Billy and Me (10 page)

‘If it was me, I would be living the role – I’d get driven around in style by his chauffeur, and I’d buy everything from Harrods – even my weekly shop. I’d be off getting haircuts, facials and manicures all the time, getting ready for all the dinners and parties with his famous friends,’ he says, snapping his fingers through the air with flamboyant flare. ‘I’d be making the most of it, not picking up people’s dirty tissues and chewed-up leftovers. That is not independence. It’s stupidity.’

‘I just don’t see it like that, plus, Billy doesn’t lead that kind of life. He’s honestly as normal as I am – he just has a far more interesting job.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘I don’t want to have to ask someone for money every time I do something.’

‘Get him to give you an allowance, then.’

I stare at Andrezj in shock.

‘I’d never do that!’

‘Then you’re foolish,’ he insists, in such a matter-of-fact tone it makes me giggle. ‘When I finally meet a rich man and get swept off my feet, I’ll be out of here within seconds. Now, go grab the mop and give the toilets a quick wash.’

Over the next week I barely see Billy as the previews of his show start. Previews are when members of the public can buy discounted tickets to an unfinished show, while the actors try out new ideas and discover what works and, more importantly, what doesn’t work within the piece. Each day the actors go in and are given notes from the director about the previous show and rehearse new changes before the next preview that evening. It’s tough work and keeps Billy away from home all day and most of the night. I clearly hadn’t thought my working hours at Coffee Matters through properly as we see hardly anything of each other. However, I always wait up for him to come home in the evenings so that we can spend a bit of quality time together – even if it is just half an hour.

The four or five hours spent in my own company at the flat drift by in a slow and painful manner as I try to find little tasks to do to keep my brain occupied. Reading and baking have continued to be the two things that successfully make the time go quicker, aside from speaking on the phone to Mum or Molly. Each night I whisk together a little treat for us to nibble on when Billy walks through the door. Sometimes it’s a cheesecake,
other times it’s a batch of cupcakes … anything that tickles my fancy. I love it. The time spent mixing, concocting and whipping make me realize how much I miss this part of my old job. And the smell … wow! I love filling the flat with that homeliness that comes from home baking.

Tonight I have baked us a mini Victoria sponge, his favourite, which is sitting, perfectly dusted with icing sugar, on a cake stand in the middle of the kitchen table, ready for when he comes through the door.

‘Hello, baby! That smells delicious!’ he chimes from the hallway as he closes the front door behind him and walks into the kitchen, taking me into his arms.

‘Why thank you, mister! Want a tea?’ I offer as I pull away and make for the kettle.

‘Actually, I’m going to have a brandy,’ he says as he releases me and reaches for the drinks cabinet. ‘It’s been all I could think about on the walk home! Something to help me unwind.’

‘OK,’ I say, cutting two healthy slices of cake for us and putting them on plates.

‘Are you going to have one with me?’

‘No. Not when I’ve got to be up so early,’ I say, taking the plates and snuggling into him on the sofa once he’s poured his drink. ‘So, how was tonight?’

‘Bit of a quiet audience,’ he says, screwing up his nose. ‘It freaked me out because it’s not what we’ve been used to, but they went berserk at the curtain call, so they must’ve loved it.’

‘Well, that sounds good.’

‘Yeah, just different,’ he says, stuffing a piece of cake into his mouth. ‘Probably best actually, Press Night audiences are notoriously bizarre with critics sitting in silence and friends and family getting into it, so it’s good to have something like that before tomorrow.’

From what Billy’s told me, Press Night is the most important night in a play’s run. It’s the night when critics, journalists and important people from the industry go to watch, and then tell the world what they think. It’s seen as the play’s official opening and so carries a huge amount of importance and pressure.

‘How are you feeling about it?’

‘I’m excited to have you there,’ he says with a smile as he grabs one of my hands, giving it a squeeze.

‘I’m looking forward to it!’

‘Paul’s going to be looking out for you when you get there,’ he informs me.

Paul is Billy’s manager, who I haven’t met yet, but have heard a fair bit about. The two times Billy and I have been splashed across the tabloids Paul has been straight on the phone to Billy for more details of what’s going on and to keep the journalists at bay. From what I can make out, Billy owes a lot of his success to Paul’s tough negotiations and pool of wealthy contacts. Knowing he is such an important figure in Billy’s life has left me nervous about meeting him.

‘He’s looking forward to spending a bit of time with you, I think … see what the fuss is about,’ he adds,
smiling. ‘You’re sat together, which is good. At least you won’t be on your own.’

‘Great. It’ll be good to meet him at last.’

The next night I turn up at the theatre wearing the most glamorous dress in my wardrobe – a little black number with gorgeous red flowers printed all over it which hangs a couple of inches above my knee, opaque black tights and black patent stiletto heels – not killer heels, mind, just something to give me a bit of height and grace on Billy’s important night. I did think about wearing something higher, especially as I know Billy’s usual girlfriends wear tower-like heels, but I’m a nervous wreck as it is in this completely alien environment. God knows how I’d cope if I had to concentrate on not tripping over my own feet all night as well. So I’ve played it safe, choosing comfort and control over a broken ankle.

I walk down the tiny strip of red carpet that has been placed outside the theatre, and straight past the cameramen who are waiting for newsworthy people to arrive. Without Billy, people have no idea who I am and my picture is worthless, clearly, and rightly so as I am in fact a ‘nobody’. A notion I’ve always been happy with.

Anxiety and fear of the unknown make my insides bubble in apprehension. I wipe the palms of my hands casually down my dress, trying to rid them of the sweat that has formulated, but they stay clammy, refusing to dry out.

With only twenty minutes to go until the show starts
I stand in the foyer waiting for Paul to arrive. My eyes scan the room, taking in the glamorous people arriving, wondering who’s who. A lot of them seem to know each other as flamboyant greetings are exchanged and air kisses are being given everywhere I look.

I start to feel paranoid when a few girls walking by stare at me a bit longer than I find comfortable before turning to each other and whispering. They’re younger than the majority of the gathered crowd and not your typical-looking theatregoers, so I assume they’re fans of Billy. Feeling flustered, I bury my head in my programme in an attempt to hide myself. Out of nowhere the horrible comments on the website spring to mind – I wonder if any of them were behind the cruel remarks? As the thought occurs to me the girls continue to walk past. I breathe a sigh of relief.

‘Sophie?’ asks a man’s voice a few minutes later. Standing before me is a man wearing a grey suit, white shirt and salmon tie, his blond hair gelled to the side in a sleek and tidy fashion, his green eyes piercing. He is groomed to perfection and looking at me with a tight and unconvincing smile.

‘Paul?’ I question.

He sticks out a hand for me to shake, which feels like a terribly formal greeting after spotting the air kisses that have been flying around the room since I arrived.

‘Great to meet you at last after hearing so much about you from Billy,’ he says.

‘Likewise. It’s good to –’

‘Shall we go in?’ he asks, interrupting me as he hands
me a ticket and starts to wander off into the auditorium. ‘It’s about to start, after all,’ he adds, slightly turning back in my direction with another forced smile.

Shocked at being cut off so abruptly I follow in silence. Perhaps he didn’t mean it – the show is about to start, after all. I’m sure the pleasantries will come later.

Paul leads us to our seats, squeezing past all those who have already made themselves comfortable in theirs, although they don’t seem to mind as many of them appear to know Paul and stop him for a double air kiss, a quick hello, or to tell him how excited they are to see Billy up on stage at last. Paul doesn’t introduce me, and so I just linger behind him uncomfortably, trying not to squash the person who either has my bum in their face, my boobs by their head or whose bags I’m straddling uncomfortably. By the time we get into our seats there’s no time for us to talk further; the house lights dim slowly as the show begins.

My hand flies up to my mouth to cover the gasp that escapes it at the sight of seeing Billy onstage with his bum fully exposed, supposedly receiving oral sex from the naked girl on her knees in front of him (who swishes her long blonde hair all over the place with enthusiasm). Luckily, the rest of the theatre erupts in giggles at seeing Billy’s bum, so my gasp is hidden, although I know Paul’s heard me when he leans into me and quietly says into my ear, ‘I hope he warned you about that. What an unnecessary shock that would be if he hadn’t.’

Quite.

Why didn’t Billy think it would be a good idea to warn me beforehand? Was he scared I’d overreact? Or didn’t he see how it might make me feel to see that on stage while surrounded by a room full of strangers?

I somehow manage to put Paul’s comment (and the vision of the play’s opening tableau) out of my mind for the rest of the show, which is not an easy feat, but I get sucked into what’s happening on stage and the intricate telling of the story. It’s gripping, shocking and intensely heartfelt. Billy is every inch the wonderful actor I thought he would be – I’m amazed at his believable transformation into this moody and stern character. Honestly, I’m not just saying this because I’m his girlfriend, but I completely forget that it’s him up there. As the cast come out to take their bow, I, as well as the rest of the audience, leap to my feet with cheers of praise and applause. I can’t help beaming with pride in Billy’s direction. He is magnificent – I’m surprised anyone has ever doubted that fact.

As soon as the curtain falls for the final time (the cast had to come out for three lots of bows, thanks to the relentless applause), Paul leads us to the stage door so that we can go up to see Billy.

On our way up the stairs Paul stops and turns to me with another one of his forced smiles.

‘I wouldn’t be too sensitive about certain elements of the play if I were you,’ he warns as he purses his lips. ‘It’s his big night. Let’s not ruin it,’ he adds before turning and continuing up the stairs.

His unhelpful words manage to unleash my briefly forgotten feelings from the start of the show, and they start to niggle at me once more, causing me to feel dishevelled as we arrive at Billy’s dressing-room door.

As soon as it’s opened Billy excitedly jumps towards me.

‘So, what did you think?’ he asks.

The smile on his face says it all, he isn’t aware of how that particular scene could have affected me, which is odd because that omission goes completely against the sensitive and caring character I know him to be. However, now would be the wrong time to broach the subject.

‘You were brilliant,’ I admit, because, bottom and oral sex aside, he really was.

‘Better than Jude?’ he asks with a cheeky grin. Will he ever let me live that down?

‘Much better. Honestly, you were superb!’

‘Thanks baby!’ he says, leaning forward and kissing me.

A small cough from Paul reminds us both of his presence and we break away from each other.

‘Paul!’ welcomes Billy, giving him a hug. ‘I hope you’ve been looking after my lovely lady.’

‘I certainly have,’ he says, putting a hand on my shoulder and acting friendlier with me than he has done all night. ‘I’ve got to say, great feedback out there, mate. Everyone has stopped me to tell me they thought you were terrific. Fingers crossed for those reviews, hey?’

‘God, don’t remind me. Actually the other guys here were saying that they prefer not to see them, you know,
so that it doesn’t ruin your performance, or affect it in any way with their comments. They’ve known people to completely change their characters following them, throwing everyone else off. They don’t even want the reviews to enter the building,’ he says.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I say, glad that he has decided to take this approach after seeing him so nervous about tonight and what people might think. This definitely seems a more refreshing attitude to take towards something which is, arguably, just one person’s opinion.

‘But it’s all about the reviews for you, Bill. That’s why you’re here, remember, to prove your worth as an actor!’ Paul says with gusto.

‘Yes, but if –’ I start.

‘Is that the time?’ interrupts Paul, looking at his watch. ‘We’d better get cracking and get you to the after party, there’s a lot of people there who are eager to talk to you, Bill!’

I look in Billy’s direction to see him giving me an excited wink, clearly oblivious to Paul’s rude behaviour towards me.

Walking to the after party, which is being held across the street from the theatre in a trendy bar, we notice there’s a line of photographers waiting outside. The nerves start to kick in again at the thought of walking into that crowded room on Billy’s arm, knowing I’ll be scrutinized and judged. This is my first proper outing with him, the first one I’m almost prepared for (well,
I’m flourless and wearing decent clothes), and I want to make a good impression – so far people have only seen the two sets of pap pictures, they haven’t seen or heard anything else about me, so it’ll be nice to get pictured when I’m looking my best and show that I’m not just some dowdy tea-girl. Although I still find the whole thing daunting, I’m proud of Billy, and want to be there with him on his special night, supporting him as a girlfriend should.

‘Bill,’ says Paul, stopping us both. ‘I think it’s really important that you do these photos alone tonight, the ones inside and outside. It’s got to be about you and what you’ve achieved. It would be foolish to let something else overshadow that,’ he adds, taking time to slowly look from Billy to me so that he can hammer his point home. In other words, Billy should have no photos taken with me, because that is what the press will focus on, thereby distracting from the purpose of the night, which is to show Billy’s worth as an actor. I understand the point, obviously, but coming from Paul it feels more than a little bit unwelcoming.

Billy turns to me with concern.

‘Is that OK?’ he asks.

‘Of course!’ I say, not wanting to cause a drama on his special night by showing that I’m uncomfortable or disappointed that it has to be this way. ‘It makes sense,’ I say with a shrug.

‘You sure?’ he asks again, cupping my face with his right hand and rubbing my cheek with his thumb.

‘She said yes, you soppy fool,’ says Paul, while he
playfully pushes Billy towards the party. ‘Go on, get in there, Bill! It’s your night. Sophie will be safe with me. We’ll see you in there.’