Page 106 of Best Supporting Actor
Jay’s eyes held his, clear and grey as the dawn. His voice was a little rough, though, as he said, “You think so?”
“Yeah, I do.” Keenly aware that this was a public performance, that Dame Cordelia, Bea, and Phil were all watching them, Tag restrained his impulse to just…kiss some sense into Jay. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry I made you doubt that.”
After another long look, Jay said, “Idon’tdoubt it. I… I trust you, Tag.”
“Yeah?” Tag’s pulse rushed in his ears, the world narrowing to the space between himself and Jay. “That’s good, because youcantrust me. I’ll always have your back.”
“Yeah, I know that.”
From behind Tag came a dramatic intake of breath. Bea? Dame Cordelia? It didn’t matter; this was between him and Jay.
“The thing is,” Jay went on, never breaking eye contact, “I think I might…”
Tag’s breath stopped when Jay hesitated. Mightwhat? A sudden wild surge of hope made him giddy.
“I might want to… try, tonight.”
“Try…?” It took Tag a moment to understand, and then to swallow his surprise and—yes—disappointment. “You mean tryperforming?”
Jay nodded. “I think I might be able to.” He swallowed, visibly. “For you.”
“No, Jay,” Tag said, alarmed. “No, you don’t have to do anything for me.”
“Notforyou,” Jay corrected, his clear-eyed gaze still fixed on Tag. “Becauseof you.” His attention flickered then, darting over Tag’s shoulder and back. “Because Idotrust you, Tag. I know you won’t leave me out there alone, the way Seb did.”
“No, of course I fucking won’t, but—” He tried to read the truth in Jay’s expression. “Are you sure? You don’t need to do this foranyonebut yourself.”
Jay smiled, a slight tilt of his lips. “Iwouldbe doing it for myself, but for you, too. And for Bea, and Henry—and the audience. No man is an island, right? I want to do this play, Tag; I admit that I’m still afraid that I can’t. But I think, with you, I could at least give it a shot.” He made a face. “No guarantees, though.”
Behind him, Bea squealed. “Oh my God, I’m phoning Henry…!” Her footsteps hurried off across the orangery.
Tag didn’t drop Jay’s gaze. “If it’s really what you want, then I’m there for you one hundred per cent.” He pulled Jay’s meds from his back pocket and held them out. “Here, I should never have taken these from you. I’m really sorry.”
Jay took the box, carefully. “Thank you.”
“Oh darling!” Apparently unable to contain herself any longer, Dame Cordelia swept in to envelop Jay in a hug, and Tag was ridiculously envious that she got to do that—but that was his fault, not hers. “I’m so proud of you, Julius,” Dame Cordelia was saying, “but are you absolutelysure? Nobody will think any less of you if you pass. And if they do, fuck them!”
Tag couldn’t keep the surprise from his face as he raised his eyebrows in Jay’s direction. Jay gave a little smile. “Iamsure, Mother. I want to try, and there won’t be a better time than this.”
“No,” she said, suddenly serious. “No, I don’t think there will be.” She turned to Tag then and pulled him into an equally enthusiastic embrace. “Darling, Tag, Iknowyou’ll take care of him out there. You simplymust.”
“Mother!” Jay objected, sounding fondly mortified. “You make me sound like a lost dog.”
“I will take care of him,” Tag promised, laughing a little. When his eyes met Jay’s again, he added, “We’ll take care of each other, right?”
Jay’s answering expression was complex, difficult to read, but he nodded. His gaze skittered away from Tag’s, though, when he said, “There’s no actor I’d trust more.”
No actor…
Tag didn’t miss that careful wording, but this wasn’t the time to delve into the future of their personal relationship. Definitely not with Phil and Dame Cordelia urging them into the kitchen for brunch, and Bea on the phone at the far side of the orangery in animated discussion with Henry. Besides, a deep conversation about their future—if they even had a future—was the last thing Jay needed right now. Or Tag, for that matter. What they both needed was some quiet time to focus and prepare for tonight.
Everything else would have to wait until after the show.
* * *
Nine hours later, there was plenty of quiet and focus in the dressing room where Tag sat, waiting to go on. Maybe too much.
Ness, from the theatre’s hair and make-up team, had just left, and Tag was gazing at himself—at Wilfred Owen—in the mirror, at his hair, slicked back and down, at his neatly pressed khaki uniform, and at the little pencil moustache glued onto his top lip.