‘Rosie? Rosie love?’

I thought I saw your eyes flicker just then, but no. Nothing. Under the white cotton sheet, the landscape of you rolls out: your feet the highest peak, your knees, sharp hips, your breasts that don’t budge an inch even when you lie down, and you’re too young to even know how incredible that is, how much you’ll miss it one day.

‘Everything all right here?’ It’s our nurse, the nice one.

‘Thank you, yes,’ I say. ‘Actually, I was just thinking, will that water in the jug there be stale? Maybe I should freshen it up in case she wakes. The doctor said it could be any time.’

She lays a hand on my shoulder. ‘You stay where you are, Toni. I’ll change it right this second.’ She smiles, takes the plastic jug from your bedside table and off she goes. I watch her leave; let my eyes drift across the ward. Those two beds won’t be empty for long, I’m sure. The young girl is asleep.

In my text, I told Emily you’d had a funny turn, that’s all. It didn’t feel right not letting her know you were here, but I didn’t think she had to know the whole story. She’s stuck with you when others might have given up. She’s been very patient. When you got sick for the third audition, I thought she’d fire you. Very gently and nicely, of course, but you’re no use to her if you can’t make auditions, are you? No use at all. And the third audition was a film, a terrific opportunity that would have had you filming in France!

You were so elated I thought you’d got on top of your emotions, found a way to turn your nerves into excitement. She’s going to do it this time, I thought. But you followed the same pattern as the two previous times: all right the day before, didn’t seem too het up about it, but by that evening you complained of stomach pains and I thought, Uh-oh, here we go again.

‘Try not to worry,’ I said as I tucked you in with your hot-water bottle. You’d already had a fair few trips to the loo. I’d put a bucket next to your bed just in case you couldn’t make it to the bathroom. ‘Try and breathe and don’t fret. Fretting won’t help – it won’t help at all.’

You were crying so much you became short of breath. Your auntie Bridge came to your room and sat on the end of your bed. She glanced at me and we shared a look.

‘Oi, Squirt,’ she said, ‘what’s all this, you big skiver?’

But even she couldn’t cheer you up.

‘Should I take her down to A&E?’ she said quietly.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘It’s just an upset stomach at the end of the day. She’ll need nil by mouth and just sips of water for another twenty-four hours.’

‘You’re the nurse.’

‘I’m beginning to think we need to leave this audition business for a year or two,’ I said. ‘It’s all too much too soon, isn’t it?’

‘Stop talking about me in front of me,’ you wailed. ‘Don’t say that. I just need to do my do re mi and I’ll be fine. Just stop talking about me as if I’m not here!’

I stroked your forehead and shushed you as best I could. I didn’t shout or get cross. I knew you were taking your anger out on me because I’m the closest one to you. I took your empty milk glass and your plate into the kitchen. I could hear your auntie Bridge trying to cajole you, you whining back at her, miserable. After a minute or so, even Bridge gave up and joined me in the kitchen.

‘Poor kid,’ she said, sitting down.

‘We’ll see how she is in the morning,’ I said. ‘I’ll text Emily now and give her the heads-up, but frankly, it’ll be a miracle if she rallies in time.’

‘I think you’re right,’ she said.

‘About tomorrow?’

‘About too much too soon. She’s been through a lot. She’s only fifteen, Tones. I didn’t do anything serious until after drama school.’

‘Do you think she’ll ever be able to face it?’ I said. ‘Out there, I mean?’

‘Out there in the world? Of course she will! Just maybe not now. Not yet. She’s still so young.’ Bridget got up and opened the wall cupboard nearest the stove.

‘There’s no wine in,’ I said.

‘I’m not after wine.’ She moved aside a bottle of cooking brandy and pulled out the Glenmorangie that Helen had given her for Christmas. She grinned. ‘Medicinal.’

‘How old were you when you did that play at the Wimbledon theatre?’ I said.

Your auntie Bridge screwed up her eyes a moment. ‘I’d forgotten about that one.’ She pulled down the two crystal glasses, put them on the table and poured two small measures. ‘Eighteen? It wasn’t serious – I didn’t get paid or anything. When was that then? Was that before I went to Central?’

‘The summer before. You were in the local paper. The toast of Hounslow! We went to Pizzaland with Mum and Terry, that disgusting boyfriend with the gold tooth she had for a bit. It was a big deal.’

Your auntie Bridge shrugged. ‘Your memory’s better than mine, but yeah, maybe she should stick to the youth theatre for now, you know, where she feels safe. There’s no rush, is there?’

‘Exactly. I want her to have a childhood, Bridge.’

We exchanged a glance, the smallest nod. Neither of us said anything, but I knew she was thinking about me, about what happened to me. My childhood was finished at thirteen.

---

You slept all that night and all the next day. I rang in sick, checked on you every hour. At least asleep, you looked as if all your fears had dissolved and as if, wherever you were, you were at peace. I didn’t check your phone. I didn’t think to. I was too caught up in my mother’s vigilance, eyes fixed with terrible concentration in one direction, little realising that, like the victim of a dodgy street magician, following the marble in the cup, the ace in the pack, the rabbit in the hat, I was oblivious to the sleight of hand, ignorant that what I was training my sights on had been taken long before.