Ninety

Joanna Murray-Smith

• Publisher: Currency Press
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781921429514
• Topic: Literatur
• Subtopic: Drama

It is no use, but William gives Isobel ninety minutes anyway. They were once married, but something happened. Something broke deep down in the mechanism of their lives together and, seeing no way to repair it, they threw it away.%##CHAR13##% %##CHAR13##%But perhaps they were too hasty. Perhaps there was something they could have done. Isabel just wants ninety minutes. Soon William will be married again, so ninety is all she has to make her case. Ninety to remember what they had. Ninety to regain what was lost. Just ninety minutes to rediscover love or call it a day, forever.

THANKS

Ninety came into itself through the significant talents of Simon Phillips, Kym Gyngell, Melinda Butel and Rachel Griffiths.

Thanks to all the staff of the Melbourne Theatre Company. As always, I am indebted to Raymond Gill. And particular thanks to Dr Joe Crameri, who wouldn’t remember us.

For Raymond and the Pantheon.
And for Charlie.

As the play begins, ISABEL is working at the easel with a tiny brush, small dabs interspersed with long periods of contemplation. The door opens and WILLIAM enters. The start of the play needs to show a playfulness built from history.

WILLIAM: Your time starts now.

ISABEL: Latecomer.

WILLIAM: Scheduler.

ISABEL: I thought you might not [actually show]—

WILLIAM: Really?

ISABEL: Well.

WILLIAM: I said [I would]—

ISABEL: Yes, but—

WILLIAM: I said [I would]—

ISABEL: I know. [Beat.] But you said that last time.

WILLIAM: Ah. Last time.

ISABEL: And you didn’t show.

WILLIAM: I was shooting.

ISABEL: No you weren’t. I rang your agent. Max said there was a writers’ strike in LA. Nothing was shooting. He said you were in Kenya. Some Abercrombie and Something luxury safari.

WILLIAM: That’s what I mean. Shooting.

ISABEL: Lions? [Beat.] Even I know they’re protected. Even I know all that went out with Hemingway.

WILLIAM: If you’re very rich or famous they’ll still let you sink an old gazelle or two while the World Wildlife Fund are taking tea.

ISABEL: Cynic.

WILLIAM: Sentimentalist.

ISABEL: It was good, actually. Last time.

WILLIAM: Good.

ISABEL: There is, as they say, something ‘healing’ in ceremony…

WILLIAM: Well.

ISABEL: It was lovely, actually. The park. The trees—

WILLIAM: ‘In their burst of colour’—

ISABEL: In their burst of colour.

WILLIAM: I think we should let them go.

ISABEL: We should let them go?

WILLIAM: The dead. [Beat.] I don’t believe in standing in a park and hearing The Prophet or The Tibetan Book of the fucking Dead and then going off to drink tea. Something about death sends tea consumption into a frenzy. I apologise.

ISABEL: It was lovely.

WILLIAM: Good. What did you do?

ISABEL: We went to the park. Marjorie read from… The Tibetan Book of the fucking Dead. Then we all came back to the house and… drank tea.

WILLIAM: Lovely.

ISABEL: I missed you.

WILLIAM: All right, so I didn’t come. I’m busy. I have ‘things on’. You may interpret this as self-importance and you may be right, but whatever, that’s the way it is. I have a life. For what it’s worth. I’m a citizen of the world of international travel and I love it. I apologise for my ‘failure rate’. Anyway, enough about me. How are you?

She is about to respond when a small BlackBerry-type device/ phone starts beeping. He immediately pulls it out of his pocket, flips it open and reads the message, while she waits.

Huh! [He starts laughing.] Cheeky bastard! [He starts tapping a message back.] Stick that where it belongs! [He looks up at ISABEL.] Sorry! How are you?

ISABEL: Well, I’m—

The same device rings again. He flips it open.

WILLIAM: [to the phone] I’m busy! No. No, tell him if that stays, I walk. I walk! Don’t talk to me about clauses. Don’t fucking talk to me about clauses, speak English. I know. I know. I know. [He snaps the device shut.] Never leave me alone. It’s horrific. My PA’s brilliant, she’s brilliant, but I’m her life. [Ironically] Sometimes I have to say, ‘Back off, babe’, you know what I’m saying?

ISABEL: Not really.

WILLIAM: The business.

ISABEL: Congratulations on being a Globe.

WILLIAM: You really don’t get out much, do you? You don’t become a Globe!

ISABEL: Oh.

WILLIAM: You win one. A Golden One. You make me sound like an artichoke.

ISABEL: Well, anyway, that was… something.

WILLIAM: A nice role. Great writing. Just happened to… tap into the zeitgeist.

ISABEL: You’re very good, actually.

WILLIAM: Thank you, Isabel. Generous.

ISABEL: How is it, being famous?

WILLIAM: Oh, it’s nice.

ISABEL: Good tables?

WILLIAM: Great tables. Reservations totally obsolescent.

ISABEL: The world of obsolescent reservations. Gosh.

WILLIAM: I’ve also got to the point where I can fly first and not eat every single thing that’s offered to me. The really famous never, ever, ever eat. It’s too mortal. They only drink bottled water.

ISABEL: I’ve read about it!

WILLIAM: All those truffle-tinged hors d’oeuvres and hot baked cookies four thousand miles above the Sahara are only for people for whom flying first is a special occurrence. The lovely hosties holding trays of superbly zapped morsels dip and sway, their tight little arses sashaying towards me in seat 1A. I say, ‘No Thank You. Just some water, if you please, collected from that small bubbling spring in that newly discovered rainforest off the Amazon by very, very nice pygmies. And if you’re all out of that, please don’t worry your pretty little head about a damn thing. I’ll just recline here, ever so slightly parched, and contemplate my fame.’

IS...