pretend
he’s Stanley.
It’s cool. I’ve got
this.
Oh shit. He’s
not Stanley, and I haven’t got this.
He’s just walked
onto the stage and there is no way on this earth I can pretend he’s anyone but
Reuben Sex-On-A-Stick Turner, my ex-husband, beloved by millions of women and a
fair few men too for his sexy abs and killer smile. I can’t breathe. Has no-one
noticed? Call a doctor, call the paramedics, call a priest! I can’t fucking
breathe here, people! Is this what it’s like to die? I turn away and try hard
to regulate my breathing as Art introduces Reuben around the company. He takes
the time to shake people by the hand or kiss them on the cheek and share a
laugh or two with them. He's like that. He has a special way of putting
strangers at ease, of making people feel as though they are the only person there,
even if they're in a packed room.
He’s coming my
way. Ohmygod, don’t come my way. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem able to hear my
internal monologue, because he's advancing across the boards in my direction.
Can I exit stage left? I could, but it would only draw attention to me, to us,
and that’s the last thing I want to happen. Oh, I know that everyone here is
aware of the history between Reuben and me. Of course, they are. No doubt it’s
been the star topic of gossip in the canteen, and I’m sure I’m not just being
paranoid when I say that more than the required cast and crew are here in the
theatre this morning. The place feels as packed as opening night, for God’s
sake.
Pull it together
Lizzie, come on. I give myself the sternest of lectures and force my shoulders
back and down from around my ears.
He’s still
heading my way. Three people away. Two people away. One person away. This is
like the most agonising session of counting sheep ever. I wish like hell that I
was at home in bed about to slide into sleep rather than here on stage about to
meet my ex-husband for the first time in some years.
‘And you know
Lisette, of course,’ Art brays loudly, then practically thrusts Reuben at me to
the point where I have to take a step backwards or else clash chests with my
ex-husband.
I look up into
his face. He looks down into mine. Don't look at me like that, don't do that
only-person-in-the-room thing to me because I won't fall for it. Oh God. Am I
the only person in the room?
‘Yes,’ he says. 'Lizzie
and I go back a long way.'
I nod and tip my
pursed lips into a small, tight smile that actually hurts because my jaw is
clenched so tight. I don’t speak because unscripted words are off bounds.
I can feel every
eye in the place watching us with varying degrees of interest, and I refuse to
feed the gossip beast for even a moment longer.
‘Right then,
introductions over,’ I call out, loud and over-chirpy, and I clap my hands for
effect as I move away across the stage. ‘Let’s dive right on in folks, we’ve a
lot of ground to make up and not a lot of time to do it in. From the top?’
Art narrows his
eyes at me, rightly confused because he’s the director and I’m kind of doing
his job, but thankfully he holds his tongue, takes his cue, and ushers everyone
into starting positions.
I’m in bed with
my ex-husband. Well, there’s a sentence I never expected to say. Holy
shitballs, this is weird, isn't it?
The play opens
in the bedroom, and I'm supposed to wake first. The lights are low, designed to
emulate dawn on an autumnal London morning. I have to look at him adoringly; study
his sleeping features. I gamely try to imagine he's Stanley.
Stanley who? Well,
that game’s dead in the water, because Reuben is filling my eyes and my head,
every last nook and cranny. He’s asleep, or rather he has to appear to be to
the audience. Rumpled white sheets cover the bed and he is naked from the waist
up, slightly on his side facing me, one arm casually flung above his head.
The sheet drapes
him from the hip, and I know that it doesn’t matter what I look like in
he’s Stanley.
It’s cool. I’ve got
this.
Oh shit. He’s
not Stanley, and I haven’t got this.
He’s just walked
onto the stage and there is no way on this earth I can pretend he’s anyone but
Reuben Sex-On-A-Stick Turner, my ex-husband, beloved by millions of women and a
fair few men too for his sexy abs and killer smile. I can’t breathe. Has no-one
noticed? Call a doctor, call the paramedics, call a priest! I can’t fucking
breathe here, people! Is this what it’s like to die? I turn away and try hard
to regulate my breathing as Art introduces Reuben around the company. He takes
the time to shake people by the hand or kiss them on the cheek and share a
laugh or two with them. He's like that. He has a special way of putting
strangers at ease, of making people feel as though they are the only person there,
even if they're in a packed room.
He’s coming my
way. Ohmygod, don’t come my way. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem able to hear my
internal monologue, because he's advancing across the boards in my direction.
Can I exit stage left? I could, but it would only draw attention to me, to us,
and that’s the last thing I want to happen. Oh, I know that everyone here is
aware of the history between Reuben and me. Of course, they are. No doubt it’s
been the star topic of gossip in the canteen, and I’m sure I’m not just being
paranoid when I say that more than the required cast and crew are here in the
theatre this morning. The place feels as packed as opening night, for God’s
sake.
Pull it together
Lizzie, come on. I give myself the sternest of lectures and force my shoulders
back and down from around my ears.
He’s still
heading my way. Three people away. Two people away. One person away. This is
like the most agonising session of counting sheep ever. I wish like hell that I
was at home in bed about to slide into sleep rather than here on stage about to
meet my ex-husband for the first time in some years.
‘And you know
Lisette, of course,’ Art brays loudly, then practically thrusts Reuben at me to
the point where I have to take a step backwards or else clash chests with my
ex-husband.
I look up into
his face. He looks down into mine. Don't look at me like that, don't do that
only-person-in-the-room thing to me because I won't fall for it. Oh God. Am I
the only person in the room?
‘Yes,’ he says. 'Lizzie
and I go back a long way.'
I nod and tip my
pursed lips into a small, tight smile that actually hurts because my jaw is
clenched so tight. I don’t speak because unscripted words are off bounds.
I can feel every
eye in the place watching us with varying degrees of interest, and I refuse to
feed the gossip beast for even a moment longer.
‘Right then,
introductions over,’ I call out, loud and over-chirpy, and I clap my hands for
effect as I move away across the stage. ‘Let’s dive right on in folks, we’ve a
lot of ground to make up and not a lot of time to do it in. From the top?’
Art narrows his
eyes at me, rightly confused because he’s the director and I’m kind of doing
his job, but thankfully he holds his tongue, takes his cue, and ushers everyone
into starting positions.
I’m in bed with
my ex-husband. Well, there’s a sentence I never expected to say. Holy
shitballs, this is weird, isn't it?
The play opens
in the bedroom, and I'm supposed to wake first. The lights are low, designed to
emulate dawn on an autumnal London morning. I have to look at him adoringly; study
his sleeping features. I gamely try to imagine he's Stanley.
Stanley who? Well,
that game’s dead in the water, because Reuben is filling my eyes and my head,
every last nook and cranny. He’s asleep, or rather he has to appear to be to
the audience. Rumpled white sheets cover the bed and he is naked from the waist
up, slightly on his side facing me, one arm casually flung above his head.
The sheet drapes
him from the hip, and I know that it doesn’t matter what I look like in
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