Read Online Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? by Claudia Carroll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Claudia Carroll
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My gut instinct is to tack on, ‘But you know, everything’s OK, because it’s not like we have kids or anything!’ but I manage to restrain myself. I mean, yes of course I’d love the job, but do I really want to come across as a complete desperado?
Shit anyway. Should have just told him the truth.
That I’ve a husband who I honestly doubt would even notice I’m gone.
Worst sign of all: When I’m leaving the stage, he shakes my hand quite formally and says, ‘Best of luck. We’ll be in touch.’ Otherwise known in the acting profession as the ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’, kiss of death.
So now there’s nothing to do but wait it out.
It’s only early evening but already pitch dark by the time I get back to The Sticks. Dan, not surprisingly, isn’t back yet, but this would be perfectly normal. In fact it might be hours and hours before he does come home. So I decide that I’ll wait up for him, even if it’s two in the morning before he eventually does stagger in.
My plan is thus: I will stand right in front of him, hands on hips like something out of a Western, blocking his path so he can’t dodge past me, claiming exhaustion and that all he really wants to do is go to bed. I will firmly say what I’ve got to say and not get fobbed off by his mobile ringing or him brushing me aside and saying, ‘We’ll talk later.’ Flooded with determination, I make up my mind. No morerepeat performances of this morning. No more being brushed off.
Enough’s enough. Some discussions just can’t wait.
I let myself in through the side door that leads down a long, narrow, stone passageway to the kitchen and am delighted to see Jules standing there, wearing her pyjamas with a pair of my slippers and raiding our fridge, as per usual.
‘And where the feck have you been all day?’ is her greeting, not even looking up from the coleslaw she’s eating straight out of the tub.
‘Jules, please tell me you didn’t go out dressed like that? You look like the kind of woman that ends up getting escorted out of Tesco. You’re like a candidate for care in the community.’
‘Ahh, leave me alone, will you? I couldn’t have been arsed deciding what to wear, so in the end I just didn’t bother. But I did put a duffel coat and Wellingtons over my PJ’s before I left the flat. Besides underwear as outerwear is a hot look right now, I’ll have you know. Anyway, you’re in deep shite with the Mothership, I can tell you that for nothing. We came dangerously close to having a code three on our hands today.’
This, by the way, is a system Jules and I have set up to monitor Audrey and her many and varied ‘little turns’. The lowest level, code one, means she’s prostrate on the sofa whinging and in need of sugary tea but if she ever makes it up to code four, the only thing to do is dial 999 toot sweet, then call the local GP and await subsequent fallout.
‘So where were you, Annie? You keep disappearing and re-appearing these days. Not unlike that TV show Scrubs .’
‘Up in Dublin doing an audition,’ I beam proudly, peelingoff my coat and gloves. ‘You have my permission to be impressed.’
‘And you didn’t take me with you, you bitch! For feck’s sake, I could have done some Christmas shopping! With money you’d have had to lend me, obviously. I could have done with getting out of Dodge today; Lisa Ledbetter sat here at the kitchen table moaning for the entire afternoon. Not much point in me coming here to escape from my mother if I have to put up with The Countess Dracula instead, is there? Phrases about frying pans and fires spring to mind.’
I groan as I reach to put the kettle on.
‘You have my sympathies, hon. So tell us, how was the Countess today?’
‘What can I say? Like Lisa Ledbetter. If whining was an Olympic sport, we’d have the gold medallist living right here in our midst.’
Not an exaggeration, by the way. We all have a Lisa Ledbetter in our lives and the thing is,
Shit anyway. Should have just told him the truth.
That I’ve a husband who I honestly doubt would even notice I’m gone.
Worst sign of all: When I’m leaving the stage, he shakes my hand quite formally and says, ‘Best of luck. We’ll be in touch.’ Otherwise known in the acting profession as the ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’, kiss of death.
So now there’s nothing to do but wait it out.
It’s only early evening but already pitch dark by the time I get back to The Sticks. Dan, not surprisingly, isn’t back yet, but this would be perfectly normal. In fact it might be hours and hours before he does come home. So I decide that I’ll wait up for him, even if it’s two in the morning before he eventually does stagger in.
My plan is thus: I will stand right in front of him, hands on hips like something out of a Western, blocking his path so he can’t dodge past me, claiming exhaustion and that all he really wants to do is go to bed. I will firmly say what I’ve got to say and not get fobbed off by his mobile ringing or him brushing me aside and saying, ‘We’ll talk later.’ Flooded with determination, I make up my mind. No morerepeat performances of this morning. No more being brushed off.
Enough’s enough. Some discussions just can’t wait.
I let myself in through the side door that leads down a long, narrow, stone passageway to the kitchen and am delighted to see Jules standing there, wearing her pyjamas with a pair of my slippers and raiding our fridge, as per usual.
‘And where the feck have you been all day?’ is her greeting, not even looking up from the coleslaw she’s eating straight out of the tub.
‘Jules, please tell me you didn’t go out dressed like that? You look like the kind of woman that ends up getting escorted out of Tesco. You’re like a candidate for care in the community.’
‘Ahh, leave me alone, will you? I couldn’t have been arsed deciding what to wear, so in the end I just didn’t bother. But I did put a duffel coat and Wellingtons over my PJ’s before I left the flat. Besides underwear as outerwear is a hot look right now, I’ll have you know. Anyway, you’re in deep shite with the Mothership, I can tell you that for nothing. We came dangerously close to having a code three on our hands today.’
This, by the way, is a system Jules and I have set up to monitor Audrey and her many and varied ‘little turns’. The lowest level, code one, means she’s prostrate on the sofa whinging and in need of sugary tea but if she ever makes it up to code four, the only thing to do is dial 999 toot sweet, then call the local GP and await subsequent fallout.
‘So where were you, Annie? You keep disappearing and re-appearing these days. Not unlike that TV show Scrubs .’
‘Up in Dublin doing an audition,’ I beam proudly, peelingoff my coat and gloves. ‘You have my permission to be impressed.’
‘And you didn’t take me with you, you bitch! For feck’s sake, I could have done some Christmas shopping! With money you’d have had to lend me, obviously. I could have done with getting out of Dodge today; Lisa Ledbetter sat here at the kitchen table moaning for the entire afternoon. Not much point in me coming here to escape from my mother if I have to put up with The Countess Dracula instead, is there? Phrases about frying pans and fires spring to mind.’
I groan as I reach to put the kettle on.
‘You have my sympathies, hon. So tell us, how was the Countess today?’
‘What can I say? Like Lisa Ledbetter. If whining was an Olympic sport, we’d have the gold medallist living right here in our midst.’
Not an exaggeration, by the way. We all have a Lisa Ledbetter in our lives and the thing is,
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