Two women in a dark wood dining room. Stage left is a sideboard holding an array of spirits,
drawers underneath. The back of the stage is lined with bookcases. For now, we’ll call the
women A and B.

A [31] is sat at the table drinking whiskey. She’s bare faced, hair in a bun. There’s a sense of
rakishness about her. B [mid 60s] is the opposite; fully made up and expensively dressed. She
is standing, furious. The two women are at a stalemate in a long-ongoing argument.

A can never help speaking first.

A: It’s not as if you’re starved for attention.

B: [bridge of her nose in her fingers] Shut up.

A: There’s no way that's the best you’ve got.

B: Stop talking. I mean it.

A: Why? You’ve made it, Lou. You’re at the top; enjoy the view [she notices the rhyme and laughs to herself, drinking]

B: You could have been here.

A: You blaming the dead for their own death?

B: I can blame you for yours.

A scoffs. B rounds on her

        You think that’s unfair? You had everything going for you. You had—

 

She presses both hands together orans, resting her chin on her thumbs. When she continues, she sounds weaker.

 

         You had everything you could’ve wanted. You had a child.

​

A: I had a lot of things.

B: And it wasn’t enough? Your name was on every reviewers’ pen and you decided to... throw it away.

Pause.

A: I didn’t throw it away

B: [almost before she’s finished, with the cadence of a fight] So what did you do? What do you call ending it with that... 27 Club bullshit?

A: I was thirty-one.

B: Yeah, you were. And you always will be. I’ll sit and age and decay, and you’ll always
be thirty-one.

A: [incredulously] Are you jealous?

The fight seems to leave B.

B: I’m not jealous. I’m—frustrated. Here I am, trying to one-up myself year after year and you get to live in that... promising uncertainty.

A: That’s mine.

B: What?

A: ‘I could kiss you or step back, and live my life in that promising uncertainty’.

B: It’s not one of my best.

A: Of course it bloody isn’t. It’s not yours at all.

B: ‘Wells’ is mine. I wrote it four years after you tapped out.

A: ...are you sure?

B: Afraid so. Not the one I’m most proud of.

A: Got you a Critic’s Choice.

B: Doesn’t count when they’re your friends.

A: The critics making the choice? Since when have you been established?

B: Award season.

A: Christ.

B: [slightly wounded] I was being facetious.

A: I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.

​

Pause.

        Your son never went into theatre?

​

B: No.

A: How old is he? Now?

B: Having second thoughts?

A: No, I—

Then,

        Sometimes.

B glances behind, an expression of soft pity on her face. She takes care that A doesn’t see.

B: He’s thirty-one.

A: What?

​

B: (smiling) No, he’s thirty-four. Passed that milestone without incident. He’s... a man’s
man, I think you’d call him. Got a City job. Awfully proud of it. You know the type.

A: Braying?

B: That was a word I was trying not to use, but yes.

A: Does he see you?

B: He calls every Sunday.

A: Does he watch your plays?

B: Who knows.

A: Hm. Is that why?

B: What?

A: Why you’re pissed?

B: I’m not pissed, I’m annoyed. And I’ve told you why.

A: Yes, but I didn’t believe you.

B looks askance. A reconsiders her choice of words.

        I half believed you.

B: You ‘half believed’ me?

A: I believe you only told me half of what you meant to say.

B: God, I’d forgotten about your undergraduate tautology.

A: Sit down and spit it out.

B rolls her eyes and stands closer to the table. She doesn’t sit.

​

B: It’s not... really the done thing. To say you don’t like your child.

A: You don’t like him?

B: It’s not that I dislike him. I just have... no feelings of ‘like’ at all. There’s nothing in me. Not towards him. Not for him.

Pause.

A: I’d no idea.

B: It’s alright. One of those things you get used to. I can’t help thinking—is it... you know, common? How many of us are there? So I suppose I’m lucky. Who the hell would you tell?

Pause.

A: Do you regret it?

B: Do I regret having him?

A: Mmm.

A thoughtful silence.

B: Yes and no. I think I’d regret not having a child more. But ‘becoming a mother’? I regret that every fucking moment of my life.

Pause.

A: Still married?

B makes an affirmative sound.

A: How’s that going?

B makes the same sound in a minor key.

​

Pause.

B: Do you remember Tamsin McDonald?

A: Tamsin?

B: McDonald.

A: You don’t need to specify. How many Tamsins can there be? But yes, I remember her. Producer, right?

 

B: Yeah, yeah. We were in Halls together.

 

A: I went to my first audition with Tamsin. Christ, I probably wouldn’t have gone at all if she hadn’t. Do you still see her?

B: I see her. She doesn’t acknowledge me.

A: What did you do to piss her off?

B: [defensively] Nothing.

A drinks, a sceptical eyebrow raised. B doesn’t want to rise to it but she can’t help herself.

        I don’t know. I never do.

        It started small. ‘Hellos’ became nods. That sort of thing. Then it just... fell away. And here we are. It feels like there’s no point in talking to someone unless they’re useful. Everyone’s always pulling at me.

 

A: You must’ve fucked her off at some point. You cannot be that cynical. You’re giving me a run for my money.

B: What money? You died in penury.

A: [winking] But the estate is worth a fortune.

​

Pause.

B: You are lucky, you know.

A: Oh, God.

B: You never had to see... what you’d become.

A: Let’s swap places, shall we? I’ll be the Dame and you can be bloody dead.

B: You did better than a damehood; you’re on the GCSE curriculum.

A: Christ.

Pause.

B: Do you regret it?

A: [deliberately obtuse] What?

B: You know.

A finishes her whiskey and gets another from the sideboard. Despite herself, she appears to be giving this question thought.

A: I... don’t know. Got nothing to compare it to. Sometimes I wish I’d stuck around for the whole show. But—you’re right. I left them thinking that the best was yet to come.

Pause.

        And I got to choose my own way out. More than can be said for most.

B: Your family were in the house.

A: They were always in the bloody house.

B: Do you regret that?

A: No. Yes. There didn’t seem to be an alternative.

B: There’s always an alternative.

A: Thanks, Samaritans.

B: But there is.

A: I know.

Pause. A sips whiskey in silence.

B: Why did you do it that way?

A: What do you mean?

B: Bottle of whiskey and a revolver. Like a disgraced cavalry officer.

A: Maybe that was the reason. Sets a sexy precedent.

B: [scoffs] Come off it.

A: I couldn’t tell you. It would be quick? Didn’t have to worry about cirrhosis, so that was a plus. Why are you so curious?

B: I’m not.

A: [teasing] Sure? Not another Louise Stanheight melodrama on the horizon.

B: I wouldn’t use you like that.

A: Wouldn’t you.

Pause

        No, sorry. That—forget I said anything.

B: Forgotten.

​

Pause.

        I’m trying to move away from dramas, anyway.

A: Why?

B: Stale. Everyone’s come to expect them. Thought I’d try my hand at something
historical?

A: [dryly] Set a sexy precedent?

She is ignored.

B: Something cosy. Maybe an adaptation.

A: You could put Muppets in it.

B: Be serious. One of us has to do some bloody work.

A: Knew you were jealous. And isn’t that what you should be doing right now? Writing?

B: I’m always writing.

A: Never let your hobby become your day job.

B: I’ll bear that in mind.

B readies to leave. She turns to A, allowing her to see the upset on her face.

B: You could’ve been great.

A: [gently] So could you.

The lights shrink to a spot illuminating A and the table. B is onstage in the darkness.
Offstage, a baby cries and there is a knock.
 

A male voice calls ‘Lou?’

​

A: Won’t be long!

A takes a steadying breath. She stands up, unlocks a drawer from the sideboard and retrieves
a revolver. She lays it on the table then pours another whiskey, which she drinks standing.
She pours another takes it to the table.

The baby’s cries get louder.

The offstage voice, frustrated, repeats ‘Louise!’

YOUNG LOUISE (A) puts the revolver to her head and winks at OLD LOUISE (B).

 

She takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger.

The stage goes dark.