Curtains

Curtains

Marti’s after show parties always had the epithet ‘legendary’ before them. No one remembers any epithets after. They were as much of theatre land as the old saws: break a leg, The Scottish Play, the first night flowers. If you needed  a long run it was politic to be there on the first night. There was only one thing worse than being invited to Mart’s party – not being invited. In the event of that non event it was written in the stars the only way was down, the separate table by the kitchen, the glare of a telephone that never rang, not the West End but The End.

Curtain down, respectable applause that held as long as you were on stage for the second call, a third wouldn’t be a sure idea.

The limo was at least three minutes late. Not that I’m counting, only I was papped here at the stage door after the Technical. There is a  street sign next to the Artiste’s Entrance neon that says: ‘Rubbish Collection Point.’ The photographer from The Independent got a natty snap of me with the sign Rubbish above my trilby. They are there every night waiting for Sophia. I should have known better.

When I finally pulled up at Marti’s he was 4 Martini’s ahead of me, none of them shaken, all of them thoroughly stirred.

‘I’ll kill him,’ Marti was saying. Sophia was next to him, smile so enigmatic she made the Mona Lisa look like early Goldie Hawn.

‘I’ll kill him,’ riffed Marti, his entourage didn’t look like they were going to call Scotland Yard. He put the Martini down and picked up another without breaking flow as the waiter hovered. The waiter never circulated. There wasn’t any point. He stood next to Marti like a mid-flight refueller.

I decided I’d had enough of not drinking and intercepted a glass before Marti.

‘I’ll kill him,’ said Marti. I wondered what else could be on his mind. Sophia said she abhorred violence. Marti took his eyes off her to look at her again.  There were still traces of her set make up, obviously straight to her limo. Sophia only did personalised trailers, not West End dressing room cupboards.

We all knew we were lucky to have her. She air kissed me on both cheeks-

‘Glad you could make it, darling.’ The perfume was perfect.

‘Life is a limo for one,’ I said

Marti looked at her for a long time, said ‘I’ll kill him’ again before he looked at me. His look just kept on going.

‘Don’t kill him,’ said Sophia. I could have married her all over again.

Marti gave a leading role to  the olive in his glass-

‘Yeah, you’re right Soph, he’s only the – a – writer.’