Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?. Claudia CarrollЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Four

      Christmas Eve and still no word about the play. And Dan’s lukewarm reaction to the whole thing? ‘Look, you don’t actually have the job yet, so why don’t we just cross that bridge when we come to it?’ Cue him collapsing with deep exhaustion into bed for the next seven hours and that to date has been pretty much his one and only comment on the subject.

      But deep down I know he’s right, of course. As of now I don’t have the job, so nothing for me to do but try and put it right out of my head. Which of course is like trying not to breathe. A few days after my first audition, Fag Ash Hil rang saying they wanted to see me for a call-back. Good sign. So up I traipsed to the National in Dublin: same drill all over again, with Jack Gordon sitting there cool as a fish’s fart and apologising for hauling me all the way from Waterford for a second time, then telling me, actually saying it to my face, that he still wasn’t any closer to making a final casting decision yet. That he needed to mull it over for a while longer and ‘give full thought to the chemistries between each of the characters’. So I was put through my paces all over again and now there was nothing to do but wait it out.

      That aside, I’ve got two secret Christmas wishes in my heart: one is that I’d have news about the job…whether good or bad…by Christmas. Because nothing on this earth is worse than the not bloody knowing. Not to be though.

      Lizzie rang me yesterday, hung-over as a dog after the National’s Christmas party the previous night, to celebrate the show coming to an end, ‘prior to Broadway transfer’.

      Funny, but just hearing her stories about the mad piss-up they had, then how they’d all staggered into Lillie’s Bordello and stayed there till five in the morning, made me stop in my tracks. Like I’d suddenly just got a flash of the parallel life I might have had, if I’d never married. Because you know, that might have been me…out on the tiles…celebrating a blossoming career…off to play Broadway for an entire year…

      God, it might yet be me, I suddenly thought, if I get good news, that is. For a split second, I allow myself to get sucked into the fantasy, the excitement of not knowing what other wonderful work opportunities might come from playing Broadway…which American agents might come to see the show and maybe even take me on…then put me up for other big jobs…I mean, who could tell? Maybe even the ultimate dream might miraculously come about…that I’d somehow get a crack at a few movie castings too?

      Then a stab of reality so sharp it almost winds me; that’s Lizzie’s future I’m describing, not mine. For the coming year, the world is her oyster and if I’m being honest with myself, I envy her from the very depths of my bone marrow. And right now, she’s out partying and having hangovers then staying in bed till the crack of lunch, like you’re supposed to when you’re twenty-eight and when you’ve absolutely no one else to answer to but yourself.

      And here’s me, stuck in my mother-in-law’s house, listening to all her passive-aggressive little digs for not clearing out ash from the grate properly AND for using cranberry sauce out of a jar and not making it from scratch, like all Ferguson women have done for the last two millennia.

      But then I’ve no choice in the matter. Because I’m married, aren’t I? With my husband of course, nowhere to be seen. Leaving me yet again feeling like I’m trapped in a cage of my own making, watching everyone else have fun in the outside world, through reinforced steel bars.

      Lizzie, bless her, made the right noises on the phone, saying all the things you need to hear when waiting to find out about a job that could potentially change your entire life. That no news was good news for starters. Oh, and that Jack had taken himself off to London for a few days to accept some award, so chances were I wouldn’t hear anything till New Year and I’d just have to put it out of my head till then.

      ‘Though why in the name of Jaysus he bothered leaving town just to collect some award, I couldn’t tell you,’ she’d croaked down the phone to me in a just-out-of-bed voice, though it was well past three in the afternoon. ‘The guy has so many by now, I’m surprised he doesn’t have them up for sale on eBay’.

      And so to my second Christmas wish: some alone time with Dan. Did you ever see a couple that needed it more? Now traditionally at the practice, we always host a little mulled wine and mince pies party on Christmas Eve, just after the surgery closes and before everyone drifts off their separate ways. We’re only closed till the twenty-seventh and of course, I’m cooking Christmas dinner for Dan and his family tomorrow, but I’m still hopeful that not only will Dan and I get to spend all of Christmas night alone together, but the whole of Stephen’s Day too.

      I’ve totally spelt it out to him. I’ve told him that this is our bit of time, for us and for no one else. That this means an awful lot to me and that by God we were going to make the most of it. No work, no farm calls, no phones ringing, no half the town descending on the house, just him and me. A.L.O.N.E. That with a possible year apart hanging over us, surely he agreed that we had a lot to talk about? Course his mobile rang in the middle of my big speech, so I doubt he took in most of what I was saying, but still.

      Point made. Cards laid on table.

      Come Christmas Eve and I’m at The Moorings, frantically getting everything organised for said staff drinks party. I’d already decorated the house, even remembering to put up the Christmas tree in the exact spot ordained by Audrey year-in-year-out. Though why she doesn’t just put masking tape on the carpet to save her all the bother of whinging at me that it’s not in its precise place, I’ll never know.

      Anyroadup, if I say so myself, the place looks terrific: the fire in the drawing room is blazing away, cheesy, cheery Christmas songs are playing in the background and the mulled wine is mulling. I think to take my mind off the play, I’ve been over-compensating by acting like Nigella on speed these past few days. By some miracle, I’ve managed to do all the shopping for Christmas Day and not forget anything, tidied the house from top to bottom and still found time to squeeze in an appointment to get my big bushy head of hair blow-dried straight for the holidays. Well, straight-ish, given that my hair actually grows outwards and not downwards. Not unlike Sideshow Bob’s in The Simpsons.

      Come six pm and just as the last patient leaves the surgery, suddenly the drawing room seems packed with people: Dan, Andrew, James, the intern, Mrs Brophy yelling at everyone and of course Jules who’s been here all day, supposedly helping me, but who’s actually spent most of the afternoon slumped on a couch with a bridge of saliva between her knees and chin, watching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV.

      The room is buzzing, everyone’s laughing and enjoying themselves and just as I’m racing around in my good Karen Millen LBD, topping up glasses and making sure everyone’s stuffing their faces with mince pies…surprise surprise…the phone in the hall rings.

      Silence as we all look at each other and all you can hear is Shane McGowan rasping ‘Fairytale of New York’ in the background.

      ‘WHAT WAS THAT?’ yells poor, half-deaf Mrs Brophy.

      ‘Phone,’ says Andrew, pointedly not budging. ‘Must be a patient.’

      Shane McGowan and Kirstie MacColl are growling out the bit where they call each other scumbags and maggots, while tension suddenly bounces off the four walls of the drawing room.

      ‘I’ll take it,’ Dan volunteers.

      ‘No, no, stay and relax, I’m sure whoever it is will understand that it’s Christmas Eve and that we’ve closed up for the holidays,’ Andrew smiles benignly. But it’s too late – Dan’s already out the door. I’m focusing on handing out mince pies and desperately trying to convince myself that this is absolutely NO indication of how things will be over the short holiday when the practice is closed and when Dan is meant to be taking a break.

      Two minutes