Flying Solo
October
AS THE TRAIN GATHERS SPEED, I feel light-headed.
Closing my eyes, I unleash the thousands of lines, cues, stage directions, and quick scene changes of the last eight weeks, allowing them to flow out of my brain, through the window, and into the ether.
I am hurtling towards the Lake District, to indulge in long walks, yoga, and meditation in the company of … ME. After all the craziness, I need to press the pause button, to be on my own for a while; to recharge, to reflect, to plan, and find inspiration to finally finish writing my one-woman show, which currently comprises of just one page of script.
This is another first for me; not so long ago the thought of going on a solitary mini break would have been my worst nightmare, making me feel exposed and self-conscious, but today I’m actually excited at the prospect.
‘We are now approaching Oxenholme station. Oxenholme station, the next stop.’
Google maps leads me along a main road, then left into a tree-lined, gravel drive. Sunlight flickers through the archway of heavy branches, the stillness broken only by falling droplets of rain from the earlier shower.
I turn the corner and gasp. The website hadn’t prepared me for the spectacular grandeur of The Forest Hill Hotel & Spa, a converted Gothic mansion, surrounded by beautifully landscaped gardens, set against a dramatic backdrop of towering mountains. This is how the new Mrs de Winter in Rebecca must have felt when she first laid eyes on Manderley.
No Mrs Danvers to welcome me, but Max, the elderly proprietor, who greets me from across the reception desk with a warm handshake.
After I’ve signed in, he unhooks a key from the rack, picks up my rucksack, and leads me up the wide, creaking staircase.
‘You’re in The Sycamore Suite,’ he says, holding open the studded, panelled door and gesturing for me to enter.
I absorb my surroundings: very olde-worlde, dominated by a wonderfully opulent, four-poster bed and huge fireplace. There’s a chaise longue in rich fabric and lots of scatter cushions in country house colours. There’s a tiled wash stand in one corner, complete with pitcher and bowl (none of your £24.99-shopping-channel tat, but the real deal), and dried lavender and a sampler hanging on the wall: Catharine Alexander. Born in the Year of our Lord 1692.
‘Dinner’s served between seven and nine-thirty,’ says Max. ‘And the spa is open from eight to eight. If you need anything just dial zero for reception. Enjoy your stay.’
He hesitates for a moment. Do I detect a pitying look fleeting across his face? I’m about to explain that I’ve come here alone through choice, in search of peace and quiet in which to write, but then why should I feel the need to explain my solo status?
‘Thank you. It’s perfect.’
He bows his head, smiles, and pulls the door to.
I kick off my trainers and socks, and like an excited child, I run around, wallowing in the luxury I took for granted back in my flying days.
I peek in the bathroom, which has one of those traditional, roll-top, cast-iron baths with clawed feet. My radar homes in on the abundance of miniature bottles of bubble bath, shampoo, cleanser, toner, and moisturiser; and not the cheapo stuff either – the Molton Brown range, no less (my favourite) – all there for the swiping.
There are even His and Her slippers with FHH stitched in green and gold thread. I wonder if you’re allowed to keep those. I mean, it wouldn’t be very hygienic to pass them on from one guest to another, would it? You could end up with verrucas or athlete’s foot. Oh, and as for the fluffy, white, monogrammed, towelling bathrobes hanging on the back of the door … don’t you dare even think about it, Emily Forsyth. That would be downright dishonest and not worth the risk of being rumbled.
I wander back into the bedroom, unhook the crooked, latticed window, and look out across the manicured lawn to the velvety hills beyond, dotted with grazing sheep, like balls of cotton wool. Not a rambler in sight, and the only sounds a rushing stream, a bleating chorus, and distant birdsong.
I rip open the complimentary chocs, uncork the half bottle of champagne and recline on the chaise longue, my eyes scanning the list of spa treatments. Now, which one will I choose?
Tired, sore feet? Yep.
Then why not try our fish pedicure? What?
Relax while they nibble dead and dry skin, leaving your feet feeling soft and invigorated. Eeuw!
I decide to play it safe and opt for the Thalaso Seaweed Wrap, followed by a paddle in the outdoor infinity pool, then dinner.
‘Good evening, madam,’ says the mâitre d’. ‘Room number please.’
‘Hi. I’m in room ten.’
‘Ah yes, table for one,’ he says, checking his list. ‘This way please.’
As I pass by the other diners (all couples), I’m aware of their sympathetic sideways glances and furtive looks from behind their menus.
A rosy-cheeked, well-meaning couple even invite me to join them. I decline politely, pointing at my book and map with a smile.
‘Lovely lady like you shouldn’t be on her own,’ hollers the wife from across the room. ‘We can budge up, can’t we Donald?’
‘Thank you, but I really …’
‘Nonsense! Waiter! Bring over another chair, will you?’
I’m almost on the verge of joining them just to silence her, when Donald jumps in and rescues the situation.
‘Leave the poor lass alone. God, what I’d give to be able to eat my dinner in peace without you constantly yakking in my ear.’
This has the desired effect, although poor Donald is not in for a good night, judging by the seething look on her face.
I order a glass of red and study the menu. Oh, dauphinoise potatoes, mangetout, beef filet in a red wine jus, how I have missed you! I have been trapped in a world of frozen ready meals, soggy, pre-prepared salads and late-night pizzas for the last eight weeks, and I never want to go back there.
* * *
I awake next morning with the bright September sun on my face, the white muslin curtains swelling like sails in the breeze. I sit up in bed, rub my eyes awake, and let out a startled yelp at the scary vision in the wardrobe mirror opposite.
It’s gone nine. So much for my early morning dip and Himalayan sauna.
I order continental breakfast from room service, take a shower, pull on my hiking gear, pack my rucksack, and head downstairs.
‘Good morning,’ says Max handing me my freshly prepared packed lunch. ‘Forecast is good. You’re lucky. It rained every day last week.’
‘Thanks, Max. I’ll be back in time for dinner.’
He reaches under the desk and produces a pair of binoculars.
‘As it’s such a clear day, I thought you might like to borrow these.’
‘Thank you.’
Placing the binoculars around my neck, map in hand, I exit the back garden via the squeaky gate, over a rickety, planked bridge, and across a gurgling stream. A pheasant darts out of the hedgerow – frantically flapping its wings – then soars upwards, coming to land on a tangle of boulders, high above me.
The springy grass soon gives way to rough and rocky terrain. As the path begins to rise up steeply, I start to feel as if I’m wearing a corset, the laces being pulled tighter with every step I take, nasty blisters from my rarely worn climbing boots stinging my heels.
I clamber over a craggy ridge and collapse on a cushion of lilac heather, the warm sun on my face. I open my eyes and study the billowy cloud formations. The word nuvole falls from my lips. Nuvole. How beautiful is the Italian word for clouds: light, floating, fluttery, just like in the Wordsworth poem.
My thoughts then turn to Francesco and my heart speeds up again. I look at my watch. He’ll be in the market now, chatting with the stallholders, choosing the ingredients for tonight’s menu.
I’ve missed my Italian lessons, the banter, the silliness. Can we pick up from where we left off, or will eight weeks apart have changed us? I mean, we’re just friends. There was that almost kiss, but it’s as well it didn’t happen. Romanza only complicates things, and I won’t allow myself to be derailed like before. In any case, for all I know, he may well have a wife and five bambini back in old Napoli.
I haul myself up, scramble and claw my way to the top, draw the binoculars to my face, and scan Scafell mountain range, their summits poking through the band of hovering mist, like islands in the sky.
I have gasped in awe at the Rockies, the Himalayas, and the Grand Canyon, but through a tiny porthole at thirty-two thousand feet, they seemed unreal: remote, unattainable, aloof, inanimate. These mountains leap out at you, inviting you to reach out and touch their rough, rugged edges, to explore their rock faces and scree gullies, to dip your throbbing feet in their icy, tumbling waters, shelter in their shadowy crevasses, be bewitched by their unusual, brooding shapes, daunted by their noble magnificence. They are very much alive, their colours and moods constantly changing with the elements.
Forget the sun rising over Hong Kong Harbour, the Manhattan skyline from The Empire State, or the thunder of the mighty Niagara Falls; there is nowhere on earth that I would rather be than here, atop Crinkle Crags, overlooking Bowfell and the Langdale Pikes, like felt cut-outs against a painted sky. I am drunk with fresh air and wonderment, possessed by a mad desire to run in the grass without any shoes, à la Julie Andrews.
I reflect on the last two months: the wobbly scenery, the terrible wigs, and the mixed-up lines, so stressful and torturous at the time.
But thanks to that chaotic mermaid, mature bride, farcical maid, and chain-smoking, theatrical landlady, I now have the material and characters I’ve been searching for to write my one-woman comedy.
* * *
Back at the hotel, I light the honeysuckle-scented candles, find some Einaudi on Spotify and languish in the deep bath, intoxicated by the sweet, jasmine-fragranced vapour rising from the steaming water.
This is exactly how my fifteen-year-old self imagined an actress’s life to be: floating in a flower-filled bath after a hard day’s filming, reclining on a chaise longue, sipping champagne, eating fine food, sleeping in a four-poster bed, taking a dip in the private pool, being pampered with manicures, pedicures, facials, and expensive creams.
The forty-two-year-old me is under no such illusion, but is allowing herself to relive that teenage dream for just a few more hours.
I hobble into the stone-walled dining room, bravely smiling through my pain at the other residents who bid me, ‘Good evening’.
No pity invitations tonight and fewer furtive looks.
The moment I sit down on the carved chair, I slip off my strappy heels and wiggle my throbbing toes.
As the waiter pours me a glass of wine, I peer at the faded tapestry suspended from a black, wrought-iron, fleur-de-lis rail next to my table. He tells me an army of local women wove this by hand some four hundred years ago, and that it represents the people and the community of the village. On closer inspection I am able to decipher the hotel (formerly the manor house), the church, the higgledy-piggledy farmers’ cottages, surrounded by a tumult of peaks – Crinkle Crags, Bowfell, and Pike o’ Blisco – the very same ones I’ve scrambled and clawed my way up, and slipped and slithered down.
They may be responsible for my aching limbs, calloused heels, and black toenail, yet they have stirred something in my soul. I wonder if this is the same ‘something’ that motivated those local women long ago, that inspired Wordsworth to write poetry, and that has given me the appetite of a hungry hippo.
Dinner over, I wander barefoot into the garden. I pass the tiered fountain, sparkling water spouting from a chubby cherub’s mouth, on into the peaceful sanctuary of the verdant, aromatic herb garden, filled with rosemary, sage, thyme, chives, basil, and parsley. The lavender bends and sways under the weight of the droning bees. The fragrance is soothingly hypnotic. The heavily laden fruit trees, watched over by the moss-coated statue of the goddess, Pomona, cast mystical shadows on the lawn.
I spread my pashmina on the grass, sip my Irish coffee, and open my notebook.
All at once my concentration is broken when, without warning, a low-flying Tornado jet from the nearby RAF station shoots across the rosy pink sky, leaving behind a thick, white vapour trail. I look up and there it is – the title I’ve been searching for pings into my brain …
Winging It
A Comedy in Two Acts
* * *
Thirty-six hours later, I’m walking through the iron gates for the final time and down the driveway towards the main road.
I stop, turn, and give one long, last respectful look at the Langdale Pikes: strong, magisterial, graceful, and wise.
The last two days have instilled in me an inner peace and strength, which I will doubtless need to tap into as I re-enter the real world in just a few hours’ time.
I take my seat in the Quiet Coach, the doors beep shut, and we’re off, London-bound. The mauve and green hills flicker through my reflection and are then snatched away too soon.
I lean back into the headrest, close my eyes, and slip into a dreamy, cinematic state …
I’m once more at the summit of Crinkle Crags, looking out over Great Langdale, cut to Red Tarn lake, where I finally learned to swim (yay!), pan over to Fifth Avenue, downtown Manhattan …
CARRIE: Em, honey, what are you wearing?
SAMANTHA: You’ll never get a man looking like that.
MIRANDA: What happened to you?
CHARLOTTE: We’re taking you shopping, hon.
I awake with a jolt, painfully aware of several sets of scornful eyes upon me, the Sex and The City theme tune blaring from the overhead rack. I leap out of my seat, grab my bag, and pull out my phone.
‘Hello,’ I whisper.
‘Lionel here. Got a casting for you, darling. It’s …’
‘Don’t tell me; it’s tomorrow.’
‘Yes, how did you know? Anyway, someone …’
‘Let me see, someone has dropped out at the last minute?’
‘Their loss could be your gain.’
‘Oh, Lionel I …’
‘No, let me finish. It’s for a major tour of Stepping Out!’
‘Isn’t that about tap dancing?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘But I can’t tap dance.’
‘Doesn’t matter, darling. You’re up for the role of Andy, the tall, drippy one with no co-ordination. You’re perfect.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Can’t seem to find the relevant bit of script, but you’ll be fine. She doesn’t say much.’
Past experience is teaching me not to go wild with excitement at Lionel’s this-could-be-the-one casting calls. But then Portia’s words ring in my ears. I’ve nothing to lose, besides which, it’s all very well dreaming of producing and performing my own play, but even a one-woman show requires a venue, lighting, sound, publicity, and front of house staff, and my waitress’s wage only just about covers my rent and living expenses, so putting on my cheery, positive voice, I say, ‘Great! Where do I have to go?’