shakes his head. ‘Mums, you promised to stop.’
‘But darling, it’s the only way to keep your figure, isn’t that right, girls?’ Their heads bob up and down in unison behind a thick cloud of smoke.
And then it happens; I’m spotted.
‘And this must be your wiiiiiiife!’ Penny gasps, turning her attention to me. Spreading her arms wide, she shakes her head in disbelief and for one horrible moment it looks as if I’m expected to walk into them. I dither stupidly and am about to take a step forward when she suddenly contracts in delight. ‘You are adoooooorable!’ she coos, turning to the others for affirmation. ‘Isn’t she just adoooooooooooorable?’
I stand there, grinning idiotically, while they stare at me.
My husband comes to the rescue. ‘Can I get you ladies another drink?’ He tries to attract the bartender’s attention.
‘Oh, you perfect angel!’ Mona smoothes down his hair with her hand. ‘Champagne all around!’
‘And you?’ He turns to me.
‘Oh yes, champagne, why not?’
Mona takes my arm proprietorially. She gives it a little cuddle, the kind of disarming squeeze your best friend used to give you when you were ten that made your heart leap. My heart leaps now at this unexpected show of affection and I half hate myself for it. I’ve been here before and I know it’s dangerous to allow yourself to be seduced by her, even for a second.
‘Now, Louise,’ she has a voice of surprising power and depth, ‘tell me how you’re doing. I want to hear everything!’
‘Well …’ My mind races, desperately flicking through the facts of my life for some worthy gem. The other women look up at me expectantly. ‘Things are good, Mona … really good.’
‘And your parents? How’s the weather in Pittsburgh? Louise is from Pittsburgh,’ she mouths, sotto voce.
‘They’re well, thank you.’
She nods. I feel like a contestant being introduced on an afternoon quiz show and like any good quiz show host, she helps to jog me along when I dry up.
‘And are you working right now?’
She says the word ‘working’ with the kind of subtle significance that all showbiz people do; there is, after all, a world of difference between ‘working’ and having a job when you’re in ‘the profession’.
I know all this but refuse to play along.
‘Well, yes. I’m still with the Phoenix Theatre Company.’
‘Is it an acting job? Our Louise fancies herself as a bit of an actress,’ she offers, by way of an explanation.
‘Well, I was an actress,’ I blunder. No matter how hard I try, she always catches me out. ‘I mean, I haven’t really worked in a while. And no, this isn’t an acting job, it’s working front of house, in the box office.’
‘I see,’ she smiles, as if she can discern a deeper meaning I’m not aware of. And then Dorian asks the most dreaded question of all.
‘Have we seen you in anything?’
‘Well, of course I’ve done the odd commercial.’ I try to sound casual, shrugging my shoulders as if to imply ‘who hasn’t?’
‘Really?’ She arches an eyebrow in a perfect impersonation of a woman impressed. ‘What commercials?’
Damn.
‘Well …’ I try to think. ‘There was the Reader’s Digest Sweepstakes Campaign. You may have caught me in that one.’
She stares at me blankly.
‘You know, the one where they’re all flying around in a hot air balloon over England, drinking champagne and searching for the winners. I was the one on the left holding a map and pointing to Luton.’
‘Ah ha.’ She’s being polite. ‘Well, that sounds fun.’
‘And now you’re working in the box office.’ Mona wraps the whole thing up in a clean, little package.
‘Yes, well, I’ve got a couple of things in the pipeline, so to speak … but right now that’s what I’m doing.’ I want my arm back quite badly now.
She gives it another little squeeze. ‘It is a difficult profession, darling. Best to know your limitations. I always advise young women to avoid it like the plague. The simple truth is, it takes more discipline and sacrifice than most modern girls are willing to put up with. Have you seen my picture?’
Keep smiling, I tell myself. If you keep smiling, she’ll never know that you want her to die. ‘No, I haven’t had much of a chance to look around yet; we’ve only just got here.’
‘Here, allow me.’ And she pulls me over to a large photograph of her from the 1950s.
She’s incredibly young, almost unrecognizable, except for the distinctive, almond shape of the eyes and the famous cheekbones, which remain untouched by time. She’s leaning with her back pressed against a classical pillar, her face turned slightly to the camera, half in shadow, half in light. Her pale hair falls in artfully styled curls over her shoulders and she’s wearing a strapless gown of closely fitted layers of flowing silk chiffon. It’s labelled, ‘Vogue, 1956.’
‘What do you think?’ she asks, eyeing me carefully.
‘I think it’s beautiful,’ I say, truthfully.
‘You have taste.’ She smiles.
A press photographer recognizes her and asks if he can take her picture.
‘Story of my life!’ she laughs and I make my escape while she poses.
I look around the crowded room for my husband. Finally I spot him, laughing with a group of people in the corner. He has two glasses of champagne in his hands and as I make my way over, he looks up and catches my eye.
I smile and he says something, turns and walks towards me before I can join them.
‘Who are they?’ I ask, as he hands me a glass.
‘No one, just some people from one of these theatre clubs. They recognized me from the play.’ He guides me back towards the photographs. ‘How are you getting on with Mums?’
‘Oh, fine,’ I lie. ‘Just fine.’ I turn back and look but they’re gone, swallowed by the ever shifting crowd. ‘Didn’t you want to introduce me?’
He laughs and pats my bottom, which I hate and which he only ever seems to do in public. ‘No, not at all! Don’t be so paranoid. To be frank, they’re a bit, shall we say, over-enthusiastic. I don’t want them boring my charming wife, now do I?’
‘And who might that be?’ I sound much more acerbic than I’d intended.
He pats my bottom again and ignores
