Sitting on the sofa in his Sydney apartment, he looks up from his laptop, takes his glasses off, and assesses the sparkly gown. I wriggle uncomfortably, wishing it didn’t hug my body, and feeling far more attracted to a night on the couch in trackies.
‘The dress is perfect, Hepburn. I just don’t know how you’re going to walk in those shoes.’
‘I didn’t bring anything else,’ I say, anxious that we’re out of time now and I could break my neck and photographic evidence would end up inThe Sydney Morning Herald.
‘I was always partial to those Wellingtons,’ he says.
I laugh. ‘What did you really think when I ran into your ute? You played it so cool that night.’
He puts the laptop aside and gets up. ‘Playing it cool was an act. When I met you, I remember thinking my whole line of work is about made-up stories. It’s about trying to convince an audience that fake people exist. Most of the people I know are either making up fiction or acting it out, and then you crashed into my life …’
‘Suffering, flawed …’
He frowns. ‘Will you ever let me forget that? I was trying to tell you what I loved about you!’
‘Can we table this conversation for after the event?’ I ask, conscious of the time.
He strips off his Tshirt for the shower, my eyes dropping to the familiar lion on his chest. I trace it with my fingertips, geography I know intimately now, right down to the new swirl in the mane covering the part that used to sayLucinda. Then I move to the compass on his arm.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, confused.
He twists his arm to look at it. ‘That’s a compass, Audrey. It’s a device that shows the cardinal directions for navigation—’
‘Am I losing my mind, or has it changed direction?’
He smiles. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to notice. I had the needle reoriented while I was in LA.’
Reoriented? Sounds painful!
‘And these coordinates?’ I trace the new string of numbers on his skin.
‘Last time I had a woman’s name tattooed, it didn’t go well,’ he explains. ‘Thought I was fairly safe with a beach.’
I feel my eyes widen. ‘Ourbeach?’
‘The very same accident hotspot, yes.’
I’m worried I’m going to mess up the professional makeup I had done this afternoon at April’s insistence. He sees the tears forming and expertly snaps me out of it: ‘Look, we can’t stand around all day while you admire my six-pack, Hepburn. Unhand me—or we’ll be late for the premiere!’
Minutes later, we’re out of the apartment, into an Uber, zipping around Darling Harbour, and climbing from the car onto the red carpet, camera flashes bursting in our faces. It’s a situation to which Beau is well accustomed and to which I will never acclimatise, so he squeezes my hand for reassurance.
‘Who are you wearing tonight, Audrey?’ someone asks, with a microphone stuck in my face. I have no bloody idea. I borrowed it.
‘She’s wearing April’s Wardrobe,’ Beau responds, deadpan, supervising the confused reporter while she jots down the words as if he’s given her a hot tip on an up-and-coming designer. I slip my hand through his arm as we walk along the carpet, pausing to look up at Darling Harbour’s Lyric Theatre, with an enormous flashing billboard that takes my breath away.
The next runaway Australian hit!
WIDOWED:The Musical
‘Wildly heartbreaking. Dazzlingly hopeful!’ —Time Out
‘Life-affirming in every note.’ —Who? Weekly
‘Look at that, Hepburn.Nowdo you believe in yourself?’ I scoff. ‘You led me to believe the tabloids were full of trash!’ The screen flashes and the credits appear.
Music by Audrey Sullivan and Parker Miller
Book and lyrics by Audrey Sullivan and Beau Davenport
