gown, was he? The last thing he wanted was comparisons with Lily Savage.
“Thanks.” Francis let the collar of his trouser suit play through his fi ngers. Indigo velvet, feminine enough to count as drag—just about—but not so much that you were guaranteed to get beaten up by football fans when the pubs turned out. “Just a little thing that I ran up in between performances.” The imitation of Juliet the dresser’s tones was immaculate. And it wasn’t a million miles from the truth—she’d taken the suit in, making it even more fi gure hugging. Francis had slimmed down, toned up, a lot over the last few months, with all the dancing and less of the drinking.
Freddie’s laugh seemed sincere enough. “I’m glad you’re on form. We’ve got this bloke looking in, over from the States.” He spoke airily, as if “this bloke” was just anyone. He clearly wasn’t.
ENCORE! ENCORE! 81
That’s why you’re glad I’m not in a dress. “From the States?
Basketball player, is he?”
“Nah.” Freddie must have been nervous, not to feel the piss being taken out of him. “Owen reckons he might be to do with one of the production companies on Broadway.” The producer’s voice was hardly above a whisper now, hissing from the side of barely moving lips as if he was a vent with no dummy. “He’s going to want to see you at the top of your game.”
“Can’t he come to the show? That’s when I do my stuff.” Francis’s voice was deliberately loud. Shaking away the hand Freddie had laid on his arm, he wrested the last drip from his glass. “I don’t think I should be on parade the rest of the time.”
“Owen says…”
“Owen says. Owen reckons. But does Owen actually know?” He’d found a bottle—why did the bloody thing have to be empty?
“Remember the bird in Manchester who said she was something to do with Fox? Got you lot dancing attention on her for ages, your Owen wetting his pants over possible fi lm versions. And all she turned out to be was some sort of a groupie.”
“She was a PA, Francis. To one of the marketing men.” Freddie glanced around, then looked relieved. Clearly “this bloke” hadn’t arrived yet.
“Yeah, I believe it, thousands wouldn’t. I bet she was just a secretary with a decent suit she nicked off her friend and plenty of good chat up lines. They see your Owen coming a mile off. I get the perverts, he gets the con men. Or women.” If Miss Otis wasn’t going to be allowed to forget things, neither was the guy who’d nearly got stung. Luckily it had only cost the company a couple of bottles of champagne and a lot of pleasantries before the tart had been rumbled. “I just want to enjoy myself without having to watch my p’s and q’s all evening. And don’t look at me with the puppy eyes, Freddie, I’ve worked fucking hard for you these last few months. Sod it, I’ve worked hard these last few years. Don’t I get one evening off?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” 82 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz
Freddie’s puppy dog eyes weren’t going to work this time.
Francis would be buggered if he’d let himself be browbeaten again. Maybe it was mid-run blues talking—although it was early for them—but he felt like he’d spent all his life obliging other people who “wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.” Why didn’t they think what he wanted was important? “I can’t help you.” The puppy looked as if it had been slapped. “Seriously, Freddie,” Francis’s voice softened. No matter how hard he tried to play the tough guy with his old friend, the tart with a heart always won through. “I’m really no advert for the show, the way I feel tonight. Just tell this bloke I’ve got a sore throat, that I need to rest it. Say that my aunt died and I’ve had to rush away and I’ll meet him over lunch one day in the week. Anything, just let me have a break tonight, eh?”
There wasn’t going to be a fi ght. Maybe Freddie’s heart
“Thanks.” Francis let the collar of his trouser suit play through his fi ngers. Indigo velvet, feminine enough to count as drag—just about—but not so much that you were guaranteed to get beaten up by football fans when the pubs turned out. “Just a little thing that I ran up in between performances.” The imitation of Juliet the dresser’s tones was immaculate. And it wasn’t a million miles from the truth—she’d taken the suit in, making it even more fi gure hugging. Francis had slimmed down, toned up, a lot over the last few months, with all the dancing and less of the drinking.
Freddie’s laugh seemed sincere enough. “I’m glad you’re on form. We’ve got this bloke looking in, over from the States.” He spoke airily, as if “this bloke” was just anyone. He clearly wasn’t.
ENCORE! ENCORE! 81
That’s why you’re glad I’m not in a dress. “From the States?
Basketball player, is he?”
“Nah.” Freddie must have been nervous, not to feel the piss being taken out of him. “Owen reckons he might be to do with one of the production companies on Broadway.” The producer’s voice was hardly above a whisper now, hissing from the side of barely moving lips as if he was a vent with no dummy. “He’s going to want to see you at the top of your game.”
“Can’t he come to the show? That’s when I do my stuff.” Francis’s voice was deliberately loud. Shaking away the hand Freddie had laid on his arm, he wrested the last drip from his glass. “I don’t think I should be on parade the rest of the time.”
“Owen says…”
“Owen says. Owen reckons. But does Owen actually know?” He’d found a bottle—why did the bloody thing have to be empty?
“Remember the bird in Manchester who said she was something to do with Fox? Got you lot dancing attention on her for ages, your Owen wetting his pants over possible fi lm versions. And all she turned out to be was some sort of a groupie.”
“She was a PA, Francis. To one of the marketing men.” Freddie glanced around, then looked relieved. Clearly “this bloke” hadn’t arrived yet.
“Yeah, I believe it, thousands wouldn’t. I bet she was just a secretary with a decent suit she nicked off her friend and plenty of good chat up lines. They see your Owen coming a mile off. I get the perverts, he gets the con men. Or women.” If Miss Otis wasn’t going to be allowed to forget things, neither was the guy who’d nearly got stung. Luckily it had only cost the company a couple of bottles of champagne and a lot of pleasantries before the tart had been rumbled. “I just want to enjoy myself without having to watch my p’s and q’s all evening. And don’t look at me with the puppy eyes, Freddie, I’ve worked fucking hard for you these last few months. Sod it, I’ve worked hard these last few years. Don’t I get one evening off?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” 82 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz
Freddie’s puppy dog eyes weren’t going to work this time.
Francis would be buggered if he’d let himself be browbeaten again. Maybe it was mid-run blues talking—although it was early for them—but he felt like he’d spent all his life obliging other people who “wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.” Why didn’t they think what he wanted was important? “I can’t help you.” The puppy looked as if it had been slapped. “Seriously, Freddie,” Francis’s voice softened. No matter how hard he tried to play the tough guy with his old friend, the tart with a heart always won through. “I’m really no advert for the show, the way I feel tonight. Just tell this bloke I’ve got a sore throat, that I need to rest it. Say that my aunt died and I’ve had to rush away and I’ll meet him over lunch one day in the week. Anything, just let me have a break tonight, eh?”
There wasn’t going to be a fi ght. Maybe Freddie’s heart
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