‘It’s my work. I’ve re-written Electra to make it more modern.’
‘Nice one.’
‘I’m giving you the honor of being the first to read it.’
Her expression was one of total seriousness. It was her life in those lousy papers. I said,
‘I’d be honoured.’
And she handed them over like a baby. She said,
‘We’ll do magnificent things, Michael.’
I was on the verge of saying Mitchell, but let it go.
On the way down the stairs, Jordan was gliding up. Not a sound.
We didn’t speak, nor did he even look at me.
Back in my room, I cracked a brewski, tried to read her work.
It was gibberish. I couldn’t follow one single sequence. I slung it on the bed, said,
‘Turkey.’
I must have been asleep a few hours when the mobile went.
Jeez, where was the bloody thing... found it, muttered,
‘Huh.’
‘Are you finished?’
‘What?’
‘Were you sleeping?’
‘Lillian. No, of course not, I was totally engrossed, lost in it.’
I was trying to see the bloody time... 3.15... fuck. She said,
‘Give me your verdict.’
‘A masterpiece.’
‘Isn’t it.’
‘Oh... beyond praise.’
‘Shall I come over, read some now?’
‘No... no... let me just wallow in the magic.’
‘Goodnight, mon cherie.’
‘Right.’
I’ve had lots of worry, fear, anxiety in my time. But that I’d ever get to see her perform filled me with outright dread.
Next morning I headed for the kitchen. Got some coffee and toast going. Already I had the run of the place. Jordan came in and said,
‘There are some suits you’ll need for driving.’
‘You have them already.’
Tight smile and,
‘We try to cover contingencies.’
I offered him some coffee. Nope... unbending, but he stayed so I asked,
‘Have you heard of Bailey?’
‘The theatre person?’
I was surprised and said,
‘So he does exist.’
‘Three times he has phoned for Madam.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘I always answer the phone.’
I’m on the second toast when he says,
‘In regard to Madam’s script I do hope you haven’t become a critic.’
Steel in his voice, I said,
‘No way pal, I think it’s brilliant.’
‘Good, I wouldn’t like Madam to be upset.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Madam wonders if you’re free on Wednesday night.’
‘Free?’
‘For bridge.’
‘Jesus, I don’t play bloody bridge.’
He gave a long breath of patience,
‘We don’t expect you to play, merely to accompany Madam when her friends play.’
‘Sounds like a gas.’
The suits got left on my bed. Three of them in
Black
Grey
Blue
I checked the brand: Jermyn Street. Half a dozen white shirts.
I went to the garage and the Silver Ghost was shining, waxed and polished. Jordan was standing alongside. I whistled in true admiration, said,
‘You did some job, pal.’
‘Thank you.’
‘When did you get the time?’
‘Last night when you were reading Madam’s script.’
‘Oh.’
‘I checked with Mr Bailey’s office and they’ll expect you at noon at the Old Vic.’
I went upstairs to shower and get those exercises done. Gonna need to be fit for Madam. In the shower, I went,
‘What the hell?’
I noticed deep bite marks on my chest. The bloody bitch bit me. Bridge that, Jordan.
There were some old mags on top of the closet. No, not porn.
Titles like
GQ
Vanity Fair.
I came across this by Courtney Love:
Fuck all this gender difficulty, fuck all this female experience rage shit. That’s Polly Harvey’s job.
Now if I could just work this into conversation.
In the nick, I came across an old guy who done fifteen hard in Peru. On release, he was deported and after one week in London he was arrested for robbery. Got seven years.
Said to me,
‘I like English prisons, they’re kinda cosy.’
‘Yeah, tell that to the queen who got strangled.’
He wasn’t listening, away again on his story. Like this:
‘First off they strip you and steal anything you have. Then they’d duck your head in a bucket of cold water, put electric wires on your balls. San Juan de Lurigancho, — isn’t that a lovely name? It was run by the inmates. Cells were sold by the prison mafia. Shit and mosquitos everywhere. But worst is the silence. Silence meant all-out gang warfare.’
I could see his point about cosy.
A knock on my door — Jordan.
‘Madam is ready.’
He’d brought the car round front. She emerged a few minutes later. Dressed in a white linen suit and a fedora. She looked... old. I held the door open for her then went round to the driver’s side.
Now I know why people who drive them are arrogant. The damn car makes you superior. As we cruised outta there, I said,
‘All right?’
She never spoke the whole way. I could care. The car had my total focus. Thing is too, how could you ever drive anything else? I mean, if I was to get behind the wheel of a banged up Volvo, was I going to think — ‘yup, this is good?’
It sure pulls attention. From admiration through amazement to contempt. A lot of young drivers try to cut you up but it would take more than a Japanese town car. I was beginning to believe you’d need someone riding shotgun.
We got to The Old Vic and I pulled in to the side. I said,
‘I’ll just go and announce you.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
The doorman, a young kid, never heard of her, said,
‘Never heard of ’er, mate.’
We were arguing when an older man appeared, asked,
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve got Lillian Palmer outside, she’s expecting to see Mr Bailey.’
His face lit up,
‘Lillian Palmer, my God!’
He went to fetch Bailey. The young guy asked,
‘What, is she famous then?’
‘We’re about to find out.’
A man came striding out, a gaggle of assistants in tow. He looked like an ironed George C Scott. He had no riding boots or megaphone but it looked as if he did. He said,
‘I’m Bailey.’
I told him my story and he shouted,
‘This sounds like Philip’s work, get him. Meanwhile, let’s meet Miss Lillian Palmer.’
He sure knew how to work her. Escorted her by her arm into the theatre, led her up on to the stage, turned and said,
‘Ladies and gentlemen, fellow thespians, I give you the star.’
A spotlight was trained on her, and people flocked round her.
She was transformed, thirty years just vanished from her face. I was thinking,
‘Wow, she must have been something.’
Bailey must have read my face, answered,
‘She was, and a damned fine actress. Is Jordan still around?’
‘Yes he is.’
‘He was married to her, you know. Hell, at some point, most of us were.’
He looked at me, asked,
‘Are you drilling there?’
‘What?’
‘Wouldn’t blame you, buddy, she’s a class act.’
‘Did you see her script?’
‘At least once a year. Hard to believe it gets worse.’
Bailey had champagne and canapés delivered and they had them on the stage... Philips was finally found and yes, he had rung three times. They wanted to rent the Ghost for promotion. Bailey said,