Bono by Helen Brown

Author:Helen Brown [Brown, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2018-03-12T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

STARSTRUCK

A cat prefers to be adored.

When I move to New York, I’ll live in walking distance of Broadway and see every show. I love how the theaters are so small and old-fashioned. The smell of dust and disinfectant is a reminder the greatest dreams are built on muck and microbes.

The only thing not to like is the intermission stampede for the restrooms. Something’s out of whack when it’s possible to print 3D versions of the heart, yet there still aren’t enough bathrooms for women in theaters.

Lucky Guy was fantastic. As the actors took their bows at the end, I stood and clapped until my hands were numb.

“What did you think?” Lydia asked, as we joined the throng of people surging into the theater foyer.

“Tom Hanks is amazing,” I said. “Some actors can’t make the transition from television to a theater stage, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.”

Lydia hugged her program and smiled.

“Did you like it more than The Book of Mormon?” she asked.

How could I not? In his role as tabloid journalist Mike McAlary, Tom Hanks had practically stepped out of my past.

“Newsrooms were tough for women back in the seventies and eighties,” I said, digging my hands in my pockets. “The guys we worked with would be in jail these days.”

I told her how in my first week as a cadet reporter, aged 18, the chief reporter took me to a bar and announced he was going to have his way with me in the back of his car.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“I was young and naive enough to laugh in his face.”

Norah Ephron had clearly endured similar experiences during the same era in New York, and crafted them into art.

“Do you think he’s still here?” Lydia asked.

“Who, Tom? He’s probably backstage taking his makeup off. We might see him if we wait at the stage door.”

“Really?”

“He has to get out of the building somehow. He might even sign your program,” I said, handing her a pen.

We were disappointed to see the stage door clogged with fans, so we crossed the street to observe from a distance. There was a group gasp as an imposing silhouette emerged. Hundreds of smartphones raised in unison. We watched enviously as the star stopped to chat with people and sign their programs.

“He must have been wearing a wig on stage,” Lydia said.

I removed my glasses and wiped them on my coat sleeve. She was right. The actor was as bald as a barracuda.

“That’s not Tom!” I said, squinting my eyes. “It’s that other actor. You know, the old guy.”

We watched him vanish into the crowd to become anonymous as the rest of us.

We waited . . . and waited. Tom would surely have wiped his makeup off by now. The crowd outside the theater was peaceful, but it was growing larger. A restless ripple ran through them. I turned to see a dozen or so mounted police lining up at the end of the street.

These were not cuddly ponies that could be disarmed with the offering of a carrot.

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