Tom Houghton by Todd Alexander

albeit ninety years late but somehow more agreeable to him than any day he had while he was alive.
    During the third curtain call, a ridiculous depression engulfed me and I sobbed like a diva, stupid helpless fool that I am.
    As I was smearing the make-up from my face, now run through with tears, there was a polite knock at the door from the stagehand, who told me that Turner, our lighting guru, wanted to have a word with me, something about mood, something something, shouldn’t take long. I left my dressing room (so blissful to finally have one to myself) and took the dimly lit halls towards the wings of the stage. All the other dressing rooms were empty – arrays of costumes, make-up and personal belongings strewn as though the inhabitants were forced to exit in a hurry. I passed the rehearsal studio where usually whoever was newly hooked up would be making out but tonight there was no one. It didn’t even occur to me that all of this was suspicious. Not only were the hallways deserted, everything was deathly quiet. I should have known, I should have at least suspected, and taken my cue to duck out the back door, grab a bottle of gin and head to my bedsit to see out my fortieth, as any saner person would have.
    When I made it to the wings I could hear the quiet murmurs and then all was not-so-surprisingly revealed. The whole company was there, technicians included. Victor was not in Europe after all, neither was Damon missing in action: they stood in front of an over-sized croquembouche with a fizzing sparkler bent out the top. The inevitable singing began and I shed a few more puerile tears, received my kiss on the lips from Victor and peck on the ear from Damon then surrendered to the mood and did as all insane people do on their fortieth – lost control.
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    I awoke the next morning unable to breathe through my nose and with a headache that went beyond mere hangover. I tried to pick my nose but it shot a jolt of incredible pain through my head, so I shuffled to the bathroom and looked at my reflection. Black eye, caked blood, eyes pools of darkness, jittering hands. I took four prescription painkillers I’d stolen from Lana, placed a Berocca on my tongue and gingerly made my way back to bed, reaching for my phone on the way. Bending delivered such agony.
    Thirteen placed calls to Damon. Five sent text messages. A thirty-minute conversation with a blocked number.
    Champagne had been consumed in the theatre. I’d drunk quickly to get over my dislike of being the forced centre of attention and my trepidation at speaking with Damon. Accessories to the fact had begun to fall off after an hour or two, then someone suggested a move to the pub on the corner, but by then I was already tipsy. Damon did not come to the pub, so I made my decision to drown my proverbial sorrows. Is there a term more absolute than drown? Tequila shots, the old lick, sip, suck trick.
    Conversations were had about Victor’s Europe trip – very promising, he said. In walked the theatre group who’d seen the play and adoration and superlatives flowed even more freely than the booze. A silly nineteen-year-old said all he could think about was what it would be like to fuck ‘Martha’, and a trip to the toilet full of the promise of fondles followed but alas it delivered only a few snorts of his cheap and bitter speed.
    Move into second gear. I put my credit card behind the bar, started my constant avowals of them all being the best friends in the whole world, then made the switch to beer then rosé then back to champagne (French) then a creamy cocktail . . .
    Damon rejoined the group. He was now living with Alyce, our hair and make-up girl. My paranoia that they were closer than friends set in and led to an outside chat with Victor, plus requisite tears. All of these appeared in my mind like vignettes in a really bad play. I stupidly smoked a few cigarettes and this led