trying to reach him, shouting my head off, and when I got there he’d just push me away, I mean, literally push me, he didn’t give a fuck about the traffic. He’d got to the point where he didn’t care about anything.
“The only thing he was interested in—apart from drinking everything he could get his hands on—was the script. He’d get obsessed about different lines, keep showing them to people on the set and saying, ‘Is this funny? Do you think this is funny?’ It would be some electrician or makeup girl or something, what were they supposed to say? I could have told him, it isn’t funny after you get through with it, it’s fucking tragic . . . . He didn’t know what he was doing half the time, couldn’t even see the camera. . . . The last night before they fired him, I’d managed to track him down after Christ knows how long and I was standing beside this road watching him weaving about all over the place, and I thought, I can’t do this, step into this traffic, I’ve
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