The Three of Us Read Online Free Page B

really? … I turn around. It is. Alan Rickman is standing fewer than ten feet away.
    â€˜Oh well, I suppose we’re here now,’ I say. ‘Let’s just see how it goes.’
    Originally, the RSC had earnestly planned to perform a play in its entirety, but Tina Brown, conversant with New Yorkers’ bantam attention span, has cleverly persuaded them to offer us a medley of the Bard’s Greatest Hits instead.
    The audience is huge, there are at least 1,000 of us, with many having paid $20,000 a table. As usual, however, we have slipped in on a press freebie. To my right sits a cheerful man called Christopher Buckley, who tells me he is the author of a book called Thank You for Smoking. He is in a state of some excitement because the place card next to him reads ‘Susannah York’.
    To my left sits Garth Drabinsky, the legendary Broadway producer of Showboat and Ragtime, which has just picked up four Tony awards. The Drabinsky legend stems from his almost magical ability to stay financially afloat, confounding his many naysayers. He is a huge, darkly brooding presence, and seems depressed.
    I feel depressed too. What did Dr Beth mean, ‘You’re certainly something but it’s not pregnant’? I look around for Peter, who has been placed at a different table. Curiously, when I finally spot him, he is sitting next to Susannah York.
    â€˜Have you seen The Horse Whisperer yet?’ asks Drabinsky morosely.
    â€˜Yes, very disappointing,’ I start. ‘What’s Robert Redford’s problem? How could he have cast himself as the romantic lead? He’s far too old! His mouth’s all lined, he looked ridiculous opposite Kristin Scott Thomas. And as for all those schmaltzy, sentimental shots of Montana…’
    â€˜Really?’ he interrupts. ‘I loved the movie.’ He raises a heavy eyebrow. ‘And I consider Robert one of my greatest friends.’
    Monday, 18 May
    Peter
    I am not at my best at these society events. I seem to revert to my African childhood, dumbstruck and gauche, radiating rudeness to mask social incompetence. I tend to lean on Joanna, using her as a social battering ram, as she possesses complete candour and an effrontery to make me blush. Tonight, however, we are split up, but this is fine since Susannah York is at my table. In the course of the evening I do not manage to exchange a single word with her, however, so intense and exclusive is her conversation with the man on her left, apparently an old friend. Once I think she smiles at me, but I cannot be sure.
    When we leave we are besieged by a squadron of publicity girls, who hover around the foyer to present us with our goody bags. I am still at a stage where I am enticed by goody bags. To me they are like unseasonal Christmas stockings. The prospect is exciting, though the contents seldom fail to disappoint. Tonight’s freebies, which we examine in the cab on the way home, are the usual random medley of sponsors’ offerings: a copy of the New Yorker, a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, a tube of Callard and Bowser’s liquorice toffees. On the drive home we declaim sonnets while chewing liquorice until our teeth have blackened.
    The best gift is a small radio from Bloomberg, the financial rival to Reuters. But to our chagrin we discover that the radio has a strictly limited repertoire – it is permanently pre-tuned to Bloomberg’s own station, and can receive no other.
    Tuesday, 19 May
    Joanna
    After fruitless attempts to get through the voicemail, I make up my mind to go down and collect the second lot of results in person, when Dr Beth calls me.
    â€˜Joanna, it’s Beth from Murray Hill, can you come in this afternoon? We need to talk. I’ve got your results back and quite frankly, Joanna, I don’t mind tellin’ you, I’m baffled.’
    As I arrive, I see Donna the technician sitting on a low wall outside the surgery, smoking, a habit