Читать книгу The Start of Something Wonderful: a fantastically feel-good romantic comedy! - Jane Lambert, Jane Lambert - Страница 9
ОглавлениеFinding my Inner Dog
January – new beginnings
WHERE THE HELL AM I? Blinking, I prop myself up on my elbows and slowly take in the swirling, green, psychedelic wallpaper, and the assortment of quirky knick-knacks that clutter every surface.
Three months have passed, and yet sometimes I still wake up expecting to be back in our king-size bed, in our White Company-esque bedroom, and for him to be lying beside me.
My watery gaze lands on Diana, Forever In Our Hearts. I smile as I remember the day I viewed the room when Beryl, my landlady, had proudly shown me her extensive collection of china figurines, which she guards as fiercely as The Crown Jewels.
‘This was at a high point in her short life,’ she’d told me mournfully, clutching Diana to her ample bosom. ‘The moment when she took to the floor with John Travolta during her state visit to the White House.’ There followed a moment of respectful silence, then pulling a hankie from her sleeve, she gave Di a little dust and returned her to her spot, next to the limited edition Smurf family, the matador, resembling a camp Action Man in white tights and cape, baby Jesus in swaddling clothes, and the Eiffel Tower snow globe with built-in music box.
Oh, how I long for my minimalist IKEA!
My throat tightens and hot tears prick my eyes. Come on now! Remember what the lady at the self-storage said: ‘You’re allowed access at any time,’ she’d explained in a sympathetic tone of voice, as if consoling a distraught mother who’d just lost custody of her children. That’s all right then, I tell myself, swallowing hard. Whenever I’m feeling low, I can pop along to the self-storage for some home-comfort therapy.
I swing my legs out of bed and Beryl’s burnt-orange shag pile tickles my toes. How I miss the cool, clean feel of polished wood underfoot.
I tiptoe along the landing to the bathroom and there, lurking in the shadows, like a feline Mrs Danvers, is Shirley, Beryl’s sluggish, obese, spoiled-rotten cat. Those speckled, almond-shaped eyes bore through me unflinchingly. Ever since I refused to open the back door for her and forced her through the cat-flap, I’ve had a chilling suspicion she’s been plotting her revenge.
I enter the avocado-green bathroom and tease the mildewy, slimy, plastic shower curtain across the rusty rail. I turn the tap full on, and the shower head – about as much use as a watering can – emits a trickle that would leave your petunia bed gasping. A startled spider tries to make a break for it up the side of the bath, but slithers back down, leaving me to do a kind of naked Riverdance as it swirls around my feet.
What I’d give to be languishing now in my sparkling-white, Italian-tiled bathroom, complete with walk-in power shower and scented candles.
Hey, don’t be such a wuss! Stay focused. This evening’s drama class will reaffirm that all this hardship is going to be worth it. It will. It will.
* * *
DRAMATIC AR S CENTRE
I peer through the driving rain at the shabby sign tilting dangerously in the wind, many of its bulbs burnt out.
As I chain my bike to the rack, a rush of feverish excitement and anticipation sweeps over me.
I run up the shimmering steps two at a time, my holdall containing new jazz shoes, sports bra, leotard, and leggings, swinging from my shoulder.
The heavy wooden door creaks as I push it open.
I make a dash for the loo, past a group of excited, young beautiful things who look like they belong on the TV series Glee.
I tie my soaking-wet hair into a high ponytail and put on some lippy.
‘Here we go,’ I say, high-fiving my Lycra-clad, slightly lumpy reflection. ‘You can do this.’
Putting on my air-stewardess smile, I bounce out of the door to the noticeboard.
Portia Howard’s method acting class for the over thirties takes place in the basement of this former church. As I enter the room, my springy gait quickly disintegrates into an apologetic tiptoe. Seated on benches at opposite ends of the room are other nervous newbies of all shapes and sizes, some staring at the floor, others checking their phones in absolute silence.
‘Hi,’ I whisper, squeezing in between a serious-looking chap in trackie bottoms, striped shirt, and tie and a mousey, bespectacled woman with frizzy hair. They both nod without making eye contact.
‘At my audition I had to imagine I was a plastic bag,’ I say eventually, in an attempt to break the ice. ‘In a force-ten gale.’
They both smile weakly. Why do I always feel it’s MY responsibility to fill awkward silences?
The door flies open and Portia, taller than I remember from the audition, enters centre stage, her black maxi skirt swaying, a red vintage shirt, and fingerless gloves complementing her boho-chic style.
‘Welcome, everyone. Whether you’re here with a view to becoming an actor, or simply to build your confidence, I hope by the end of the course you’ll leave with a better understanding of who you are, what you’re capable of, and a self-belief that will drive you forward in your personal life and career. So, let’s start by getting to know one another. Have any of you ever been speed dating?’
There’s a sharp, collective intake of breath.
‘Don’t worry,’ continues Portia quickly. ‘I don’t expect you to answer. What you do in your spare time is your affair.’ The room fills with air once more. ‘But this exercise works on the same principle. Let’s move the benches closer together with ten of you on either side. When I ring the bell you have two minutes to find out as much as you can about the person opposite you. When the bell rings again, the people on side A stay seated while those on side B slide along a space.’
The bell rings and the nervous, icy atmosphere of earlier melts away as the room is filled with noisy conversation and splutters of laughter, culminating in chaos when, in true Laurel and Hardy style, one of the benches tips, depositing two speed daters onto the floor.
Exercise over, Portia waits for everyone to settle down. The only sound is heavy breathing.
‘Breath control, projection, and body language – essential tools whether you’re addressing an audience of theatregoers or clients,’ she purrs in her resonant, velvety Joanna Lumley-esque voice, beckoning everyone to stand up. Placing her palm just below her breastbone, she continues, ‘Take a deep intake of breath, fill your lungs with air, like a balloon. Now, pushing the diaphragm in and out, I want you to pant like a dog.’
Pant like a dog? Oookay. Well, if I can successfully portray a plastic bag blowing in the wind, then a panting dog impression should be a breeze.
‘No, no, no!’ Portia says, gliding over to my side, her dangly earrings tinkling like wind chimes. ‘I don’t want to see any movement here.’ She firmly taps my shoulders. ‘It must all come from down here,’ she continues, as she prods my diaphragm.
‘Now try again. Fill those lungs … that’s it, and let out short, sharp breaths. I want my hand to feel that diaphragm bouncing. There, you see, you’ve got it!’
I’m chuffed I’ve got it, but all the same, I can’t help feeling I sound like a cross between a chat-line hostess and a woman in labour.
‘This strengthens the diaphragm, loosens the facial muscles, allows more air into your lungs, helps your voice to develop, and improves your posture,’ says Portia, as if reading my mind.
‘The next exercise is a good warm-up before an audition or performance. It’s called The Wet Dog Shake. Okay, everyone, let’s imagine you’ve just come bounding out of the sea, and now you’re going to shake yourselves dry,’ she says, as she drops to her knees, her long, tapered fingers splayed out in front of her on the grimy floorboards. ‘Let’s start from the top with the nose (she starts wiggling her nose), now the head, tongue, the shoulders (she shimmies her shoulders), legs … come on … bark if you wish … go for it … release your inner dog!’
James, Mr Respectable-Bank-Manager by day, catches my eye, and we exchange an incredulous look. Sally, the mousey, bespectacled, hitherto rather timid accountant has hurled herself into the exercise with rather more gay abandon than is necessary, tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth, resembling not so much a shaking dog, as someone having stuck a wet hand in the toaster.
‘Come on, you can do better than that!’ pants Portia. ‘Instead of huddling together like a pair of sniggering school kids – James, Emily – follow Sally’s lead. Let yourselves go! What are you afraid of? Making fools of yourselves? If you want to be actors, you have to learn to let go of your inhibitions. I want to see those tails wagging. I want to feel that sea spray flying off your coat. Wag that tail. Shake, shake, shake yourselves nice and dry. Wag, wag, wag. Come on …!’
A few nervous titters echo around the room, but then slowly, tentatively, like lemmings, we all follow Portia’s lead, and our class becomes less Glee, and more Geriatric Gym.
‘See, that’s not so bad, is it? Now roll onto your backs and kick those legs high in the air!’ she cries, her pewter bangles clinking like rigging against a sail mast.
As the Evening Standard’s Most Promising Newcomer of 1980 (I googled her), Portia Howard obviously knows her stuff, but is this what real actors do? I can’t quite picture Dames Judi or Helen kicking their legs high in the air and panting like a dog before a performance.
‘This is ridiculous,’ blurts out Poppy, whose every sentence ends with a question mark. ‘Basically, I don’t hold with all this horseshit.’
Her strained, cut-glass tones echo around the room as we all stare at her bug-eyed, legs suspended in mid-air.
Rising to her feet and smoothing her skinny jeans, she continues, ‘Release your inner dog? What has all this pretentious rubbish got to do with being an actor? I don’t believe for one moment that Keira Knightley has ever had to crawl around a filthy floor on all fours, pretending to be a dog, so I don’t see why I should.’
‘Good point, Poppy,’ says Portia calmly. ‘Keira has probably never done The Dog Shake, and you certainly don’t have to if you don’t wish. But exercises like this teach you to be more fluid in your movement, to release blockages in energy, so that you can express emotion through your body – as well as build up the stamina to cope with eight shows a week, without …’
‘Yah, but I’m basically not interested in theatre. I plan to go straight into TV and films. I don’t know about the rest of you,’ she says, scanning the class, perky nose in the air, ‘but I want to learn about camera technique, about close-ups and continuity, and … giving the director exactly what he wants …’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ says Portia, holding up her hands. ‘My class isn’t about showing you a shortcut to fame and fortune – if I knew that, do you think I’d be here now?’ she says with a half-laugh.
‘Obviously not,’ Poppy fires back. ‘But I have no intention of ending up a fifty-something has-been, teaching drama in a damp and dreary basement for the rest of my life.’
Catching her breath and her composure, Portia replies with a little, enigmatic smile, ‘Good for you. But what this “fifty-something has-been” can teach you is how to bring truthfulness and honesty to your storytelling. I can arm you with the right tools to survive in this dog-eat-dog, heart-breaking, wonderful business; talent alone is not enough. You need humility, patience, harmony …’
With an unabashed toss of her bouncy, shampoo-commercial hair, Poppy Hope-Wyckhill collects her D&G tote bag, places her jacket carefully around her shoulders, and struts out of the grubby basement on her patent wedge boots, in search of celebrity and riches elsewhere.
‘So if there are any more of you who are here just because you want to see your faces on the big screen or the cover of Hello! and are not willing to commit to hard work, sacrifice, and to embracing new challenges, then this is not the place for you,’ says Portia, directing her words at each and every one of us in turn. ‘Don’t be afraid to speak up.’
The clock ticks loudly, a distant underground train rumbles below, feet pound the floor above, as the muffled strains of some big musical number vibrate through the cracked ceiling.
According to Wikipedia, Portia has worked at The Royal Shakespeare Theatre, The National, and even been in a Merchant Ivory film. So why is she here? Is it the case that after a certain age the parts dry up? What hope is there then for me? I’m a bit ashamed to even think this, but is there an element of truth in Poppy’s outburst?
But there’s too much at stake now to even contemplate giving up, so I must put my trust in Portia and the great Stanislavski’s theory, that to be a successful actor you sometimes have to make an eejit of yourself.
‘Okay, we have just ten minutes left,’ says Portia, rummaging in her well-worn, Mary-Poppins bag and producing a small coloured ball. ‘Let’s see how many of those names you can remember. As you throw the ball, say the name of the person you’re throwing it to and if you’re right, the person catching the ball has to reveal to the group a secret about themselves – the deeper, the darker, the better. Aaand, Emily!’
It seems like everything is moving in slow motion, including my brain. The ball is heading this way … ooh, I can’t think straight … Oh, God, oh, God, this is so embarrassing … What am I going to say?
‘Correct. My name is Emily and … and … I once spent a night in a Middle Eastern jail.’
* * *
Being a Monday night, The Dog & Whistle, opposite Dramatic Ar s Centre, is deserted and we all pile around a long wooden table. Drinks in, we raise a glass to new adventures.
‘So, Emily. Spill the beans,’ says James, splitting open several bags of crisps to share. ‘You can’t leave us in suspense. How on earth did you end up in jail in the Middle East, for Christ’s sake?’
I’m not entirely comfortable recounting the sorry tale as it’s not something I’m proud of, and to this day I have never told my parents. The painful memory has been locked away for many years, but tonight, due to panic and a desire to impress, it was unleashed.
‘I’d really rather not …’
‘Come on!’ they chorus, eighteen wide-eyed faces looking at me expectantly.
Even the barman is taking an unusually long time to wipe the table next to ours.
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I was fresh out of cabin crew training school. My second long-haul trip, in fact. I’d never travelled to such an exotic land before, and instead of lying in my air-conditioned room, I wanted to explore the narrow streets of the old heart of Saudi’s capital; to smell the spices, the coffee, check out the colourful carpets and the ostentatious jewellery.
‘Hey, girls, are you all nurses?’ came a British voice behind us.
I don’t blame them – the young expat geologists who invited us to their compound that night – nor do I blame my fellow crew who weren’t strangers to Saudi and should have known better.
‘Isn’t alcohol illegal?’ I’d asked feebly over the blaring music at the party.
‘Yeah, but you’re on British soil here,’ replied our host, handing me a glass of home-brewed wine. ‘Cheers!’
What we naively and stupidly didn’t bargain for was being stopped and breathalysed by the police on the way back to the hotel.
I don’t blame the authorities either. We knew the laws of the land and we broke them. We were lucky we didn’t end up being incarcerated for years, being lashed, forbidden from entering the country again, or fired from our jobs.
I learned a hard lesson that night – to trust my own judgement and not be pressurised into following the herd.
If there was a prize for Most Shocking Secret of the Evening, then I can confidently say I would have won, but I feel cross with myself for having shared that most shameful of events with a bunch of strangers in order to be accepted, to be liked.
But then maybe daring to lay bare guilty secrets, disappointments, and desires is the key to being a good actor as opposed to a mediocre one.
Who knows, one day I might find myself tapping into the fear I felt on that terrible night to bring truthfulness to a role.
* * *
It’s 1 a.m. by the time I turn off the light, having shared tonight’s events with Beryl over a Babycham.
It’s early days, but tonight something shifted I think, and I got a tiny glimpse of where I’m headed – a fleeting confirmation that all of this will be worth it.
T. S. Eliot was right; it’s all about the journey and not the destination.
Warning:
Babycham may cause over-sentimentality.
* * *
I step off the crew bus, uniform, hair, and make-up immaculate. A bag lady is huddled in the doorway of the hotel.
‘Big Issue, Big Issue!’ she cries. I open my purse and lean towards her, looking into her eyes. Aargh! The bag lady is me.
I awake with a start to the blare of the alarm clock, hauling me out of my slumber, back to the real world.
It doesn’t require a psychoanalyst to work out the meaning behind this recurring nightmare.
I simply cannot carry on living off the paltry proceeds from the flat Nigel and I shared. This is supposed to be my emergency money, to support me after the course, during those ‘resting’ periods, in between theatre and TV contracts, daahling. Huh.
There’s rent to pay, food, my Visa bill, and drama class fees.
How naive I was to think I could just sail into another job.
This afternoon’s interview at Trusty Temps Agency is one of the few options left to me now …
* * *
‘Do you have PowerPoint?’ lisps the girly recruitment consultant, running her French-manicured nail down my brief CV.
‘No.’
‘Excel?’
‘Excel? Yes … I mean no.’ (Lying = v. bad idea, Emily.)
‘Minute taking?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Not to worry. Which switchboards have you used?’
‘Erm … none,’ I whisper, biting my bottom lip.
Uncrossing her long, slim legs, she lets out a heavy sigh, and forcing her glossy lips into a smile, says with a hint of superiority, ‘I’m afraid most of our positions are for people with these skills – but we’ll keep you on file.’
‘Sure,’ I say with a careless toss of my head, trying to look self-assured and unconcerned, whilst inside I feel like a technophobic old bat.
I stuff my CV in my bag, pull on my coat and beret, then take the walk of shame from the back office, through the reception area, past all the busy, busy consultants, furiously tapping their keyboards, whilst holding terribly important conversations on the phone.
It’s dawning on me with scary clarity that two decades of working in a metal tube have not armed me with the necessary skills to survive in the business world. I’m a dab hand at putting out a fire, boiling an egg to perfection at altitude, or serving hot liquids in severe turbulence without spilling a drop, but what use is all that in the wired-up world of desktop, data entry, and mail-merge?
Oh God, what is to become of me? Am I destined for a life of Pot Noodles and Primark? What am I going to do? What in God’s name am I going to do?
I trudge along the rain-soaked street. I can’t face returning to Knick-Knack Corral just yet. I turn the corner, and there, like a safe harbour in a storm, are the twinkling lights of Starbucks beckoning me in. Yes, I know, I know I shouldn’t be splashing out £3.20 on a caffeine fix, but I am in the grip of a major confidence crisis, and a large caramel cream Frappuccino is cheaper than therapy.
Sinking into a squashy sofa, I take a sip of my coffee, draw a deep breath, and take out my notebook and pen.
Potential Job List:
P.A./Receptionist/ Switchboard Operator?
Waitress?
Shop assistant?
Tour guide?
Cleaner?
Telesales?
Dog walker?
Market researcher?
Hmm. None of the above fills me with inspiration, but in my current financial state, I’d gladly don a baseball cap and serve greasy burgers from a catering van at a football stadium.
‘Are your gums sore, my angel, is that why you’re a grouchy girl today? Mummy make it better. Mwah, mwah.’
My gaze is drawn to the next table, where a group of yummy mummies in Cath Kidston, accessorised with matching designer tot, sip cappuccino and cluck and coo …
‘I was just warming his milk, and I swear I heard him say “Mama”. Didn’t you, Toby? What a clever boy! Yes, you are. You’re Mummy’s special boy.’
My eyes mist over, and I am consumed by a sudden yearning to belong to that members-only club; to have a little person to dress up in spotty dungarees, to romp around the park with, and to read Peppa Pig to.
Next to them is a table of young, svelte businesswomen, sipping their skinny lattes.
‘Let’s go in there and show them what we’re made of, girls. Here’s to new clients!’
‘New clients!’ they all cheer, chinking coffee cups and giggling.
Busy people with busy lives … children to pick up from school, meetings and post-natal classes to attend, deadlines to meet. And me? No job, no prospects, no daily routine …
Wife and mother
High-powered businesswoman
The soft lyrics of Adele’s soulful voice filters through the speakers.
Well, I can either sit here crying into my coffee, or take hold of the reins, buckle down, and find myself work.
I know I’m hardly a suitable candidate for The Apprentice, but surely there must be a vacancy somewhere for a well-travelled waitress with first aid and fire-fighting skills, who can say ‘Welcome to London’ in six different languages?
The earlier drizzle has now turned to torrential rain, so I dive for cover under the candy-striped awning of Galbraith’s The Jewellers. Row upon row of diamond rings blink at me through the glass. My chin starts to quiver and a huge tear sploshes down my cheek. Will I ever experience the thrill and romance of someone proposing on bended knee, before I reach the age of Hip-Replacement-Boyfriend? I had such high hopes when I was five, dressed in my mum’s white nightie and high heels, clutching a bunch of buttercups in my grubby fingers, an old net curtain and crown of daisies on my head.
Through the blur of my tears I squint at a sign in the window:
RETAIL CONSULTANT REQUIRED
APPLY WITHIN
Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I press the buzzer …
Miss June Cutler, manageress of Galbraith’s Jewellers, leans across the gleaming glass counter and peers at me over her half-moon glasses.
‘Ideally, we are looking for someone with retail experience in the jewellery trade, as many of our items are very, very valuable,’ she whines in a Sybil-Fawlty voice.
‘I may not have worked in a shop as such,’ I retort, ‘but I have sold duty free goods, and so I am … au fait with handling money and expensive items.’ (Working in the first class cabin taught me to always have a little, posh phrase up my sleeve – preferably French – when dealing with supercilious, la-di-da people.)
‘A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?’ she says, with a taut smile of her thin, red lips. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.
‘We didn’t just sell perfume and alcohol, but luxury goods as well – like gold and silver necklaces and designer watches: Cartier, Dunhill … and … and …’
Bloody typical! There was a time when I could have won Mastermind with ‘The World’s Leading Designers’ as my specialist subject, but just when I’m under the spotlight, the names escape me.
Miss Cutler, meanwhile, is scrutinising me as if I’ve just stepped off the set of some Tim Burton scary movie; then I catch sight of my reflection in the antique, gilt-framed mirror opposite, and do a double take. What the …? I have blood-red rivulets trickling down my face. Oh my God, the heavy rain must have caused the dye from my beret to run! (£3 from Primark, what do you expect, Emily?) I pull out a length of loo paper from my pocket, and a chewing gum wrapper falls to the floor.
There’s a stony silence. Here it comes, another helping of ‘I’ll keep you on file’ – not sure I can handle two rejections in one day.
‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh, holding out my damp, crumpled CV, like it’s a snotty hankie. ‘I have been left in the lurch rather, so you can start tomorrow at nine – sharp.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply, vigorously shaking her hand, sending the charms on her bracelet jingling.
Giving me a final once-over, she says pointedly, ‘Just one more thing – dress code here is smart.’
I resist the temptation to tell her to stuff her job and her precious things, and head out onto the bustling street. I jump astride my bike, leaving drizzly, grey commuterville behind, and pedal towards the bright lights of Dramatic Ar s Centre.
* * *
The next morning
‘You bastard!’ I mutter. ‘How can you let me down like this?’ As fast as I pump the air in, the faster it is released with a loud hisssss. I knew I should have caught the bus this morning. Fired on my first day. Great!
I fumble in my voluminous bag for my mobile and dial Galbraith’s number.
You have used all your calling credit, comes the unsympathetic, recorded voice. Heavy rain starts to pound the pavement. Shit! Right, that’s it! Wielding the pump, I unleash my pent-up anger and frustration on my bike, much to the sly amusement of early morning commuters, as they scuttle to the station, clutching their takeaway coffee, ears wired to iPods and hands-free.
Squelching and wheezing my way up the hill, I make a mental note to a) learn how to mend a puncture and b) invest in waterproofs.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Miss Cutler,’ I pant. ‘I would have got here quicker if I hadn’t had to wheel my bike and I wanted to call you, but my mobile was out of credit and …’
‘You’d better clean yourself up,’ she says, her steely gaze resting on my oil-stained hands. ‘And may I remind you, Emily, you are on probation. If you are serious about working here, then you had better pull your socks up.’
Blimey, I haven’t felt like this since fourth form, when I was hauled up in front of the headmistress for not wearing regulation knickers at gym.
‘The stock room looks like a bomb’s hit it,’ she snarls, giving me a death stare. ‘Health and Safety are visiting next week, so I’d appreciate it if you could tidy the place up, and ensure the fire exits are kept clear.’
‘Sure,’ I say in a sugary sort of way, jaw clenched.
(Another tip gleaned from years spent bowing to the whims of rude passengers: whatever verbal abuse flies your way, DO NOT rise to the bait. Respond in an overly polite manner, and it will annoy the hell out of your antagonist.)
‘“A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?”’ I mutter, giving my best JC impression from the top of the stepladder, as I fight with piles of slippery plastic bags that are refusing to stay on the stock room shelf. Huh! I’ve sold Rolex, Raymond Weil, Piaget, Mont Blanc to Arab kings, I’ll have her know.
‘Emily! A customer!’ comes Miss Cutler’s shrill voice from the top of the stairs, sounding for all the world like Mrs Lovett in Sweeney Todd.
God, five-thirty and seeing my girls can’t arrive quick enough.
‘Coming!’
* * *
As I chain my bike to the railing, I spy them through the dimpled glass, sitting in our favourite spot, by the open fireplace, and I smile inwardly.
My life may be starting to resemble a black comedy, but with a supporting cast like mine, I can just about deal with the fact that I’ve got Cruella De Vil for a boss, and that my acting dream is fast turning into a horror movie.
With abundant hugs and vats of wine, our gaggle of five have cried, advised, sympathised, and propped one another up through divorce, cancer, and single parenthood, so what’s a mere midlife career crisis and a broken heart in the grand scheme of things?
‘Darling!’ squeals Wendy, jumping up and wrapping me in an Eternity-fragranced hug. ‘We’ve missed you. How are you? You look … fantastic.’
‘I don’t,’ I snort, pulling at my fluorescent-yellow sash, suddenly conscious of my bare, rain-washed face and baggy, unflattering clothes.
‘Come and sit down,’ she says, patting a space on the banquette between her and Céline.
‘Chérie!’ says, Céline, kissing me four times, as is customary in her native Paris. She is French 1960s’ Vogue personified: translucent skin, sculpted cheekbones, and a natural, wide-mouthed smile (something we see little of nowadays).
‘Well, how’s it going?’ asks Wendy eagerly, extricating my arms from my dripping-wet anorak.
‘Fab,’ I say with forced gaiety. They both look at me searchingly. ‘Well, no, actually … awful.’
I feel someone tug my hastily tied, damp ponytail. I spin round, and there, brandishing a bottle of Sauvignon, is Rachel.
‘Hey, how’s our aspiring actress?’ she says, stooping down to kiss me, her silky, chestnut hair tickling my cheek. ‘Let’s take a look at you,’ she says, sloshing wine into my glass, as she studies me with her perfectly made-up eyes.
‘You look more relaxed than when we last met, not long after you and Ni …’
‘Ahem! To new beginnings!’ Wendy says quickly, raising her glass.
‘New beginnings!’ we chorus, happy to be together once more.
‘You’re missing all the fun, you know,’ says Wendy sarcastically. ‘The new first class service means the darlings can now eat whatever they want when they want; one minute you’re serving Chicken Chasseur to 5B, then 1E is asking you for boiled eggs and toast, whilst the group at the bar are crying out for crème de menthe frappé and canapés. Gaah!’
I pretend to wince, but the way I feel right now, I’d gladly serve a Jumbo-load of raucous, drunk, demanding passengers single-handedly every day until I’m sixty-five, if it meant having my old life back.
‘Now, who’s for some houmous and warm pitta bread?’ says Wendy, heading for the bar.
Turning to Céline, I ask dutifully, ‘How’s Mike?’
‘On a ten-day Sydney/Melbourne,’ she says, letting out a wistful sigh. ‘But he’s coming straight from the airport to stay at the flat for two days when he gets back,’ she adds quickly, face lighting up.
I shoot her a knowing glance over the rim of my glass.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she says in that to-die-for accent of hers.
‘Like what?’
‘That you-are-wasting-your-time look.’
I open my mouth to speak, but close it again and swirl my wine around my glass, eyes down.
‘He’s leaving after Christmas … next year,’ she says, voice falling away.
‘Why not this year, Céline? How many more Christmases must you wait?’
‘The twins have their final exams this year and it’s his wife’s parents’ Golden Wedding next June. So, I must be patient.’ She smiles weakly, fixing my gaze from under the eyebrow-brushing fringe of her sleek, ebony bob.
Mike is a classic case of how a uniform with four gold bands and a peaked cap can transform a balding, paunchy, unsexy, middle-aged man into a fairly attractive, dapper specimen – hardly Mr Darcy material, but a darn sight more pleasing on the eye than off-duty Mike, believe me, with his high-waisted trousers and Concorde novelty socks.
‘It’s just that I know how important a husband and children are to you, and I worry that by the time he leaves – if he leaves – it will be too late.’
‘C’est la vie.’ She shrugs. ‘Nothing in life is guaranteed … rien du tout. You were with a single man and …’ She bites her lip and turns away. She squeezes my hand, shakes her head, and says softly, ‘I am so sorry …’
‘Hey, it’s not your fault,’ I say, resting my head on her shoulder. ‘It’s probably for the best,’ I continue over-cheerily, fighting back the tears.
Faye comes over from the far end of the table, perches on the edge of the banquette, swivels round to face me, and says warmly, ‘Darling, it’s so good to see you.’ She brushes aside my wet fringe and plants a warm kiss on my forehead.
‘How’s Tariq?’ I enquire, anxious for news of my beloved godson.
‘He’s started school and loves it,’ she says, beaming, as she always does at the mention of his name.
I can hardly believe it’s only six years ago that we sat here, in this very spot, by the fireplace, toasting Faye’s new, glamorous life in Dubai …
‘You’ve only known him a few months, Faye,’ we’d said with a mixture of excitement and consternation. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’
‘I know it’s a gamble. But it feels right.’ She’d smiled, stroking her little bump, the huge rock on her finger catching the light from the fire. ‘And now Junior’s on the way, I just know it’s fate. I’ve waited a long time for my dashing prince to come along, and I’m lucky he found me in the nick of time, before I’m faded and forty-five, and my biological clock comes to a grinding halt.’
‘Ooh, it’s like Lawrence of Arabia and Love Actually all rolled into one,’ I’d said, swooning back into the sofa.
The ‘fairy tale’ began one New Year’s Eve in the Gulf …
Determined not to spend yet another Hogmanay in pj’s and a comfy cardie, getting slowly sozzled, whilst watching repeats of Only Fools and Horses – either that, or at some dire party, being groped at midnight by a total stranger with rubber legs and beery breath – we requested the same trip, packed our sparkly frocks, and headed off to the sun.
So there we were, dressed to kill, huddled around the buffet table by the swimming pool, retching and spluttering into our napkins like a bunch of ladettes, having discovered the grey stuff we’d just devoured was in fact lambs’ brains, when out popped a tall, swarthy, linen-suited stranger from behind the swan ice sculpture.
‘Ladies, ladies, ladies! This is a great delicacy in my country,’ he’d said with mock indignation and a mischievous grin.
We didn’t move or speak for several seconds, so mesmerised were we by this smouldering vision of exotic gorgeousness – think Antonio Banderas.
‘Sahir,’ he’d said in a low voice, bowing slightly, then delicately kissing our hands in turn. His long-lashed, melted-chocolate eyes held your gaze, making you feel like you were the only woman at the party – correction – on the planet. ‘I am the owner of the hotel.’ Signalling the waiter, he then called authoritatively, ‘Champagne for the ladies!’
Up until that moment I had never believed in love at first sight, but as the strains of Lionel Richie’s ‘Hello’ floated across the shimmering pool, you could almost hear Cupid’s arrow whistle past and hit its targets, as surely as if Oberon himself had squeezed some magic potion in their eyes.
Backlit by the orangey-red, evening sunlight, Faye positively dazzled. The sequins in her dress and the diamond combs in her golden hair glittered and sparkled, and Sahir fell hopelessly under her spell. He propelled her to the dance floor, and that was it: the start of a glamorous, heart-fluttering, pulse-quickening Mills-&-Boon-style love affair.
Faye begged and shamelessly bribed crew scheduling with home baking and fresh produce from her mum’s allotment, swapping her rostered flights for Dubai night-stops. She’d be met at the airport by a chauffeured, air-conditioned Mercedes, wined and dined at the best hotels, and showered with expensive jewellery. We lived our romantic fantasies through Faye.
Funny, isn’t it, how a girl’s overwhelming desire to be scooped up by a dark, brooding Mr Darcy in breeches and a white, floppy shirt, may cause her to misplace her common sense and ignore the sirens screaming in her ears; because, you see, for all his good looks and charm, this Arabian knight turned out to be a villain in disguise.
Whilst eager to embrace her new culture, Faye struggled with the language, the loneliness, the heat, and the homesickness.
‘Strife and sacrifice are good,’ her new husband had told her coldly. ‘This teaches discipline and humility.’
‘But I never see you. If you’re not at the hotel, you’re either “on business” in Abu Dhabi or Bahrain. Then when you are at home, you’re tired and irritable and don’t have time for me and Tariq,’ she’d cried, painfully aware that she sounded like the archetypal nagging wife.
‘My mother and sisters, they help with the boy. What is wrong with you?’ Sahir sniped at her. ‘You are spoiled and ungrateful.’
She loathed the way he always referred to Tariq as ‘the boy’, like some fusty, Dickensian father, and she hated the way his mother and older sisters took over the childcare and the running of the house, jabbering and whispering to one another, as if she were invisible.
‘Why can’t it just be the three of us, Sahir?’ she’d once said to him tentatively.
‘In my country we look after the family. Will you see them thrown out onto the street?’ he’d yelled.
‘I don’t mean …’
‘Enough! I will hear no more of this,’ he said, gripping her arm and shaking her, those same eyes that once made her heart melt, now angry and cold.
What had happened to the bubbly, self-assured, fun-loving, golden girl? Where had she gone? Faye realised she was totally miscast in the role of the subservient, dutiful wife and daughter-in-law. There was only one thing for it: to flee her gilded cage, taking her baby chick with her.
The story of their clandestine escape in the dead of night could have been plucked straight from the pages of an edge-of-the-seat John Grisham thriller.
‘Tariq is my son and he belongs here. I have contacts in high places in London. Remember this.’
Her ex-husband’s threats regularly terrorise her mind during those drifting moments before sleep seizes control – usually in some crew hotel thousands of miles away from home.
I hope with all my heart that this time my gut instinct is wrong, but although Faye has been granted custody, I have an uneasy feeling we haven’t seen the last of Sahir.
Nevertheless, despite a string of seriously disastrous relationships between us, we all remain silly, romantic fools, firm in the belief that Mr Right may yet appear – ETA as yet unknown. It’s not as if we’re expecting some Greek god to come along, but even one of the Grecian-2000 variety would do very nicely, thank you.
That is all but Rachel; she called off the search some fifteen years ago, when she married her childhood sweetheart, Dave, who is a policeman. They keep our belief in love and romance alive. Yet behind that happy, smiley exterior lurks a deep sadness, a grief, which she hides very well; we all know it’s there, lying just beneath the surface, and so we are careful never to speak of it. But sometimes when she thinks no one is looking, a shadow flickers across her face, and you may momentarily catch a glimpse of the anxious, heartbroken Rachel, and then she is gone, as the mask is raised once more.
The town hall clock is chiming twelve by the time we totter out onto the pavement and giggle our nighty-nights and must-do-this-more-oftens. I jam on my cycle helmet and pedal hard, head bent forward against the needle-sharp rain.
An aeroplane drones overhead, its tail-light blinking in between the squally clouds. I find myself gazing wistfully at it. My mood darkens in that instant.
Where is Nigel right now? In mid-air, or sleeping in a king-size bed in some far-off, exotic land, a nubile, twenty-something by his side? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Does he ever spare a thought for me? What would he make of my new life?
‘Minnie,’ he used to say (Minnie – as in Mouse – was his pet name for me on account of my stick-thin legs and big feet), ‘it’s too late for all that showbiz malarkey. Stay home with me and let’s make a family.’
Why did he only ever say those things after several beers or glasses of red? Had he really wanted children? Or had he been testing me, playing with my emotions? I’ll never know now. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I have a serious, uncomplicated relationship? Is that too much to ask?
An enormous articulated lorry thunders past, drenching me in filthy spray. From somewhere deep inside me, an animal-like scream bursts out, piercing the cold night air.
Come on now. Pull yourself together. YOU ARE A LIBERATED, INDEPENDENT, STRONG WOMAN WITH A GOAL. YOU ARE A LIBERATED, INDEPENDENT, STRONG WOMAN WITH … waterlogged shoes and dripping hair plastered over your eyes.
I feel anything but independent or strong, and my goal now feels a world away. Have I been pitifully naive? No matter, as it’s a little late in the day for doubt and uncertainty. Like it or not, I am now travelling down a one-way street, and the big question is, does it lead to a deadend?
