Liz Nugent - Unraveling Oliver

At work, as we approached our first public performances, things became more difficult. After the first preview, all but one of my scenes in the first act were cut, as was my big solo number after the interval. Marcus, who was playing Grimace, got an entirely new song, and the first act was now going to end with the special effects’ stunt flying-chair sequence instead of my big entrance with the chorus behind me. I was incandescent. The Irish producers avoided me and refused to make themselves available for meetings. The Americans were putting up the money and could do what they liked. After the tenth call back home, even my agent began to make excuses not to talk to me. Oliver had flown out to LA for another series of meetings and wasn’t due back until opening night. The other actors, seeing I was out of favor with Tug, kept their distance from me, for fear that my unpopularity was contagious, and I realized that I was very much alone. After a few gins one evening, I even rang Con and cried down the phone at the unfairness of it all.

On the day of the opening night, I was called to the theater at 8 a.m., a ridiculous time to call an actor. I grew suspicious when I realized that everyone else’s call time was eleven. I badgered the stage manager and demanded to know what was going on. She claimed not to know.

When I arrived at the theater, I was ushered into a meeting room that contained nearly all of the senior producers of the show, amid whom sat Tug. Smug Tug.

“We’ve decided to recast the role of the Queen,” said Tug.

“I beg your pardon?”

Aisling was sitting beside him, her head down, fiddling with her notes and looking uncomfortable, as well she might.

“We’d like to thank you for your work and dedication, but I know I speak for us all when I say that we need a queen with a little more…” Tug was at a loss for words.

“Energy!” said one of the Americans helpfully.

Tug was encouraged. “Yes,” he said, “we feel that this role is just too much for someone of your…” He looked me straight in the eye and relished the word. “Age.”

I don’t fully recall everything I said to the assembled bunch of assholes, but I did leave the room screaming, “Fucking amateurs, the lot of you!”

Aisling hustled me into a cab and said she’d deal with it. My agent thankfully managed to stop the story from going public, but only on the condition that I did not sue Tug or any of the producers. They put out the usual story about exhaustion coupled with a recurring throat infection; I had “graciously stepped down from the role and wished Shelley Radner (twenty-three), former member of the chorus, every success with her Broadway debut.”

Aisling and the Irish producers tried to apologize, ducking the blame. As with everything showbiz, it was all about the “biz” and not about the “show.” Tug wanted me out, and he had more control over the wallet than any of my own team. I was sure he was sleeping with Shelley.

I went back to my apartment and drank what was left of everybody’s duty-free. I tried calling Oliver at the Plaza, but he wasn’t there. I even tried calling Con in Dublin again, but there was no answer. I passed out but woke up at 10 p.m. with a splitting headache and a need for revenge.

I headed out again toward the theater. The show had just come down and the audience were streaming out past the hastily reworked posters in which my head had been replaced by Shelley’s (twenty-three). They were smiling and humming the finale song. The show was going to be a hit. The musicians were standing smoking outside the stage door, and I faltered a moment, wondering if this time I was the punchline of their never-ending innuendo. At that moment the stage door opened and Shelley emerged, followed by Oliver, whose arm was casually squeezing her shoulder in an obvious gesture of familiar intimacy as she buried her face in his neck. I was about to physically attack both of them when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find a jet-lagged and bewildered-looking Con clutching a large bunch of red roses.

“Surprise!” he said.

I vomited.

Con and I left New York together the next day. He was very kind about everything in his annoying way, assuring me that Broadway was all about money and not about art, that Broadway wouldn’t know talent if it bit it in the ass.

“Sure, what do we want New York for? Haven’t we got Gerry and Kate and each other and the garden?”

I hid away for a few days, aghast at the double betrayal. My profession and my lover. Yes, yes, I was cheating on Con, Oliver was cheating on Alice, but I thought we were cheating exclusively , and that we meant something to each other. Alice stopped by the house a few times, bearing casseroles, as if someone had died. It was somewhat appropriate. I certainly thought my career had expired and I was going to murder Oliver the next time I saw him.

It practically kills me that Shelley got to play the Queen when they made the big-screen version, the only one of the Broadway cast to reprise their role on film. She was nominated for a fucking Oscar for it, but Meryl got it again that year, God bless her.

Oliver arrived home just three weeks after me. Alice went happily to collect him from the airport and I watched as he got out of the car and went up the steps to his front door, seemingly without a care in the world. I waited three days for him to call or stop by the house. There was absolutely no way I was going to beg for his attention again.

On the fourth day, I could bear it no longer. Con was at work and I saw Alice driving out the front gate, as usual almost taking the gatepost with her. I knew he was alone in the house.

I wanted to look my best for this showdown and prepared myself carefully, buffing, tweezing, and dressing in my most alluring garb.

Oliver answered the door and whistled admiringly as he took in the view.

“Darling, how have you been? I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to call.”

“Shelley?” I spat, unable to control my anger. “You were fucking Shelley?”

Oliver flinched. He hated bad language, but he also looked puzzled.

“Shelley… ,” he said, as if trying to recall who she was. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me, Oliver! I saw you with her coming out the stage door.”

“Oh, that ? Don’t you see? I was just trying to make sure Con wouldn’t suspect you and me!”

I was confused for a moment.

“Con told me he was coming to New York to surprise you. I tried to put him off but he insisted, and I was worried he suspected something was going on between us, so I thought it would be better if he thought that I was seeing someone else. It was all such a mess. I didn’t get a chance to tell him you’d been fired because he was in the middle of the Atlantic at the time. I knew he was going to be waiting for you at the stage door after the show, so I made sure to come out with some bimbo on my arm, and Shelley was closest.”

I was not entirely sure whether to believe him or not—after all, he lied with such ease to Alice—but he took my hand and raised it to his lips and kissed the tips of my fingers. I realized that it didn’t entirely matter whether it was true or not. I was not going to give him up. A wave of tension washed out of my head.

“Oh, Oliver,” I said. He kissed me then and led me upstairs, and I thought that maybe everything was going to be all right.

Our affair picked up where it had left off. In fact, it improved to the extent that I was emboldened after a few months to suggest that we might one day leave our respective spouses and set up home together.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said.

He made it clear that he would never leave Alice. He said that it wouldn’t be fair to her. In the beginning I tried to make him see that he would be happier with me, that I would be good for him, that I would be a more suitable partner for somebody of his stature, but these pleas were met by silences that could last months, and eventually I learned that if I wanted any part of him, I would have to do things his way.