Poisoned Cherries

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Sometimes I think that if I was ever depressed enough to jump out of a window, I’d fall upwards.

We made a show of making our marriage work, my second wife Primavera and I, once I rejoined her in the States after our troubles in Spain. The deal was that I tried to put her past behind me, and she tried to do the same with mine. . the parts of my past that she knew about, that is. I sold my flat in Glasgow, the one that had been Jan’s and mine, to a willing buyer at a quick-sale price. Prim never even asked who it was; that’s how keen she was to cut herself adrift from Scotland. We thought about getting shot of the Spanish villa at the same time, but put that on hold for a while and rented it out instead, for six months, to a Scots actor I had met on my first movie. That was just about as long as our reconciliation lasted too; not much more than half a year.

I suppose it was okay at first; after all, we were living a dream. After cruising my way through my thirties, fate and a trusting in-law had thrown me into an acting career. My confidence. . never in short supply at the worst of times. . had been boosted by some half-decent reviews for my performance in my debut film, and by some one-on-one coaching from an old theatre pro who taught me plenty about phrasing, timing, relaxation, and script retention. . the stuff you can either learn or you can’t. . so I moved positively into my second role in a Miles Grayson production.

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