the theatrical knights might get away with playing Hamlet when they’re technically old enough to be his dad, but someone’s going to notice when Sally Bowles looks more like Widow Twanky.” He ran his elegantly manicured fi ngers through his hair. “And what sort of roles will there be out there for me then? Albin in La Cage? Or will it be straight to an Ugly Sister, and don’t pass go?”
“You’ll be far too pretty for Albin. Zaza’s supposed to be blousy at best.” The director leaned forward to top up their cups.
Fresher coffee had arrived, and Freddie clearly felt the drama ENCORE! ENCORE! 79
queen needed another large mug of it. “Why do you always have to be looking ahead? Can’t you bear to enjoy what you have now?”
Any argument died on Francis’s tongue, sudden sobriety striking. Freddie was right. “Look, I have a bit of a problem enjoying success. Never feel like I deserve it or whatever.” He sipped his coffee, even the vaguely tipsy sensation disappearing now, leaving a chilling, self-knowing clear-headedness. “If you were something useful like a psychologist you could put some fancy name to it, or trace it back to my mother not letting me have a puppy or something.”
“Twat. You’re just afraid to grasp it with both hands, Franny-boy. You always took brickbats better than bouquets.” Freddie leaned forward, closing the gap, gazing intently and unnervingly into his leading man’s eyes. “You’re afraid that if you hold it too tight, you’ll lose it.”
Like when he tried to hold on to James Mannering? Francis felt sick. “I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m going home to get a decent night’s kip or I’ll be fi t for nothing, come tonight’s performance.” The last of the coffee was left to go bitter in the cup, like Francis’s dreams had three years ago.
“Maybe you need to talk about it sometime.” Freddie’s spoke quietly, for Francis’s ears only. “You tried to drink it away, you tried to screw it away, and now you’re just bottling it up.” There was one last avuncular embrace. “Don’t let the bastard spoil your whole life, Francis. He wasn’t worth it then—and he sure as fuck isn’t worth it now.”
London, May
Another Saturday night, another cast party. There’d been one for the reviews, another when Francis and Freddie had appeared on The One Show. Now there was one down in Chelsea, and for some reason no one was letting on. Time to loosen up and let off a bit of steam, perhaps? Even Freddie had taken off the tie and grey suit he’d been wearing the last couple of months, and 80 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz
gone back to the old brown chinos he’d loved so much before he became a “successful West End producer.” Maybe he was cultivating an image of eccentricity, although who was supposed to be benefi ting from it Francis wasn’t sure.
He was hovering by the drinks trolley, feeling unusually out of sorts. As soon as he saw Freddie making a beeline for him he guessed what it was going to be about. “It’s a Saturday night, we’re six weeks into the run and the takings look solid for the next twenty.” Didn’t they say attack was the best defence? Or was it “get your retaliation in fi rst”? “Can’t I let my hair down for once?” He eyed the bottle and the glass, possessively. He’d just had the one and the second was looking pretty inviting, unpoured and calling his name.
“Nobody’s stopping you having a couple. You look nice.” Freddie rubbed his knuckles along Francis’s sleeve.
And you look shifty. Freddie didn’t usually pay him compliments about how he looked, certainly not when Francis was in anything like drag. He always commented when he wasn’t, praising a shirt or the cut of a pair of pants. When they’d been on The One Show, he’d hardly shut up about how good Francis’s suit was, and how sexy it would look under the lights. Well, he was hardly going to sit opposite Adrian Chiles in his best evening
“You’ll be far too pretty for Albin. Zaza’s supposed to be blousy at best.” The director leaned forward to top up their cups.
Fresher coffee had arrived, and Freddie clearly felt the drama ENCORE! ENCORE! 79
queen needed another large mug of it. “Why do you always have to be looking ahead? Can’t you bear to enjoy what you have now?”
Any argument died on Francis’s tongue, sudden sobriety striking. Freddie was right. “Look, I have a bit of a problem enjoying success. Never feel like I deserve it or whatever.” He sipped his coffee, even the vaguely tipsy sensation disappearing now, leaving a chilling, self-knowing clear-headedness. “If you were something useful like a psychologist you could put some fancy name to it, or trace it back to my mother not letting me have a puppy or something.”
“Twat. You’re just afraid to grasp it with both hands, Franny-boy. You always took brickbats better than bouquets.” Freddie leaned forward, closing the gap, gazing intently and unnervingly into his leading man’s eyes. “You’re afraid that if you hold it too tight, you’ll lose it.”
Like when he tried to hold on to James Mannering? Francis felt sick. “I don’t want to talk about this now. I’m going home to get a decent night’s kip or I’ll be fi t for nothing, come tonight’s performance.” The last of the coffee was left to go bitter in the cup, like Francis’s dreams had three years ago.
“Maybe you need to talk about it sometime.” Freddie’s spoke quietly, for Francis’s ears only. “You tried to drink it away, you tried to screw it away, and now you’re just bottling it up.” There was one last avuncular embrace. “Don’t let the bastard spoil your whole life, Francis. He wasn’t worth it then—and he sure as fuck isn’t worth it now.”
London, May
Another Saturday night, another cast party. There’d been one for the reviews, another when Francis and Freddie had appeared on The One Show. Now there was one down in Chelsea, and for some reason no one was letting on. Time to loosen up and let off a bit of steam, perhaps? Even Freddie had taken off the tie and grey suit he’d been wearing the last couple of months, and 80 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz
gone back to the old brown chinos he’d loved so much before he became a “successful West End producer.” Maybe he was cultivating an image of eccentricity, although who was supposed to be benefi ting from it Francis wasn’t sure.
He was hovering by the drinks trolley, feeling unusually out of sorts. As soon as he saw Freddie making a beeline for him he guessed what it was going to be about. “It’s a Saturday night, we’re six weeks into the run and the takings look solid for the next twenty.” Didn’t they say attack was the best defence? Or was it “get your retaliation in fi rst”? “Can’t I let my hair down for once?” He eyed the bottle and the glass, possessively. He’d just had the one and the second was looking pretty inviting, unpoured and calling his name.
“Nobody’s stopping you having a couple. You look nice.” Freddie rubbed his knuckles along Francis’s sleeve.
And you look shifty. Freddie didn’t usually pay him compliments about how he looked, certainly not when Francis was in anything like drag. He always commented when he wasn’t, praising a shirt or the cut of a pair of pants. When they’d been on The One Show, he’d hardly shut up about how good Francis’s suit was, and how sexy it would look under the lights. Well, he was hardly going to sit opposite Adrian Chiles in his best evening
Similar Books
