Looking for Lara
September
IT’S 5.30 A.M. I’M WEARING RUBBER GLOVES and wielding a loo brush. How did my life come to this? I left Amy Air so full of hope and promise, now here I am, not even a year later, with my arm stuck down a toilet. I hate my job, I hate my life, and I hate myself for having got into this mess.
What was I thinking of? I should have carried on flying; okay, so it wouldn’t have altered the fact that Nigel left me and some other woman stole the life I should have had, but at least I would have been a comfortably off singleton. Thanks to some hare-brained that I could become the next Meryl Streep, I am now an impoverished forty-something without a place to call home, my life packed away in bubble wrap at a warehouse off the M4.
Who needs therapy or self-help books to mend a broken heart? All you need do is follow these three easy steps: a) Give up your well-paid, secure, and interesting job. b) Sell your comfortable home and move into someone’s poky back room, complete with resident psychocat. c) Forgo all luxuries and live from hand to mouth doing menial jobs.
Et voilà! You’ll have so many majorly serious problems to contend with (like SURVIVAL) that being dumped by your boyfriend will seem a minor blip by comparison.
My positive side tries to persuade me that jobs like this are all good, character-building stuff. Besides, should The Rovers Return or The Queen Vic be casting for a cleaning lady, my hands-on experience may just give me the edge over actresses who’ve never operated a squeezy mop or emptied a Dyson.
Pah! Dream on. It’s time I faced up to the fact that I’ll never make it as an actress. One thing I have learned over the last few months is that acting isn’t just about remembering lines and moves; you have to let go of your inhibitions, be a little bit daring, and take the plunge. Something always holds me back – fear of making an idiot of myself, I guess, and the harder I try, the more awkward and nervous I feel.
‘Stop thinking so much,’ Portia keeps telling me. ‘Thinking about how we sound or look makes us self-conscious. Be brave, go with your instinct, and don’t analyse situations. It destroys the magic.’
I shudder when I think of the huge sacrifice I’ve made – and for what? I squirt another dollop of Toilet Duck and scrub furiously, tears plopping into the bowl.
‘G’day!’
Startled, I wheel around, toppling over onto my bucket of cleaning stuff.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ says the tall, young stranger, crouching down and handing me my grubby J-cloth and can of Mr Muscle. His Pacific-blue eyes hold my gaze.
‘I’m Dean. New night security. I must have been on patrol when you arrived.’
‘Emily,’ I sniffle, proffering a yellow, rubber-gloved hand. ‘The cleaner … in case you were wondering.’
‘Well, Emily, nice to meet you,’ he says, treating me to a dazzling smile. ‘Maybe see you around tomorrow.’ And with that he is gone.
* * *
That evening, as I climb the steps of Dramatic Ar s for the very last time, I stop to admire the full moon.
I close my eyes and centre myself by breathing deeply. Faye believes this is a time for cleansing, for new beginnings, for emotional and spiritual growth. She told me to make a wish out loud in front of the moon then visualise it coming true.
She also said it’s a time for looking in the mirror and saying nice things to yourself. I draw the line at that one though.
I came to drama school to learn how to make sense of Shakespeare, how to walk in a bustle and corset without keeling over, to flirtatiously flutter a fan, and to move and sing simultaneously without getting breathless. No one warned me that you had to take part in a Jeremy-Kyle-type reality show before you were allowed to pass ‘GO’. If they had, I think I would have stuck to serving chicken and beef at thirty-two thousand feet.
Maybe now it’s time to put stability back into my life. I should forget my dream, wake up, and behave like any normal middle-aged woman, by getting a proper job with a pension scheme and Christmas bonus.
* * *
‘You’ve had twenty-four hours to think about this, and now you’re telling me that your motive, the event that’s going to get those anger juices flowing, that’s going to fuel your performances in time to come, is the fact that you had a puncture, were late for your first day at work, and your boss was mean to you?’ says Portia, scrutinising me with a look of despair in her kohl-rimmed, piercing green eyes.
Here we go again. I must be some kind of masochist, to have spent the last nine months putting myself through this kind of torture.
I’m realising that the optimist in me has been telling lies – encouraging me to keep on keeping on, because any day now I’ll find the key to that secret door that leads to the actor’s holy grail; that special place that separates the truly talented from the merely mediocre. But let’s be realistic for once: I’m never going to find the key, am I? With no Plan B, where does that leave me? Bitter tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard. God, please don’t let me cry. My toes clench together in my jazz shoes, my face and neck flushing the colour of a strawberry smoothie.
‘Come on, Emily, surely you can do better than that? Haven’t you ever been accused of something unfairly or had your heart broken in two?’
‘Sure, but …’
‘Well then, how did that make you feel?’
‘I … I …’ I murmur, shrugging my shoulders and casting my eyes downwards, wishing I could silently slither down a gap between the floorboards.
‘Didn’t you feel betrayed, wounded, bloody furious?’ she probes.
‘Of course, but …’
‘Well then, now’s your opportunity to break through those emotional boundaries and tell us what’s in your heart. No one’s going to laugh at you. If you’re serious about becoming an actor – a good actor – then you have to live on the edge, bare your soul. Acting is all about trust, Emily.’
‘I know, I know,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘It’s just that, well … I’m not entirely comfortable with all this touchy-feely stuff. Please don’t get me wrong,’ I add quickly, desperately searching for the right words, ‘I … I’m not exactly the stiff-upper-lip type … far from it … I mean, I cry at Britain’s Got Talent … but … well, it’s just that …’
‘Do you want to be one of those actors who believes they’ve done a good job so long as they remember their lines and don’t bump into the furniture?’ continues Portia, tearing into me. ‘Or would you rather be the type of actor who inhabits a role, who sets the stage alight, who can hold an audience in the palm of their hand, make them squirm in their seats, move them to tears, or cause them to laugh uncontrollably?’ Her eyes are flashing now, as her amethyst ring catches the light, sending a whirlpool of lilac light around the room, like a glitter-ball.
‘But isn’t acting all about pretending?’ I say weakly. ‘Don’t tell me you have to have committed murder before you’re eligible to play the villain in an Agatha Christie.’
All eyes hit the floor, and an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. I flush even harder.
‘Acting is about finding the truth in imaginary circumstances,’ says Portia matter-of-factly.
I know she’s right. All the same … some things are personal. How I wish this were over. I can’t carry on just staring at the floor though. It’s humiliating. Got to do something … oh well, here goes …
‘Those years we spent together, the plans we made – did it all mean nothing to you?’ I say, quietly, haltingly. ‘You were the one who brought up marriage and children, not me, and then when I said I was ready, you kept me hanging on. And all that stuff about “finding yourself” … what a joke! You bastard. You didn’t even have the decency … no, let me finish … you didn’t even have the decency to tell me what was really going on.’
All the bottled-up emotions swirling around inside me since that hideous night come flooding out, filling my words with a mixture of anger and sadness. A big tear slides halfway down my cheek, attaching itself to my nostril, and my legs turn to Plasticine. I grab the corner of the chair.
‘Why couldn’t you have sat me down and told me the truth? That you’d fallen out of love with me and met someone else? But no … you wanted me to think you were having some sort of mental breakdown, when all the time you were sleeping with her. And I was too in love to see through you … even blamed myself. Hah! You’re nothing but a coward and a liar … Come back! Don’t walk out when I’m talking to you! Why must you always bury your head in the sand? Come back …!’ I cry, my outstretched arm flopping limply by my side.
My performance is greeted by complete silence. Moments pass.
‘Are you all right?’ asks Portia gently, handing me a tissue.
‘I’m fine, really I am,’ I say, giving my nose a blow that could warn shipping. I’m not faking it; I really am all right. In fact, I’m more than all right; I’m elated, in a strange sort of way. I did it, and it feels great – liberating – like this huge, tangled mass of poisonous emotions wrapped around my heart has been hacked away and has finally lost its stranglehold. I wasn’t just saying those words; they came from somewhere deep inside me.
‘At last! It took you to the very end of the course to get there, but I knew you had it in you,’ says Portia, with a note of pride. ‘Now, hold on to that emotion and file it away under ANGER, ready to be unleashed as and when the part calls for it,’ she continues, squeezing my arm.
I rejoin the group, sitting in a circle on the floor. I suddenly feel as if everything has fallen into place. Up to this very moment I have been stumbling, muddling my way through, putting on a brave face to the world, pretending to myself that I’m better off without Nigel. It’s now rapidly, brilliantly dawning on me that I truly had been clinging to a lost cause, and I’m free at last.
Thank you, Stanislavski. I think at last I’ve got it.
* * *
It’s Karaoke Nite at The Dog & Whistle. James and Sally take to the stage to give their Dolly and Kenny rendition of ‘Islands in the Stream’. My mind rewinds nine months and that first awkward meeting. What a long way we have all come: the emotions, the secrets, the triumphs and failures we have all dared to share.
‘To you all and the great adventures that lie ahead!’ announces Portia, popping open another bottle of Prosecco.
‘To us!’
I look around at our merry band, so full of hope and anticipation. I wonder how many of us with dreams of becoming actors will become Hot Property, and how many will end up scraping together a living as market researchers or living statues.
My tyres hiss as I weave along the rain-drenched road home. I freewheel down the hill, feet off the pedals, head tilted back, face cooled by the sudden downpour. I feel lighter somehow, as if at any given moment my bike and I could soar up into the black night to the moon, just like in E.T.
I have no idea what the future holds or how I’m going to survive, but tonight, for the first time since embarking on this mad journey, I feel I’m taking tentative steps towards reclaiming the confidence and self-esteem I lost during Nigelgate, and I’m filled with – not sure what, but this much I do know: I am no longer afraid of being alone.
Goodbye and thank you, Dramatic Ar s, for showing me that though life may be difficult at the moment, I refuse to be brought down by cheating, critical lovers or unforgiving, bitter bosses. Sure, there will be more bumps along the way, but I have a choice; and I choose to keep following my dream, no matter where it leads.
* * *
My love affair with Russia began at the age of fourteen, when they showed Doctor Zhivago on the telly one Christmas. We were studying the Russian Revolution at school, and this epic film brought those dry History lessons to life, and was the reason I got an A* that term.
While most of my friends were drooling over Jason Donovan or Tom Cruise, Yuri Zhivago was the object of my adolescent desire. I would backcomb my hair into a bouffant up-do, just like Julie Christie, wear oversized sweaters and my mum’s faux fur hair band, her pale coral lipstick completing the Lara Look.
I even bought a second-hand balalaika with my pocket money and tormented my parents and the dog by playing ‘Lara’s Theme’ over and over. I begged Mum and Dad to book Russia for our summer holidays instead of Spain. (Needless to say, Spain won the majority vote.)
Some twenty years later, when my flight schedule took me to Moscow, I channelled my inner Lara once more, as I skated in Gorky Park, fantasising as I fell over, that I might one day be scooped up by a handsome Russian doctor who would write me beautiful poems.
The only person who ever came to my rescue was an ice marshal called Zoya, who reminded me of Miss Trunchbull and could lift you up with one arm. I decided then it was high time I grew up and left my Russian romance in my teenage past.
But today I am required to dig deep and channel my inner Lara once more, as my first professional audition, two months after leaving drama school, is to play Olga in Chekhov’s Three Sisters.
How I’d love to say it’s an epic BBC costume drama, involving three months’ filming in grand Russian palaces and sumptuous ballrooms, but the truth is it’s a ‘profit-share’, pub-theatre production. I may have been awarded a D– in Maths, but even I am able to calculate that 40 seats @ £10 ÷ 14 cast members + 5 crew = very little profit (and that’s assuming it’s a full house every night). But then I’m not in this business for the money, rather “to do interesting work that challenges me” – isn’t that what actors always say on The Graham Norton Show?
With only travel expenses guaranteed, you’d imagine there wouldn’t be much competition. Apparently seven hundred actors applied to audition for the fourteen roles, as the venue’s prime location means you might get spotted by agents and casting directors. It’s an opportunity to hone your acting chops, playing the kind of roles awarded only to star names in the West End.
* * *
Ignoring the stench of beer and the odd peanut, I slither around the stained and grubby floor of The Red Dragon pub, going ‘sssss.’ I want to stand up and shout, Could somebody please explain to me what this has got to do with Chekhov?
‘Right then, that’s the end of the warm-up, and in a few moments we’ll be calling you into the room one by one, so please have your audition pieces ready,’ says someone called Rocket, with dreadlocks and a clipboard.
I pace up and down, quietly practising my speech – again:
‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here … having here …”’
Oh, God, what comes next?
‘Emily Forsyth!’ calls Rocket.
A queasy feeling floods my stomach. I’m ushered into a poky back room, where I’m introduced to the creative team.
‘Now, Emily, what audition piece are you going to do for us today?’ asks Hugh, the director.
‘I’d like to do Katherine … Queen Katherine from Henry The Eighth.’
Casting me a sympathetic glance, he nods. ‘In your own time.’
With four pairs of expectant eyes upon me, I breathe in, trying to steady my voice.
‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here no judge indifferent, nor no more assurance of equal friendship and proceeding …”’
With my audience just inches away, and crates of mixers, packets of assorted crisps, and pork scratchings occupying almost every available space, it’s hard to imagine I’m a sixteenth-century queen in a grand hall, begging my husband not to force me into a quickie divorce.
‘“… in God’s name turn me away, and let the foul’st contempt shut door upon me, and so give me up to the sharps’t kind of justice.”’
I lift my eyes from my kneeling position.
‘Thank you,’ says Hugh, breaking the long silence. ‘Now we’d like you to read part of Olga’s speech for us.’
The script starts to quiver as I take it from him.
‘Turn to page two, beginning from the top please.’
I try to channel my nerves into capturing Olga’s mood of despair.
‘“Don’t whistle, Masha. How can you! Every day I teach at the Gymnasium and afterwards I give lessons until evening, and so I’ve got a constant headache and my thoughts are those of an old woman …”’
PSSCHH hisses a toilet from above. GERDUNG, GERDUNG go the pipes.
‘“I’ve felt my strength and my youth draining from me every day, drop by drop. And one single thought grows stronger and stronger …”’
I play the speech distractedly at first, but halfway through find myself relaxing into it and actually enjoying it.
Then suddenly it’s over: my one and only chance to make an impression. I wonder if they’ll let me do it again …
‘Okay. Finally, what do you feel you can bring to the role of Olga?’
‘Hmm. Well, like Olga, I used to be dissatisfied with my job, felt I’d missed out on marriage, felt old before my time, longed to be somewhere else. The difference is I did something about it. But I can still remember how that feels, and I could draw on those emotions.’
‘Interesting,’ says Hugh, rubbing his chin. ‘Thank you for coming. We’ll let you know on Monday.’
Monday? That’s a whole three days. But hang on! What am I fretting about? I can’t afford to take the job even if they do offer it to me. So it’s for the best if I don’t get it. Just put it down to experience.
* * *
Monday p.m.
Humph! So I’m not good enough for their play, eh? Their loss. Not for them, a thank-you-for-my-first-break mention when I collect my BAFTA, so bollocks to them.
Half an hour later, the Sex and The City theme tune comes drifting across the landing into the bathroom. Jeans at half-mast, I stagger and stumble to the bedroom, and swipe my mobile from the dressing table.
‘Emily, it’s Hugh.’
I hold my breath for a moment.
‘Oh, of course, the audition. Hi,’ I say in my best I’m-a-very-busy-person voice, heart leaping into my throat.
‘Good news … we’d like you to play Olga for us. What do you say?’
My tummy does a double somersault. I open my mouth to speak, but catch myself in time. I want to grovel with gratitude and swing from the chandelier (or in this case, the wire-framed fabric light fitting with rayon fringe), but I mustn’t appear too desperately keen. I count to three, then say coolly, ‘I’d love to – thank you – I’d love to.’
‘Great. Rehearsals start Monday. Rocket, our deputy stage manager, will e-mail you all the details. Good to have you on board.’
‘Thank you,’ I say again, trying to maintain my composure until he rings off.
‘YESSS!’ I whoop, punching the air and landing with a thud.
‘Emily, is that you?’ calls Beryl from downstairs.
Hastily zipping up my jeans, I screech over the banister, ‘Beryl, I got the job!’
‘Fan-bloody-tastic, darlin’! Let me just turn Countdown off an’ I’ll crack open that bottle of Asti Spumante in the sideboard. I’ve been waiting since Christmas for an excuse to drink it.’
Three glasses of lukewarm Asti Spumante later, and my euphoria has turned into sickly panic. With daytime rehearsals for three weeks, how am I going to earn any money? Why didn’t I think this through more carefully? Look before you leap. Will I never learn? My self-esteem may well have had a bit of a boost, but the same can definitely not be said for my bank balance. There has got to be a way …
* * *
‘“Masha will come to Moscow for the summer … aargh! … for the WHOLE summer … Masha will come to Moscow for the whole summer …”’ I repeat, as I wind my way in between the desks, flicking my duster with one hand, balancing my script with the other.
‘Hello again!’
I spin around, tripping over computer cables and a waste paper basket.
‘Sorry, I’ve gotta stop freaking you out,’ says Dean, grabbing my elbow, his piercing gaze meeting mine. My heart gives a little flutter.
‘Glad to see you looking cheerier than last time we met.’
‘Yes, sorry about that,’ I reply, glancing at him sideways.
‘Guy trouble?’
‘That, and one of those where-the-hell-is-my-life-going moments.’
He looks at me blankly. He must only be in his twenties, so I guess this concept is about as alien to him as Snapchat is to me.
I glance at the clock. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to be at my next job in less than an hour, and I haven’t started the vacuuming yet.’
‘Sure thing. You know, we should …’
‘Sorry?’ I bellow over the roar of the hoover.
He shakes his head and mouths ‘goodbye’.
* * *
I pedal through the damp, chill, early morning air, chanting, ‘Aleksandr Ignatyevich Vershinin, Aleksey Petrovich Fed… Fedotik.’ Gaah! Why is no one in Russia called Bob Jones or Jim Smith? I glance at my watch: 7.15. ‘Aleksandr Ignat… Ignatyevich Vershinin, Aleksey Petrovich Fedotik …’
My other job is at The Red Dragon, which is very handy, as we rehearse here. The only way I can afford to do the play is by taking on another early morning cleaning job. End of.
Using all the female charm I could muster, I persuaded the landlord that good beer and Sky TV alone were not enough to lure the clientele. What the place needed was a woman’s touch: a splash of bleach here and a squirt of air freshener there. (That was the polite, edited version.)
Anyway, it worked. So from 7.30 a.m. I’m Mrs Overall, picking chewing gum off bar stools and replenishing paper towels. Then, fast-forward three hours, and I’m Olga Prozorova, schoolteacher and eldest sister to Masha and Irina, dreaming of marriage and Moscow.
There’s even a shower I can use. The pipes gurgle and rattle a bit when I turn it on, and it splutters and drips freezing cold water, but at least I don’t arrive at rehearsal smelling like a compost heap.
By the end of the week, I’m sleepwalking my routine:
0430: Alarm goes off. Hit snooze button.
0435: Alarm goes off. Roll out of bed.
0445: Down a bowl of Special K.
0450: Grab bike and pedal like the clappers.
0515: Arrive at office. Clean.
0700: Leave office for pub. Clean.
0845: Shower, change, stop at Norma’s Diner for tea and runny egg on toast.
1000–1800: Rehearse.
1830: Home, dinner, learn lines, and go over what we did today.
2200: Bed, in order to be up at 0430 to repeat all of the above.
In between times, I am also sending out mail-shots to agents and casting directors:
Please cover my performance as Olga in ‘Three Sisters’ at The Red Dragon Pub Theatre, Lady Jane Walk, Richmond. 17th December – 31st January at 7.30.
Even if only four or five turn up it will be worth it – won’t it?
* * *
TONIGHT AT 7.30
THREE SISTERS
BY
ANTON CHEKHOV
I feel my stomach lurch as I glance at the sandwich board outside the pub. This is it. No more ‘Sorry, what’s my next line?’ or ‘Should I be sitting at this point?’ After three weeks’ rehearsal, I think I’m pretty solid on my lines and moves, but there is always that fear lurking somewhere in the shadows, of stepping out in front of an audience and thinking, Who am I? What the hell am I doing here? Who are these people?
I make my way upstairs to the cramped, communal dressing room. Where, oh where is the star on the door and the mirror with light bulbs all around it?
I am the first to arrive and bag myself a wee corner. With fourteen of us in the cast, it’s going to be a tight squeeze. I lay out my make-up, hairbrush, bottle of water, and lucky elephant charm (a treasured gift from the cleaner at the crew hotel in Mumbai). I then distribute my First Night cards.
One by one, the others start to drift in, and nervous, excited chatter and vocal warm-up exercises soon reverberate around the room.
There is a rap at the door and Hugh enters, pushing eighty-year-old Betty, playing Anfisa, the nanny, into the lap of Vershinin (he’s the lieutenant, who’s in love with Masha, my sister, but they’re both married, his wife’s suicidal and … well, it’s complicated).
‘Break a leg, everyone. Unfortunately our audience tonight is slightly thin on the ground, but please don’t let that put you off. I want you to act like the place is full – which I’m sure it will be once the reviews are out.’
Another knock on the door and Rocket calls breathlessly from the other side, ‘Act One beginners, please!’
As I wait in the pitch blackness behind the stage, I wonder if there’s anyone out there at all. No excited chatter or rustling of sweetie papers. I find a tiny hole in the masking drapes, close one eye, and peer through, just as the door at the back slams shut. A solitary cough fills the silence.
The lights go down and the opening music, by some Russian composer whose name I can’t remember, let alone pronounce, crackles through the speakers. I clear my dry throat, fumble my way through the leaden darkness five steps to the makeshift stage, and take up position. The music fades and the lights snap on, burning my face, blinding me with their glare. Here goes …
‘“… Andrey could be good-looking, only he’s filled out a lot and it doesn’t suit him …”’
A mobile phone goes off.
‘Hello …’
‘“But I’ve become old, I’ve got very thin …”’
‘It finishes around 10.30, I think … I hope …’ (snigger) …
‘“I suppose because I lose my temper with …”’
‘Okay, darling, see you in the bar. Hmm? I’m not sure …’
‘“… the girls at the Gymnasium. Today I’m free, I’m at home, and I have no headache …”’
‘Ooh, I know … make it a vodka and orange … a double … I’ll need it! Byee!’
‘Shh!’
‘“I feel younger than yesterday …”’
We haven’t even reached the end of Act One and I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of despair. Marvellous method acting? Would it were true.
A car alarm goes off.
What in God’s name is that guy doing?
‘“… Andrey, don’t go off …”’
I don’t believe it. He’s getting up. KER-CHUNG! goes the seat as it flips up. EEEEEEAK! creaks the door. A shaft of light streams through from the bar.
‘“He has a way of always walking off. Come here.”’
‘GOAL!’ comes a collective, triumphant cry from the bar, just as the door swings shut.
I guess Chelsea must have scored against Sheffield then.
We brazen it out to the interval - somehow. Acts Three and Four go a little better, and apart from the odd cough, our meagre audience seems to settle down. Maybe they’re actually getting into it. On second thoughts, judging by the lukewarm applause as we take our curtain call, maybe they were comatose.
It wasn’t meant to be like this; I didn’t expect a standing ovation and flowers to be thrown at our feet, but I wasn’t prepared for this: to be in a production where the actors outnumber the audience. Is this what I have sacrificed my job and everything for? This is not my dream. I had such high hopes. Things are just not panning out as I expected. My bubble has burst already. My nails are chipped and dirty; my knees are bruised from pushing and shoving desks around the office and scrubbing stone steps at the pub. I wouldn’t care had I had one reply from a casting director or agent; even a WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU would have been nice, courteous.
‘Well done, everyone!’ enthuses Hugh, giving us the thumbs-up as we trudge up the stairs. ‘The drinks are on me.’
I’m about to make the excuse of having to be up at 0430, when Susannah, who plays Masha, as if reading my mind, says, ‘Come on, sis’, shall we show our faces and have just one?’
‘Why not?’ I say flatly, forcing a smile.
‘Ladies!’ calls Hugh, waving us over to the bar.
‘Hugh’s a sweetie,’ whispers Susannah. ‘I’ve worked for him before, and not only is he a brilliant director, but he really values his cast. The theatre is his life-blood. He should be at The National – but then shouldn’t we all, darling?’
Despite early success (she was plucked from drama school at the age of nineteen to play Rumpleteazer in Cats), Susannah tells me she has struggled since, doing the odd commercial and bit part on telly.
‘The only way I get to do the juicy, classical roles is on the Fringe, in productions like this, with a couple of students or maybe a pensioner or two for an audience at matinées. But who knows, one of these days, Sam Mendes may be out there scouting for new talent,’ she says brightly. ‘Top-up?’
She’s right, and I feel ashamed for harbouring snobbish thoughts about the lack of dressing room space, the non-existent set and having to cobble together our own costumes. This cast has great talent with TV and film credits as well as West End stage. Yet despite the lack of money, they are dedicated and determined to make this production the best it can be. I need to learn to be more realistic and patient. They are an inspiration to me.
I will not give up. NEVER.
* * *
Poor Dean. I don’t imagine for one moment that a long, dreary Russian play about three miserable sisters is his cup of tea. Nevertheless, desperate for a paying public (fewer than ten in the audience and performances are now threatened with cancellation), I cajole, chivvy, then bully him into coming along – and to bring as many of his mates as he can muster.
‘Okay, you win,’ he says eventually, holding up his hands, mouth breaking into a wide, toothpaste-ad grin. ‘I’ll come. I seem to remember I saw the movie with Whoopi Goldberg when I was a kid, and I quite enjoyed it.’
I look at him quizzically. Movie? Whoopi Goldberg doing Chekhov? ‘Aah,’ I say, cruelly amused. ‘I think you may be mixing it up with Sister Act.’
‘Hmm,’ he says pensively. ‘But it’s funny, right?’
‘Er … not exactly.’
His eyes bore into mine. ‘All right, I’ll come, and I’ll bring some of the guys as well – but on one condition,’ he says, folding his arms as he leans against a desk.
‘And what’s that?’ I enquire breezily, scooshing some anti-static cleaner onto a computer screen.
‘That you’ll let me take you for dinner one night.’
Unaccustomed as I have become to being asked out on dates (let alone by a guy twenty years younger than me), and particularly when I’m looking like Gollum in Marigolds, I blush a dark shade of red.
‘Well?’ he says expectantly, fixing me with a challenging look.
‘I … but … well … you don’t have …’ I say guardedly. ‘Okay … but no fewer than six friends, agreed?’
‘Yay! Gimme five!’ he says.
‘What? Oh … yay!’ and we slap palms. Please don’t laugh.
* * *
‘How old?’ splutters Wendy over lunch the next day, looking at me agog.
‘I told you, about twenty-seven, twenty-eight,’ I reply, nonchalantly taking a bite of my ham and cheese toastie.
‘You cradle snatcher, you!’ says Rachel, putting down her coffee cup.
‘Now listen, he was really insistent and we need an audience, so what choice do I have?’ I say reverently.
‘Maybe he has a fetish for rubber gloves?’ says Wendy.
‘Either that, or he’s got an Oedipus complex,’ adds Rachel.
‘Hey, I take offence at that,’ I say, screwing up my face. ‘You’re all just jealous.’
‘Damn right we are,’ says Wendy. ‘So when are we going to meet this antipodean hunk?’
‘Whoa, not so fast! He’s only asked me to dinner, not to walk down the aisle with him. And I never said he was a hunk.’
‘No, but I bet he is,’ says Wendy, eyes twinkling mischievously, desperate for details.
‘Okay, so he is tall and looks like he works out, but what has that …?’
‘I knew it!’ she says, thumping her fist on the table, sloshing coffee and mineral water everywhere. ‘Isn’t life funny? Here we are, flying all over the globe, never meeting anyone, and you work as a cleaner at the crack of dawn, when the only people around are milkmen and all-night garage attendants, and quick as a flash – oops, excuse the pun – this gorgeous, young guy from the other side of the world sweeps you off your feet!’
‘You know, when I was a teenager, I watched films like The Airport Affair, and read novels like Love in the Skies and Captain of My Heart,’ says Faye wistfully. ‘I was sold a dream of an air stewardess’s life: stolen glances in the cockpit and romantic, candlelit dinners overlooking the Taj Mahal. And the reality? “I didn’t have a starter so knock five dollars off my share of the bill.”’
‘The people who wrote this stuff should be sued for misrepresentation. They should tell it as it is,’ chips in Wendy, toying with the sugar. ‘That you’re more likely to meet your Mr Right cleaning toilets than on board a plane bound for Rio.’
‘Somehow I don’t think Love in a Broom Cupboard or Kiss of the Cleaner would exactly fly off the shelves,’ I remark. ‘Now, talking of dishy, charming pilots, which we weren’t, any developments in the Mike/Céline situation?’
‘Don’t ask!’ they groan loudly, in triplicate.
‘The latest thing is, he and his wife are now moving to a bigger house with land and stables so the kids can have horses. I mean, honestly, are these the actions of a man who is about to leave home?’ says Rachel, shaking her head wearily.
‘Why she stays with him, I’ll never know,’ I say. ‘Such a lovely girl, with so much to give.’
‘She once said to me, “What if there is no one else out there for me?” As if, and anyway, surely being on your own is better than this constant heartache?’ says Wendy.
‘I guess things are never black and white. I mean he must have something, mustn’t he?’ I say feebly. ‘Maybe I should have kept my dislike of him under wraps though. She never returns my calls or texts. Does she ever mention me?’
There is a thick silence between them as they stare into their empty coffee cups.
‘I only told her about Mike because I care, you know,’ I continue defensively. ‘She would have done the same.’
‘Shit! Is that the time?’ says Faye, gesturing for the bill, a slight wobble in her voice. ‘I’ve got to pick Tariq up from school, and I daren’t risk being late.’
‘Lunch is on me,’ says Wendy, helping her put on her jacket. ‘Now go!’
‘I’ll call you,’ mimes Faye, cupping her phone between her ear and shoulder as she dashes out of the door.
‘I’d better make a move too,’ says Rachel, pulling out her purse. ‘I’ve got to check in in three hours, and I haven’t packed yet.’
‘My treat,’ says Wendy. ‘Skedaddle! You know what the M25 can be like at this time of day.’
‘Thanks, angel,’ calls Rachel. ‘I’ll see you both at the play. Sooo excited! Break a leg, Em!’ she says, grabbing her car keys and blowing a kiss.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re all hiding something from me?’ I ask Wendy when we’re alone. ‘I’m not asking you to take sides. I’d just like to know why you look uncomfortable whenever I mention …’
‘Céline knew,’ says Wendy.
‘Well there’s a surprise. She’s obviously in denial …’
‘About Nigel,’ Wendy blurts out.
‘Sorry?’
‘Mike told her about Nigel and … Miss Mile High, but made her swear not to breathe a word.’
‘What? You mean she knew all the time and didn’t tell me!’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘About six months.’
‘Six months! And did you know?’
‘No – none of us knew until you told us you were splitting up.’
‘I can’t believe it. Six months! And she just stood by and watched …’
‘Mike put her in an impossible situation,’ says Wendy. ‘And she feels awful about it.’
‘Yeah, but then to add insult to injury, she takes out her guilt, anger, hurt, and whatever else on me!’
‘I’m not excusing her, but according to her therapist, it’s a common reaction.’
‘She’s in therapy? But she always comes across so confident, so comfortable in her own skin, so …’
‘Many of us do, sweetie but underneath …’ Wendy shrugs. ‘Please don’t let this cause an even bigger rift between you. Give her a call. Please.’
‘I don’t see why I …’
‘Please, hon. She’s not in a very good place right now,’ says Wendy, tapping her PIN number into the hand-held machine.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply.
Wendy escorts me to the bike rack. As I lean forward to release the padlock, I flinch.
‘Darling, you’ve got to give up this cleaning lark,’ she says, rubbing my back gently. ‘Surely there’s something else you could do – less physically demanding and better paid.’
‘I know. I promise once the run is over, I’ll hang up my Marigolds for good.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she says, sliding elegantly into her car. ‘Now go home, get some rest, and oh, do something about those nails, please. I can hardly believe that this is the same Emily Forsyth who was once awarded a distinction for Cabin Crew Grooming.’
I peer at my distorted reflection in my bicycle bell, face like a Cabbage Patch doll, messy hair poking out from under my cycle helmet. Was that woman really me? The one who had monthly manicures, pedicures, and facials? The one who was photographed for the in-flight magazine, gracefully pouring tea into a china cup, and lovingly tucking in a sleeping passenger with a tartan blanket?
I pedal through the park, my tyres making a scrunching sound on the crisp, copper and gold autumn carpet. A startled stag bounds out of the bushes and off into the distance, a garland of ferns trailing from his battle-scarred horns. An unexpected rush of contentment floods through my veins. There’s definitely something to be said for this spartan life. Sometimes, like now, it gives me a fresh view of the world. I must have driven through this park hundreds of times in my nifty little sports car. Did I ever notice things like this back then? Did I ever smell the damp undergrowth, or stop to watch the heron balancing on one leg in the rushes?
Despite being flat broke, exhausted and spotty, I wouldn’t swap my life now. It’s a small price to pay to be allowed to act on a professional stage (albeit four wooden pallets shoved together, barely twelve feet long). No one ever said it was going to be easy. Most good actors start from the bottom, don’t they? It’s not as if I have dreamy aspirations of becoming the next Kristin Scott Thomas or anything; but so long as I can keep myself financially afloat, who knows what opportunities may come my way.
As for the Céline situation: it’s taught me I can’t change others, only myself. If she chooses to be with Mike then that’s her business. I did what I thought was right and it backfired on me, but I refuse to beat myself up about it, have a stand-up row, or allow bad feelings to fester. Am I going to allow Nigel and Mike to destroy our friendship? No way. I will rise above the hurt and anger by sending her an invitation to a performance of Three Sisters.
This doesn’t mean I excuse her behaviour, or that I’m a walkover; it means I want to move on. I’m tired of playing the blame game and carrying a grudge. It’s weighing me down and is not good for the soul. If I am to survive in this crazy, turbulent, wonderful business, then I need all the inner calm and strength I can find.
* * *
‘Is that the excited chatter of an audience I can hear?’ says Susannah in disbelief.
‘OMG! Did someone say the word audience?’ says Ed, playing Chebutykin, sarcastically, cocking his ear.
‘Darlings!’ says Hugh, bursting into the dressing room, beaming expansively. ‘Now don’t let it throw you, but we have a full house! I knew that review in Time Out would do the trick. Good luck, everyone, and oh, this is your five-minute call.’
I take up my starting position and draw a deep, steadying breath. The atmosphere tonight is warm and vibrant, yet I’m the most nervous I’ve been throughout the run. Dean and his young friends, my friends, who regularly see the hottest Broadway shows, wouldn’t come to see an old, serious Russian play in a shabby pub had I not sold them the idea.
I think I can hear Wendy’s laugh. I dare to look through the spyhole in the drapes. My eye scans along the rows. In a space not much bigger than Beryl’s front room, having the audience in glaring proximity can be distracting enough when you don’t know them, but … there they are: Rachel, Wendy, Faye, and … an empty seat. Disappointment floods my veins. I should have resisted the temptation to look. I mustn’t let it throw me. Concentrate.
All at once the door at the back is flung open. Bright light spills down the aisle. The silhouette of a female figure. She hesitates.
‘Over here!’ hisses Wendy.
‘We have clearance,’ whispers the stage manager.
‘She came.’
He looks at me blankly. ‘You okay?’
I give him the thumbs-up.
The lights go down; the music starts.
What a difference an audience makes; to hear reactions to what’s said on stage lifts everyone’s spirits and performances. Everything is heightened, and the lines ring out earnest and true.
Instead of the usual, muted interval break, the atmosphere in the dressing room tonight is lively and buzzing.
‘You know the bit where I say, “Your clock is seven minutes fast”? Well, I got a reaction! Woohoo!’ says Nick, playing Kulygin. ‘They’ve actually picked up on my psychoneurosis – that I’m more concerned about the clock than the fact that my wife may be sleeping with another man. Bitch!’
‘I do love you really, darling,’ says Susannah, blowing him a kiss in the mirror.
‘This calls for a celebration. Tea all round,’ I say, flicking the kettle switch and collecting everyone’s mugs.
As Act Four unfolds, we have the audience in our grasp – not one shuffle or yawn or mobile phone menace.
‘“If only we knew, if only we knew!”’
The music fades. The lights go to black and there is silence. Lights up, and we join hands for the curtain call. Thunderous applause cracks the air, accompanied by cheering, whistling, and stomping.
Soon the whole audience is up on their feet. We all look at one another in astonishment, savouring the atmosphere. Dean was true to his word, and his rent-a-crowd has come up trumps.
‘See the trouble I go to to get you to have dinner with me?’ he says later in the bar, handing me an enormous glass of wine. ‘We really enjoyed it, didn’t we, guys?’
‘Aw, you’re just saying that,’ I reply with a self-deprecating shrug. (Why do I always do this? Throw compliments back.)
‘Nope, but strewth, what was the big deal with Moscow? I was there in June, and I much preferred St Petersburg.’
‘Darling! Well done!’ A familiar, cultured voice cuts through the raucous babble, and I turn to see Portia walking towards me, arms outstretched, theatrical in her long, burgundy velvet coat and fedora.
‘Is this the same woman who, not so long ago, was embarrassed to lay bare her emotions?’ she says, clasping me to her. ‘You shone tonight, Emily. I’m proud of you.’
‘Really?’ I say, secretly thrilled, but my insecure side is telling me she’s only being polite.
‘Really. Your performance worked. You breathed life into Olga, and my heart went out to her. I wept at the end.’
‘I didn’t come across too whingeing, too bitter?’
‘Not in the slightest. You got the balance just right.’
‘It’s just that some nights, I feel my insecurity infects the audience and I lose them altogether. The more I think about it, the worse it gets.’
‘If you’re worrying too much about the audience, then you’re not concentrating. Believe in yourself more, Emily,’ she says, placing her hands firmly on my shoulders. ‘Never forget Shakespeare’s words in Measure for Measure: “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.”’
She takes out a pen and jots the quote down on a Post-it Note, then places it firmly in my hand.
I look deeply into her face. She hasn’t just taught me about acting; she has taught me so much about myself, more than any therapist could have done, and I feel a stronger person for having known her.
‘Thank you, Portia,’ I say, hugging her, my warm tears running onto her cheek. ‘“Our doubts are traitors” will be my mantra from now on.’
‘Are you up for Waltzing Matilda’s karaoke bar later?’ interjects Dean, resting his elbow on my shoulder.
I smile at him. ‘Sounds great.’
‘You were fab!’ chorus Wendy, Rachel, and Faye, popping up unexpectedly behind me.
‘Emily, what are you drinking?’ calls Hugh from the bar.
‘Portia, come and meet …’
I turn around and she is gone.
Fighting my way over to our reserved area, I collide with Céline, making her way back from the loo.
For a long, long moment we just stare into one another’s startled eyes.
‘Chérie, I am so proud of you,’ she says quietly, kissing me tentatively on both cheeks.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ I say, biting my bottom lip, my tone perhaps a tad too cool.
‘Here we are,’ announces Hugh, returning from the bar with a tray full of glasses.
‘Sis!’ calls Susannah, patting the space next to her. ‘Come and meet Lionel, my agent.’
It’s almost closing time before Céline and I are able to have a few quiet words.
‘I’m so sorry for …’
‘Look,’ I say firmly, determined not to dredge up the past, and especially tonight, of all nights. ‘I don’t want to fall out with you. You had your reasons and …’
‘“Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas.”’
I look at her inquisitively.
‘“The ’eart,”’ she says, clutching her heart, ‘“’as its reasons, which reason knows nothing of”. This does not excuse my behaviour, but …’
‘I’ve moved on, Céline, and if you and Mike are happy, then …’
‘C’est fini,’ she mumbles.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Eet’s feeneeshed.’
‘Really?’
‘Oui.’
‘For good?’
‘Toujours.’
I look deeply into her sad, blue-lagoon eyes. I want to say I’m sorry, but I’m not, so setting down my glass, I impulsively put my arms around her and just hold her tight.
‘Eleven years of my life …’
‘I know.’
A huge tear rolls down her cheek and splashes into her wineglass. I rummage in my bag for a tissue, resisting the temptation of telling her she’s better off without that lying, cheating, arrogant bastard. After all, it’s not so long since I was in her shoes, and I know only too well how irritating those well-meaning break-up clichés are, and how they can make you feel even worse. You have to find your own way through the break-up maze.
Corny though it may sound, I’m now discovering the power of one and no longer feel lonely when I’m alone. I wish I could make her see that there’s a world of opportunity and adventure out there, just waiting to be found, but she has to have the courage to work it out for herself. As Céline is quick to point out, I have a passion for something that drives me and isn’t dependent on a man’s love. I’m the one responsible for making my dream come true. For Céline, the beautiful, hopeless romantic, her dream of becoming a wife and mother relies on finding a husband – and soon.
‘Drink up. You’re coming to Waltzing Matilda’s with us,’ I tell her. ‘I seem to recall we once made an awesome Agnetha and Frida at Kirk’s Karaoke Bar in downtown Dallas, did we not?’
‘Mon Dieu!’ she says, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at the memory. She then scrutinises herself in her compact mirror and runs the tissue carefully under her lower lashes. ‘On y va!’ she says, downing the last of her wine.
Nothing like a bit of ‘Dancing Queen’ to reseal a friendship and lift the spirits.
* * *
It seems I’ve only just drifted off, when I am woken by Rod Stewart belting out ‘Maggie May’. I open one eye. 0430. Slamming the OFF button on the radio alarm, I raise my head from the pillow. I feel like I’m drowning in a swirling, green, psychedelic sea. I fall back, holding my head in agony. The thought of overflowing bins and disinfectant makes me want to throw up. With rehearsals over, at least I’m free from nine until the evening show, I tell myself as I stagger to the bathroom, one hand grimly holding my head, the other my stomach.
The road approaching the office is riddled with bumps and potholes, and normally I manage to avoid the majority of them, but this morning, with my eyes half shut, I cycle headlong into each and every one, rattling my bones and jarring my nerves.
As I push the Dyson to and fro, gradually, agonisingly, fragments of last night seep into my fuzzy consciousness, torturing my mind. Last night I truly believed our rendition of ‘Voulez-Vous’ was worthy of a part in Mamma Mia! Now, in the cold, sober light of day, it’s dawning on me that we must have sounded like a pair of wild dingoes.
That night, and for the remaining ten performances, we are back to an audience of sleepy pensioners, uninterested GCSE students, and the odd drunk from the bar. We now know how it feels to have an appreciative crowd, and so the remainder of the run is an anticlimax – a bit like getting upgraded to first class once, and then having to revert to flying economy.
But I have been given a taste of how it feels to play a multi-dimensional character in front of an appreciative audience, and it’s made me hungry for Hedda Gabler, for… okay, maybe I’m a tad too old to play Hedda. I could play the likes of Lady Macbeth though, or Shirley Valentine. But how do you land that kind of role, unless some maverick director takes a risk on casting an unknown?
* * *
Dean turns up on the last night for our dinner date decked out in an ill-fitting, rumpled suit. He confesses he watched scene one then retired to the bar, so by the time the curtain comes down he’s had ‘a gutful of piss’.
‘The table’s booked for ten forty-five,’ he says, planting a slobbery kiss on the back of my neck. I stare at the floor and notice his trousers barely reach his ankles, and that he’s wearing a pair of shabby trainers (try to ignore this, Emily).
Pressing his hand firmly into the small of my back, he steers me towards the door. Why am I already starting to feel this was a bad idea?
* * *
The Thai, doll-like waitress, wearing turquoise silk and a hibiscus flower, smiles graciously and leads us to a dark corner of the cram-packed restaurant.
By the time our Tom Yum Goong soup arrives, I know this was a mistake. I should have insisted we just go for a drink. I vaguely remember Faye telling us that night at Waltzing Matilda’s that she’s joined a dating agency, and that one of the golden rules is to only agree to a coffee or drink on the first date. Then if you discover you haven’t got that much in common, you don’t have to endure an interminable and costly meal. Why didn’t this piece of professional advice register in my brain? (Probably because at the time it was otherwise engaged in ABBAville.)
‘You won’t believe it,’ Dean says, slurping his soup noisily, ‘but see this little, bendable iPhone I picked up in Tokyo,’ he continues, throwing down his spoon. ‘It has voice dialling, I can switch between music tracks by twisting it, like this … and it takes fantastic selfies. Smile!’
‘Really?’ I say vaguely, eyes ghoulishly transfixed by the blade of lemon grass hanging from the end of his damp chin.
‘Now Mum and Dad can see my Mrs Robinson in the flesh.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what Mum and Dad call you. You know, older woman seduces younger man.’
‘What? You’ve told your parents about me?’
‘I can ask it questions too, just as you would a person. Listen!’ he says proudly. ‘Any good bars in this area?’
This-might-answer-your-question … squawks the virtual assistant.
God help me, how am I to survive beyond the Sou Si Gung? I sneak a look at my watch and stifle a yawn. This is so embarrassing.
‘Some of my mates are going to that new nightclub in Kingston. I said we might meet them there,’ he says keenly, his glassy-eyed stare glued to my breasts.
‘Look, Dean, I’m really sorry, but nightclubs aren’t my thing,’ I mumble, covering my chest with my napkin.
‘Cool. We could go somewhere quiet for a drink – just the two of us.’ He lurches forward and reaches across the table for my hand, knocking over my wine and sending the basket of prawn crackers into orbit.
‘It’s been a long day.’ I squirm. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but do you mind if I give it a miss?’
His face clouds over and an awkward silence falls between us.
The evening has got to end NOW. I stand up and fish in my bag for my purse.
‘Oh, my God! I just remembered, I promised to feed my landlady’s cat while she’s away. Poor thing will be starving. Please take this towards the meal,’ I say, clumsily shoving a twenty-pound note into his hand.
‘No, please, this is my treat. Look, if your landlady’s away let’s buy a bottle of wine and have it at yours.’
Subtlety is obviously getting me absolutely nowhere, so there’s nothing else for it: Emergency Evacuation Procedure to be deployed pronto …
‘Great idea, but not tonight, eh?’ I say, giving a staged yawn. ‘Now I really must go. Thanks for the meal. It was lovely.’
‘But what about your main course?’
I hesitate, then spying a taxi, I leg it out the door and do a death-defying dash across the road. As I jump into my getaway car, I heave a sigh of relief, not daring to look back.
* * *
I push the living room door open a fraction.
‘I’m home, Beryl.’
‘Nice time?’
‘So-so. Glass of wine?’
‘No, thanks, dear, I’ve got my Johnny Walker,’ she says, shaking her tumbler of scotch, ice clinking.
‘Okay then, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, sweet’art.’
Flopping onto the bed, I take a huge gulp of wine, pop open some Pringles, pop in my earphones, switch off the light, and close my eyes. Ah, bliss!
Mobile rings. It’s Wendy.
‘Hi, hon. Sorry, I didn’t expect you to pick up. I was going to leave a message. Don’t want to interrupt your hot date.’
‘It’s okay. I’m lying on the bed with …’
‘Sorry, sorry. I’ll ring tomorrow.’
‘… Sam Smith and a tube of Pringles.’
‘What? No Dean? What happened?’
‘Aargh, don’t ask. It was a disaster. I left him at the restaurant.’
‘Why? Look, I know we’ve pulled your leg unmercifully about the age thing, but who cares? If you both …’
‘It’s not just that. We simply don’t have anything in common. Truth is, I agreed to go out with him because I was flattered to be asked out by someone so much younger – gave me a bit of an ego boost after Nigel. But, eeuw! He dribbled his soup and spilled wine everywhere.’
‘Give the guy a chance, Em. He was probably nervous, poor lamb. How sweet of him to treat you to dinner, when he probably doesn’t earn much.’
‘And he wears Bart Simpson socks.’
‘So?’
‘I know, I know, I’m being a heartless bitch. But he’s made me realise how much I like being single. Ironic, isn’t it? I used to be like Olga: desperate to marry, but if only the Olgas of this world could see you don’t have to have a man in tow to prove to the world how special or wanted you are.’
‘But what about romance, Em?’
‘I’ve got a more realistic approach to romance these days, Wendy. I don’t buy all that fairy-tale nonsense.’
‘It’s early days yet, hon. Never say never. Mr Darcy may be just around the corner.’
‘I’d forgotten what a minefield the dating game is. All that wondering what to wear, what to say, trying to be someone you’re not; I’m getting too old for all of that. Besides, I’m focused on my career now. Enough of me. What about you?’
The ensuing silence is charged with emotional intensity. Wendy and I are so close on so many levels, just like the sisters we longed for as little girls, yet the door to one area of her life is firmly barred to me. Sometimes, like now, I give it a gentle push, in the hope that it may open a fraction.
‘Wendy, it’s been seven years. Steve wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life alone.’
‘I know, I know,’ she says, a slight tremor in her voice.
Wendy was a supernumerary hostess on her first flight to Mombasa. Steve was a photographer and painter, on an assignment for a wildlife magazine. The moment their eyes met over the crushed Coke cans and empty nut packets of Wendy’s drinks trolley, they were smitten. They shared the same humour, love of sport and travel. He encouraged her to paint. She taught him to ride horses. Before long they were living together, and finally, thirteen years into their relationship, they decided to tie the knot in a private ceremony in the place where they had met.
A chill still goes through me when I remember the night I got the call, telling me that Steve had drowned in a windsurfing accident. How could he have? He was a strong swimmer. There had to be some mistake. But the tidal currents can be strong and unpredictable in that part of the world, and when Wendy saw him waving to her on the shore, she had no idea he’d run into difficulty.
She says she’s grateful to have known such tender, respectful, kind, mutually supportive love just once in her life, as some people – even married people – don’t ever experience that.
And that’s the only kind of love I would like: not to settle for someone because time is running out, but the type of soulmate love Wendy and Steve shared; someone who’s my friend first, my equal, and accepts me for me and doesn’t set out to change me. But I know that kind of love is hard to find, so if it never comes my way, that’s okay, because I’d rather be on my own and look after me, instead of trying to rescue and fix the man in my life, which can be, quite frankly, exhausting.
‘Is there any truth in the rumour that you went on a date with a certain LA fitness trainer?’ I venture.
‘Might be,’ says Wendy coyly. ‘But don’t get excited. He’s just for fun – not husband material, before you ask.’
‘And? Are you seeing him again?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘When?’
‘I’ve got a three-day LA next Thursday.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Randy.’
‘Randy. That’s very … American. Attractive?’
‘Yeees … in a kind of Action-Man-doll way.’
‘You mean he has bendy arms and legs?’
‘Naturally. And swivelling head.’
‘Chiselled cheekbones? Dimpled smile? Designer scar on his left cheek?’
‘Yep.’
‘Muscular torso?’
‘Of course. This model also comes equipped with detachable designer shades.’
‘Fuzzy, GI haircut?’
‘And plastic, moulded pants.’
‘So, not detachable then?’ I quip, choking on a Pringle.
‘Absolutely not!’