The taxi pulled up outside Ryan and Jess’s flat. The street looked dull and drab after the brightly garish colours of Thailand. The dark and threatening clouds above were only highlighted by the steel grey of the sky. As Ryan paid the cab driver, and signed an autograph for the cabbie’s wife, Jess stood on the damp pavement and looked up at the windows of their top-floor flat. She’d soon be alone again. Ryan was off filming in two days’ time. The carefree relaxed mood of her holiday was dissolving like an aspirin in water, yet without the benefits of analgesia.
She had asked Ryan, as they’d sat by the pool in Thailand one day, if he thought she might be depressed.
He’d looked at her in surprise, then told her to pull herself together; she didn’t have a mental illness, all she needed was to get a job under her belt. When she pointed out that it wasn’t that easy and started to list the humiliating auditions she’d endured of late, his response had been to suggest that she give up acting and try something else.
‘You’re a jolly good organiser,’ he told her. ‘You’d make an excellent school secretary.’
‘Like your mother?’
‘Yes. Like my mother. She was always home in time to cook supper for me and Dad, plus she had all those long holidays.’ He’d smiled and kissed her. ‘It would suit you very well.’
‘So you don’t think I’ve got what it takes to make it as an actress?’
‘Hey, babe, it’s not that.’ Ryan put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s just that this business is really tough and I don’t want to see you brought down by it.’
Despite the many hours she’d spent torturing herself with the notion that she was a failure as an actress, this unexpected career advice had knocked her sideways. She’d wanted to be an actress ever since she could remember. If that was taken from her, what did she have left? The only thing she could come up with was Ryan. Apart from one (major) indiscretion with a young actress, he’d stuck with Jess for seven years. But there had been no mention of marriage, or children. All they shared was a rented flat at the top of a converted Edwardian house in Willesden and two dachshunds. Lucky girl.
Ryan broke into her thoughts. ‘Jess, carry my holdall would you? I’ll get the cases.’
Together they hauled themselves and their luggage up the four flights of stairs.
Panting, Ryan put his key in the front door and pushed it open. Jess heard the sound of mail swishing over the stripped floorboards of the small hall.
‘Here we are then: home sweet home!’ declared Ryan. ‘Put the kettle on, love. I’m dying for a whizz.’
While he disappeared into the loo she shoved the holdall and the suitcases further into the hall in order to close the door, then bent down to scoop up the pile of post. She carried it into the kitchen and dumped it on the table, then set about making the tea.
Ryan returned just as she realised there was no milk.
‘I’ll nip out and get some.’ He grinned at her and gave her a hug. ‘Happy?’
‘Yeah.’ She allowed herself to fold into his arms. ‘You?’
‘What a silly question! Of course I am. Lovely girlfriend, lovely holiday and six months’ filming ahead of me. What’s not to be happy about?’ He rummaged in his trouser pockets, looking for cash. ‘Got any change, darling? I’ve got nothing but Thai baht on me.’
‘In my purse.’
Alone in the kitchen she poured the boiling water on to the teabags, then covered the teapot with an old cosy she’d embroidered for her GCSE sewing exam.
Over the next fifteen minutes she emptied the cases, sorted the washing and loaded up the machine. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and began going through the post, sorting it into two piles: one for Ryan, one for her. Bills, catalogues, a postcard from an old school friend, junk mail and a cheque for £27.44 from her agent for a repeat of a television programme in which she’d made a brief appearance. She’d need that to help with the exorbitant kennel bill when she collected the girls in the morning.
She heard Ryan’s key in the lock. ‘Tea’s brewed,’ she called.
He came into the kitchen puffing. ‘Either those stairs are getting longer or I’m getting older.’ He put a carrier bag on the table, its damp edges resting on her £27.44 cheque, smudging the ink. Silently she lifted the bag and slipped the cheque out of the way.
He poured them both some tea and sat down. Jess sipped her tea in silence. His larger-than-life presence was irritating her for no reason. Maybe she should go to the doctor. She was definitely not feeling herself.
‘I got a few essentials: cooked chicken, salad, fruit … That way you won’t have to cook on your first night home.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I think I’ll have a shower and then a nap. Want to join me?’
‘Would you run me a bath?’
‘Sure.’
The familiarity of their bed and the feel of their own bed linen combined with the light-headedness of jet lag allowed them to sleep the deepest of sleeps.
It was dark outside when Jess woke. They’d slept all afternoon. Ryan was lying on his side, his hand resting under his cheek. His mouth was pursed like a baby’s. She left him and went to the living room to turn on her computer.
A message from her agent was waiting for her.
From: Alana Chowdhury
Subject: Availability
Darling Jess,
Tried phoning but you must have it turned off.
Give me a bell soonest.
Alana
Jess reached for her phone and checked the battery. Dead. She found the charger, finally, at the bottom of her handbag and plugged it in.
‘Alana Chowdhury.’
‘Alana, it’s me – Jess.’
‘Jess darling, where’ve you been? I couldn’t raise you.’
‘I’ve been on holiday. In Thailand. With Ryan. Remember?’
‘You must tell me if you’re going away.’
‘I did.’ Jess knew that she was only one name on a long list of actors represented by Alana, but now she felt as if she’d gone from minor to minuscule.
Alana carried on: ‘I’ve been approached to put some clients forward for a new comedy drama for the BBC. I threw your name in as a last-minute thought.’
‘Great,’ said Jess faintly.
‘And, I’ve got you an audition. Tomorrow. Nine o’clock. Off the Charing Cross Road somewhere.’
‘Nine a.m.?’
‘Of course nine a.m. I’ll send an email with details. Good luck. And try to look the part.’
‘How do they want me to look?’ But Alana had already rung off.
*
‘Konnichiwa! That’s Thai for hello, isn’t it?’
‘No, Em, that’s Japanese.’ Desperate for a friendly voice to lift her spirits and distract her from her woes, Jess had phoned her sister. Emma was younger by three years and lived in rural chaos somewhere in Kent with her musician husband Dan (who never seemed to have an actual paying job) and a headstrong five-year-old son called Max.
‘How’s my favourite nephew?’ asked Jess.
‘That’s because he’s your only nephew. Oh, you know, the usual. I heard one of the mums at school refer to him as Mad Max the other day. Might have been something to do with the little horror locking the reception teacher out of the classroom and leading the kids in a mini revolt.’
Jess laughed. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be Prime Minister one day.’
‘If that happens, I’m emigrating. How was Thailand?’
‘It was amazing …’ Jess’s voice wavered.
‘You don’t sound too sure of that.’
‘No, no, no,’ Jess protested. ‘Ryan was great, really attentive, made me feel like a princess.’
‘About time too,’ said Emma.
‘He’ll be off shooting Venini again soon.’
‘Ah. And you’re feeling – what, exactly? Wish you were going with him?’
‘No, it isn’t that.’ Jess hesitated, wondering how to put it into words. ‘I mean, I will miss him, but … I’m feeling so rootless. It’s been ages since I had a decent role to get my teeth into and I just don’t know if it’s ever going to happen for me. Ryan says I should get a job as a school secretary.’
‘What?’ Emma spluttered. ‘Well, that’s just typical! Look, I know you adore the pants off the guy and always have – hell, we really like Ryan too; he’s fun when he remembers not to take himself too seriously – but selfless he ain’t. God forbid he’d have the time or the energy to support you in the same way that you’ve been there for him.’
‘He does support me. He took me to Thailand, didn’t he?’
Emma’s voice softened. ‘Look, Sis, you are a bloody amazing actress. You’re not some bimbo starlet, you’re the real deal. Remember how Mum and Dad helped you get through stage school, paying for all those extra acting lessons? They weren’t just indulging you because it was what you wanted, they did it because they believed in you, because you had a talent that was worth nurturing.’
Despite herself, tears sprang into Jess’s eyes. Mum and Dad had been gone over a decade now, both having succumbed to cancer within a few years of each other, but not a day went by when she didn’t miss them.
‘Don’t quit yet, Jess. Something will happen for you, I’m convinced of it.’
Jess swiped the tears from her eyes. She didn’t know what she would do without Emma. It felt good to know there was someone in her corner, loving her unconditionally.
‘In the meantime,’ said Em briskly, ‘when are you next coming down? It’s been months since we saw you. Dan’s got a big jam in a couple of weeks – he and some of the other layabouts have got a mini music festival going on at the local pub. There’ll be beer. And possibly fags.’
‘Em! I thought you’d quit?’
‘Yeah, well, that would make me too perfect. See if you can persuade Big Head to join you.’
‘He’ll be filming. I’ll come though. Can’t wait to see Max.’
‘OK, but don’t put your fingers near his cage. He bites!’
*
By the time Jess came off the phone, Alana’s email had landed in her inbox. It wasn’t exactly heavy on details: just the name of the casting director, the address of the rehearsal rooms where the audition would take place and the title of the production – Horse Laugh. It was based on a series of successful books about a woman called Lydia who inherits a racing stables from her black sheep of an uncle. Despite knowing nothing about horses, jockeys or races, Lydia somehow manages against all the odds to make a success of it, with lots of hilarious adventures along the way. She’s aided and abetted by her faithful sidekick, a stable girl called Moira, who’s older, wiser and has a cynical one-liner for every occasion.
Jess quickly downloaded one of the books on her Kindle and spent the rest of the evening speed-reading while being fed chicken salad by Ryan.
‘Lydia is a great character, Ryan. I could do a lot with the part.’
‘Is she the only female role?’
‘No, there’s her friend, Moira. But she’s quite a bit older than Lydia.’
‘What are their ages?’
‘Thirty-something and forty-something.’
Ryan put his hand to his chin and rubbed it. Jess could hear the rasp of his stubbly beard on his fingers.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘You think they want me for Moira, the old one, don’t you?’
‘No, don’t be silly.’
‘But you do?’
‘I’m only thinking it might be a good idea to be prepared to audition for either one, just in case.’
*
The following morning, Jess found the address she was looking for and rang the bell fifteen minutes early. With a buzz, the door unlocked itself and she went into an open hallway, with a long corridor stretching back the length of the building and doors leading off either side of it … A young girl with a clipboard and scruffy ponytail was waiting.
‘You here for Horse Laugh?’
‘Yes. Jess Tate.’
The girl looked at her clipboard and found Jess’s name. ‘You’re a bit early, so if you could just wait here.’ She indicated four plastic chairs lined up against the wall.
‘Thank you.’ Jess sat. ‘By the way, can you tell me which part you’re auditioning for today?’
‘Moira.’
Jess smiled brightly. ‘Great. Thanks.’
The girl set off down the long corridor then opened the first door on the left and disappeared.
Jess let her smile drop. Ryan had been right. Thank God she’d listened to him and done her homework on both Lydia and Moira.
He’d put his arm round her and given her a pep talk: ‘Darling, they’ll be casting everyone younger than the book. Lydia will end up as a twenty-three-year-old and Moira a thirty-two-year-old – trust me.’ She trusted him.
Twenty minutes later she was standing in Charing Cross Road, dialling Ryan’s number.
‘I’ve been called back for this afternoon.’
‘I’ve got everything crossed for you.’
She got the job.
Within ten days the contract came through. Jess was on the up.
*
Ollie parked his old red MG Midget in the car park of Heathrow’s terminal five, grabbed the huge bunch of cream roses from the tattered front seat and ran as fast as he could to the arrivals gate. He got there with time to spare. Red’s flight was delayed by thirty minutes.
Good-looking young men running breathlessly through airport terminals with vast bouquets of expensive roses inevitably attract attention. He was no exception. Two giggly air hostesses approached him.
‘We know you don’t want any fuss and this is your private time, but can we have our photo taken with you?’
He stood and grinned for the picture, conscious all the while of more and more eyes turning towards him.
‘You waiting for Red?’ a young teenage girl, standing a few feet away, asked boldly and rather too loudly. ‘Is all the band coming too? I’m wearing my T-shirt.’ She opened her grubby denim jacket to reveal Red and her band Red Zed in action.
‘Hmm,’ said Ollie, smiling while pulling his baseball cap down further. He felt a nudge in his ribs and turned to find a potbellied man in his fifties, sweating in an over-tight polo shirt and with highly magnifying spectacles, preparing to jab him again. ‘You’re that actor fella, are you?’
‘Um.’ Ollie was feeling horribly exposed and uncomfortable.
‘I know it’s you. My son here –’ he pointed at a gangly spotty boy wearing an ‘I ♥ Red’ T-shirt – ‘is waiting for Red’s autograph. She is coming through this way, isn’t she?’
‘Um …’ Ollie hated this level of recognition.
‘Well, is she or isn’t she?’ asked Mr Magoo.
At that moment two uniformed police officers, tipped off by the air hostesses, stepped in. ‘Come with us if you would, sir,’ said the taller one as they positioned themselves on either side of him, angling their bodies to clear a way through the growing crowd and escort him to the safety of their small office.
‘Who are you meeting, sir?’ the tall policeman asked, closing the door behind them.
‘My girlfriend. Red?’
‘Thought so. Our colleagues airside will assist her through Customs and get her out to you in one piece.’
‘Thank you. That’s really kind.’
‘No problem, sir.’ The policeman’s eyes flicked to his colleague. ‘While we’re waiting, would you mind giving us a photo and an autograph?’
*
Red’s tiny frame, clad head-to-toe in black leather with even blacker sunglasses covering most of her pale freckled face, topped by the trademark scarlet spiky hair, was barely visible within the phalanx of police officers. It didn’t stop the fans who were waiting for her, and the wider audience of innocent bystanders, from pressing forward, cameras flashing as they called her name. When Ollie’s two policemen manoeuvred him safely inside her secure circle of blue uniforms, Red screamed with joy.
‘Oh my God! Isn’t this crazy!’ She kissed him and held onto the arm that wasn’t carrying the bunch of roses. Then, sticking her free arm into the air and waving at the crowds, she yelled, ‘Hi, everybody! Red’s home!’ which encouraged a fresh blast of flashbulbs and hysteria.
‘Have you missed me?’
‘Yeah!’ shouted the crowd, whether they were fans or not. It seemed the polite thing to do.
‘Red can’t hear you!’ she shouted back. ‘I said, “Have you missed me?”’
‘YEAH!’
By now they were nearing the exit and the police, in one practised and professional move, steered Red and Ryan out of the terminal and into a big black limo parked on the double yellow lines.
Red was bundled into the back and she reached a hand out ready to pull Ollie in after her.
‘My car’s in the car park,’ he said.
‘OK. See you later,’ said Red. The chauffeur closed the door behind her and hurried round to get behind the wheel. Red’s window slid down and she asked, ‘Are those for me?’ Pointing at the roses.
‘Oh – yes.’ He handed them over.
‘Thanks. I’ll call you as soon as I get to the hotel.’
The car moved away from the kerb just as the crowds burst through the terminal doors and out onto the pavement. Seeing them running towards the car, Red tossed her roses into the air for them to catch.
Ollie could only look on in astonishment as two dozen roses at five pounds a stem were torn apart.
*
In the open and very public breakfast room of the Starfish, Brooke took a seat opposite the odious Milo and listened to his pathetic rewrite of the previous evening’s events.
‘Brooke, babe, you have no idea how upset Rupert and Michael are thanks to your outrageous behaviour.’
‘My behaviour? Excuse me, but they were off their faces and I was frightened.’
‘Frightened? Whatever of?’
‘I felt intimidated and threatened. Physically, emotionally and sexually. And instead of protecting me, you tried to bully me into “being nice to them”, as you put it.’
‘Now you’re talking nonsense.’
‘I was scared. They were drunk and taking drugs.’
‘So what? Everybody does a bit of coke. It’s nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.’ He picked up his coffee cup and winked at her across the rim. ‘Who’s to say the charlie wasn’t yours?’
‘What? I am not some pea-brained idiot, Milo. I felt like a piece of meat last night. “Get them a drink, Brooke. Be nice to them, Brooke.” You expected me to have sex with one or all of them, didn’t you?’
Milo’s face darkened and he leaned forward, glancing around the breakfast room to make sure no one was eavesdropping before lowering his voice and hissing, ‘Prove it. Who’d believe a slag like you over someone like me?’
Brooke’s heart beat faster as she took in this sudden nasty turn, but she was determined not to show her alarm.
‘You forget – there are photographs.’
Milo leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘Meaningless! The boys were just fooling around – a bit of talcum powder and high jinks.’
Brooke played her trump card. ‘I’m going to tell Bob. And when he hears how you behaved he’ll leave your agency and tell the press why. You’ll be ruined.’
‘Ooh! She threatens me. I’m so scared!’ Then Milo dropped the mock hysteria and hissed nastily: ‘Have you checked your phone lately?’
Brooke was on the back foot. ‘No.’
‘You should.’
She scrabbled in her bag and brought out her phone. One voicemail message: Bob. Very emotional.
‘Milo’s just called me. Do you really need a job that much? Getting stoned? Drunk? Giving the Café Au Lait guys the come-on? I can’t believe it. If Milo hadn’t walked in on you, I’d never have known. He’s helped you so much and this is how you repay him? And me? Fuck, you’ve used me good and proper, haven’t you? Milo will keep all this out of the papers – for my sake, not yours. As for us? You are not the person I thought you were. I’ll send your things to Milo’s office for you to collect. I’m changing the locks and my phone number, so don’t bother trying to get hold of me.’
Brooke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her eyes brimming with tears, she looked across the table at Milo. His mouth twisted in a cruel, satisfied grin.
‘How could you be such a bastard, Milo? What have I ever done to you?’
He spread his hands in front of him. ‘What can I say? This is business, babe. You don’t play by my rules, you’re finished. No Café Au Lait contract, no hero boyfriend, and no agent. Oh, and you can kiss goodbye to the magazine column, the make-up range, the handbags – all cancelled. I’ll see to it you never work in this industry again. Shame, because you were on the cusp of something good.’ He stood and tossed two twenty-pound notes on the table. ‘Call that your tip.’
Brooke could only sit fighting back the tears, watching in silence as he walked away, taking her career with him.