disappointment was palpable – Rose has become a friend, perhaps Eva’s only friend in this maddening, beautiful city, with its neon gaudiness and sidewalk awnings and shuffling, unheeded beggars. On the long walks Eva has begun to take, pushing Sarah in what the Americans so charmingly call a ‘stroller’, the beggars are the only people who seem to have the time to stop and talk. A few weeks ago, while watching the pigeons with Sarah in Washington Square, Eva had been accosted by a tiny, wizened old woman wearing blue plastic bags for shoes. ‘Watch yourself, missy,’ the woman had hissed as Eva pushed Sarah briskly away. ‘I might
bite
.’ Eva has been unable to quite shift the woman’s face from her mind ever since.
‘Yes, I don’t think it could have gone any better,’ she says now. ‘Though I did worry John might miss his cue – you know when he asks David for a light, just before the curtain? He was a few seconds late.’
Rose stares at her, impressed. ‘I didn’t notice. You know the script better than they do.’ She sips her champagne. ‘But of course, that’s your job. To read carefully, I mean. To notice things.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. Or it was.’
Since having Sarah just over ten months ago, Eva has given up her script reading: the Royal Court announced, soon after Sarah was born, that they were taking someone on full-time, and she has not made enquiries at other theatres. She has been happy to lose herself completely in motherhood: in its daily routine, minutely attuned to her daughter’s needs. And yet a part of her still wonders – especially in the sleepless hours of the night, when David buries his head beneath the pillow, and she must walk up and down the apartment’s tiny living-room, quieting Sarah as best she can – whether it will be enough. It is certainly not how she had imagined her future with David: she had seen them rising in tandem, his success as an actor complementing hers as a writer. And yet now, her free moments are so few, and when she does sit down to write, her mind feels loose, ragged, full of holes, and she is filled with the conviction that nothing she has to say is worth committing to paper. When she tries to raise the subject – to seek anew the warmth of David’s all-encompassing confidence – his answer is usually, ‘Well, darling – you have Sarah to think about now, don’t you? I’m sure you’ll find time to go back to writing when she’s older.’
Eva, has, in a weak, exhausted moment, confessed her frustration to Rose – who says now, as if reading her mind, ‘You could leave Sarah with David’s grandparents again, you know. Give you some time to get on with your writing.’
Eva looks over at David, now reaching out to shake Lancaster’s hand. Juliet is still standing close to him. Eva watches Lancaster’s eyes slide from the perfect oval of her face to the low V-shape of her neckline.
‘Or couldn’t David mind her sometimes? He’ll be free in the daytime now, won’t he? They all will. You could leave Sarah with David, go off to the library.’
Eva considers this: leaving her daughter in David’s care; tripping off down Fifth Avenue to the public library, a whole day stretching out in front of her; coming home to a clean apartment, a happy, rested baby, dinner bubbling away on the stove (or at least a couple of boxes of Chinese takeaway). It is unimaginable; David loves his daughter, there’s no doubting that, but he’s about as capable of changing her nappy as flying to the moon.
They are interrupted by Harry, approaching with a man Eva doesn’t recognise. His hair is neatly slicked, his suit charcoal-grey, loose-fitting, a little square. Not an actor, then – a money-man. But as they come closer, Eva reconsiders; there is something oddly familiar about the cast of his face.
‘Darlings.’ Harry is exuberant, high on his success. He slips an arm around Rose’s waist. ‘Here’s someone I’d like you both to meet.
bite
.’ Eva has been unable to quite shift the woman’s face from her mind ever since.
‘Yes, I don’t think it could have gone any better,’ she says now. ‘Though I did worry John might miss his cue – you know when he asks David for a light, just before the curtain? He was a few seconds late.’
Rose stares at her, impressed. ‘I didn’t notice. You know the script better than they do.’ She sips her champagne. ‘But of course, that’s your job. To read carefully, I mean. To notice things.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. Or it was.’
Since having Sarah just over ten months ago, Eva has given up her script reading: the Royal Court announced, soon after Sarah was born, that they were taking someone on full-time, and she has not made enquiries at other theatres. She has been happy to lose herself completely in motherhood: in its daily routine, minutely attuned to her daughter’s needs. And yet a part of her still wonders – especially in the sleepless hours of the night, when David buries his head beneath the pillow, and she must walk up and down the apartment’s tiny living-room, quieting Sarah as best she can – whether it will be enough. It is certainly not how she had imagined her future with David: she had seen them rising in tandem, his success as an actor complementing hers as a writer. And yet now, her free moments are so few, and when she does sit down to write, her mind feels loose, ragged, full of holes, and she is filled with the conviction that nothing she has to say is worth committing to paper. When she tries to raise the subject – to seek anew the warmth of David’s all-encompassing confidence – his answer is usually, ‘Well, darling – you have Sarah to think about now, don’t you? I’m sure you’ll find time to go back to writing when she’s older.’
Eva, has, in a weak, exhausted moment, confessed her frustration to Rose – who says now, as if reading her mind, ‘You could leave Sarah with David’s grandparents again, you know. Give you some time to get on with your writing.’
Eva looks over at David, now reaching out to shake Lancaster’s hand. Juliet is still standing close to him. Eva watches Lancaster’s eyes slide from the perfect oval of her face to the low V-shape of her neckline.
‘Or couldn’t David mind her sometimes? He’ll be free in the daytime now, won’t he? They all will. You could leave Sarah with David, go off to the library.’
Eva considers this: leaving her daughter in David’s care; tripping off down Fifth Avenue to the public library, a whole day stretching out in front of her; coming home to a clean apartment, a happy, rested baby, dinner bubbling away on the stove (or at least a couple of boxes of Chinese takeaway). It is unimaginable; David loves his daughter, there’s no doubting that, but he’s about as capable of changing her nappy as flying to the moon.
They are interrupted by Harry, approaching with a man Eva doesn’t recognise. His hair is neatly slicked, his suit charcoal-grey, loose-fitting, a little square. Not an actor, then – a money-man. But as they come closer, Eva reconsiders; there is something oddly familiar about the cast of his face.
‘Darlings.’ Harry is exuberant, high on his success. He slips an arm around Rose’s waist. ‘Here’s someone I’d like you both to meet.
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