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Ninety
Joanna Murray-Smith
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eBook - ePub
Ninety
Joanna Murray-Smith
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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.
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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 wouldnât remember us.
For Raymond and the Pantheon.
And for Charlie.
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]â
WILLIAM: Really?
ISABEL: Well.
WILLIAM: I said [I would]â
ISABEL: Yes, butâ
WILLIAM: I said [I would]â
ISABEL: I know. [Beat.] But you said that last time.
WILLIAM: Ah. Last time.
ISABEL: And you didnât show.
WILLIAM: I was shooting.
ISABEL: No you werenât. I rang your agent. Max said there was a writersâ strike in LA. Nothing was shooting. He said you were in Kenya. Some Abercrombie and Something luxury safari.
WILLIAM: Thatâs what I mean. Shooting.
ISABEL: Lions? [Beat.] Even I know theyâre protected. Even I know all that went out with Hemingway.
WILLIAM: If youâre very rich or famous theyâll 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 âhealingâ in ceremonyâŠ
WILLIAM: Well.
ISABEL: It was lovely, actually. The park. The treesâ
WILLIAM: âIn their burst of colourââ
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 donât 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 didnât come. Iâm busy. I have âthings onâ. You may interpret this as self-importance and you may be right, but whatever, thatâs the way it is. I have a life. For what itâs worth. Iâm a citizen of the world of international travel and I love it. I apologise for my âfailure rateâ. 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, Iâmâ
The same device rings again. He flips it open.
WILLIAM: [to the phone] Iâm busy! No. No, tell him if that stays, I walk. I walk! Donât talk to me about clauses. Donât fucking talk to me about clauses, speak English. I know. I know. I know. [He snaps the device shut.] Never leave me alone. Itâs horrific. My PAâs brilliant, sheâs brilliant, but Iâm her life. [Ironically] Sometimes I have to say, âBack off, babeâ, you know what Iâm saying?
ISABEL: Not really.
WILLIAM: The business.
ISABEL: Congratulations on being a Globe.
WILLIAM: You really donât get out much, do you? You donât 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: Youâre very good, actually.
WILLIAM: Thank you, Isabel. Generous.
ISABEL: How is it, being famous?
WILLIAM: Oh, itâs nice.
ISABEL: Good tables?
WILLIAM: Great tables. Reservations totally obsolescent.
ISABEL: The world of obsolescent reservations. Gosh.
WILLIAM: Iâve also got to the point where I can fly first and not eat every single thing thatâs offered to me. The really famous never, ever, ever eat. Itâs too mortal. They only drink bottled water.
ISABEL: Iâve read about it!
WILLIAM: All those truffle-tinged hors dâoeuvres 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, âNo 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 youâre all out of that, please donât worry your pretty little head about a damn thing. Iâll just recline here, ever so slightly parched, and contemplate my fame.â
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