Читать книгу Innocence - Kathleen Tessaro - Страница 7

I’m seated next to a red-headed woman on the plane. My supper of creamed chicken royal and boiled rice sits untouched in front of me. Instead, I stare at my new Keith Haring Swatch watch (a going-away gift from my boyfriend, Jonny). It’s my first trip abroad. In only eight hours and twenty-two minutes, we’ll be landing in London and a whole new chapter of my life will begin. Who can eat chicken at a time like this?

The redhead can. She’s an old hand at foreign travel. Lighting another cigarette, she smiles at me.

‘Oh, London’s great! Great pubs. And you can have fish and chips. “Chips” is English for French fries,’ she translates. ‘They put salt and vinegar on them over there.’

‘Ewwww!’ I say, ever the sophisticate.

‘But it’s good! You have them with mushy peas.’

‘Mushy what?’

‘Peas!’ She laughs. ‘They’re sort of smashed up. You don’t have to have them.’

‘Oh, but I want to!’ I assure her quickly. ‘I want to try everything!’

She exhales. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Eden, Ohio.’

‘Is that near Akron?’

‘Actually, it’s not near anything.’

‘And what are you doing? Studying?’

‘Drama. I’m going to be an actress. A classical actress,’ I add, just in case she gets the idea I’m going to sell out. ‘I’ve been accepted into the Actors Drama Workshop Academy. Maybe you’ve heard of it?’

She shakes her head. ‘Is that like RADA?’

‘Almost.’

‘Well, you’re a pretty girl. I’m sure you’ll be a big star.’ And she nods, drumming her long pink nails against the shared armrest. ‘Yeah, London will be the making of you. It’s a long way from Ohio, kid.’

That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.

I don’t fit in in Ohio. I don’t fit in anywhere yet. But back home, nobody seems to get me—apart from my boyfriend Jonny. He’s going to study Graphic Arts at CMU next term. He understands what it’s like to be an artistic soul trapped in a working-class town. That’s why we get on so well. I pull out his going-away letter to me and read it one more time.

‘I know this is going to be a completely amazing adventure for you, babe. And I can’t wait to hear each instalment. Write often. Never lose faith in yourself. And think of me slaving away over my drawing board, dreaming of you and your perfect, beautiful face until you get back…safe and warm in my arms. I’m so proud of you.

My darling Jonny.

We’ve been dating for nearly two years. When I get back, we’re going to live together. In New York City if things work out. Already I can see us: drinking coffee in the mornings, padding about in our loft apartment overlooking Central Park—sometimes there’s a dog in the picture, sometimes it’s just us.

Folding the letter carefully, I slip it back into the side pocket of my carry-on bag.

I think of my parents, standing next to one another at the departure gate of Cleveland airport. They just couldn’t understand why I needed to go so far away; why anyone would ever want to leave the States. I’m the only person in my family with a passport.

There’s a whole entire world bursting with beautiful language, enormous, crushing emotions and stories so powerful they break your heart in two—just not in Eden, Ohio. How can I explain to them that I want to be part of it? To rub up against the culture that inspired Shakespeare and Sheridan, Coward and Congreve; the wit of Wilde, the satire of Shaw, the sheer wickedness of Orton…I want to see it, touch it; experience it all first-hand instead of reading about it in books, in between taking orders at Doughnut Express.

And, at last, I’m on the verge.

Leaning back in my seat, I gaze out of the window. Somewhere, far below, my parents are driving back home now, thinking about what to have for dinner. And just beyond this expanse of blue, on a small green island, people I’ve yet to meet are drifting off to sleep, dreaming of what tomorrow might hold.

The stewardess leans over, collecting my tray of untouched food. ‘Not hungry?’

I shake my head.

The next meal I eat will be fish and chips.

With plenty of mushy peas.

The Belle View Hotel and Guesthouse in Russell Square is considerably darker, colder and altogether more brown than the pictures in the brochure. The rooms, so spacious and inviting in the leaflet, are cell-like and lavishly appointed with tea-and coffee-making facilities (a kettle and teacup on a plastic tray), and a basin in the corner. Boiling-hot water steams out of one tap, icy cold from the other. A certain amount of speed and physical endurance is required to wash your face but the reward is a genuine feeling of accomplishment.

However, the reality of shared bathroom facilities is another matter. No amount of counselling could prepare me for crouching naked in a shallow tub of tepid water while three large German businessmen wrapped in nothing but old bathrobes lurk outside the door. The whole experience is like a trip to the gynaecologist’s, simultaneously intimate and deeply unpleasant. The English must have a relationship with their bodies that’s alien to me; like a couple who are divorced but still living together in the same house; forced to be polite to someone they hate.

After bathing and making myself an instant coffee (breakfast with the Germans is a bridge too far), the time has come. I’m ready to visit the offices of the Actors Drama Workshop Academy in north London and introduce myself to the people who are going to mould the rest of my life.

It’s further than I thought. I take a bus to Euston Station, a tube to Camden Town and change lines before I find myself in Tufnell Park Road. I wander up and down the long residential street, which at this time of the morning seems to collect old women glaring at the pavement, dragging blue vinyl trolleys behind them. And then I’m there, standing outside the North London Branch of the United Kingdom Morris Dancing Association. This is the address. There’s no mention of the Actors Workshop anywhere.

A Glaswegian caretaker comes to my rescue. He explains, through the universal language of mime, that I do have the right address; the academy’s somewhere in the basement.

The building seems empty. My footsteps echo down the corridor. A creeping sense of doom grows in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t the hive of artistic activity I’d imagined, with students rehearsing in the hallways, singing and dancing like extras from Fame. What if I’ve made a huge, expensive mistake? What if I’ve travelled all this way for nothing?

I turn a corner and walk down the steps.

‘Where the hell are the student registration forms! For Christ’s sake, doesn’t anyone around here know how to do anything right? I want those forms and I want them now! Gwen!’

I freeze at the bottom of the stairs.

A breathless woman in her early forties flaps past me, carrying a pile of photocopied papers. Her hair’s cut into a faded blonde bob and she’s wearing a navy wool skirt and a shapeless, rather bobbly green cardigan. Round her neck, a collection of long gold chains, some with lockets, some without, clink and rattle, swaying from side to side. ‘I can hear you perfectly well, Simon. You’re not playing to the back row of the Theatre Royal Haymarket, you know’ She heads into a small office.

There’s the sound of paper hitting the floor.

‘These are last year’s forms! My God! What have I done to deserve this? Just tell me, Lord! How have I betrayed you that I should be tormented by such incompetence?’

I can hear her gathering them up again.

Her voice is quiet but lethal. ‘These are not last year’s forms, Simon. They’re this year’s. I know because I photocopied them myself. Now, if you’re keen to continue in this vein, then you’ll have to do it alone because one more word from you and I’m leaving. And you’ll have to pick your own papers up next time.’

She slams the door and marches into a larger room across the hall.

Maybe this isn’t a good time.

As I turn to escape back up the stairs, the door of the office opens and a man in an electric wheelchair comes out. He’s a tall man—even though he’s seated I can see that—in his early fifties with a mass of wild grey hair. His legs are thin and strangely doll-like under the faded tweed suit he’s wearing.

‘Gwen!’ he shouts, disappearing into the next room, ‘I’m a swine!’

‘Yes, well, we know that.’

‘And you! Loitering on the stairs! Come in!’

I hesitate.

‘Yes, you!’ he booms.

‘Stop scaring the students, Simon. We’ve had words about this before.’

Moving closer, I poke my head round the corner. It’s a spacious room with a large sash window that looks out at ground level to an unruly garden in the back.

‘Hello.’ I feel like an eavesdropper who’s been caught out—which is exactly what I am. ‘My name’s Evie Garlick. I’m registered for the advanced acting workshop.’

Simon spins round and shakes my hand. He has a grip that could strangle a child. ‘Welcome, Evie! Welcome to London and to the Actors Drama Workshop Academy! I’m Simon Garrett and this is my assistant, Gwen.’ He throws his arms wide. ‘Don’t be deceived by these humble surroundings; these are just temporary accommodations while we wait for our new studios to be developed in South Kensington. Right next to Hyde Park and Kensington Palace. You’ll love it. Please have a seat!’ He gestures grandly to a folding chair in the corner. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

I sit down.

Gwen smiles at me. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’d offer you coffee but we’re out of filters. Of course, I could make you an instant. Do you drink instant? Being American, I expect not. It’s Nescafe.’ She unearths a jar from her desk drawer. ‘I’ve had it for quite some time.’ She shakes it, nothing moves; the granules have formed a solid archaeological mass against one side.

I smile back, grateful for her hospitality. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

‘How was the flight?’

‘Long.’

‘Oh yes.’ She wrinkles her face in dismay. ‘How terrible for you! How perfectly awful! I think there’s nothing worse. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?’ she offers again, as if it might erase the memory entirely.

‘No, really, I’m OK.’

Simon sweeps up to me, braking barely an inch from my toes. ‘So, Miss Garlick! What makes you think you’d like to be an actress?’ He’s staring at me with unnerving intensity.

‘Well.’ I know the answer to this question: I’ve been rehearsing it for nearly half my life. But still it comes as a surprise this early in the morning. ‘I have a real love of language and a deep appreciation for the dramatic tradition…’

‘Nonsense!’ he interrupts me. ‘It’s about showing off! You like to show off, don’t you?’

I blink.

I’m from a small, rural farming community. Showing off isn’t something anyone I know would admit to doing.

‘Well, for me it’s more about unearthing the playwright’s true intentions. Getting to the root of the story’ I explain slowly.

He’s having none of it. ‘Don’t be coy with me, Miss Garlick! And showing off! Go on, say it!’

This has all the hallmarks of a no-win situation.

I wince. ‘And showing off’

‘Good girl!’ He slaps my knee. ‘Remember, all Shakespeare ever wanted to do was show off and make loads of money. All those wonderful plays, beautiful verses, astounding sentiments were to a single end. He wanted nothing more than to escape Stratford-upon-Avon, arrive in London and have the time of his life! I hope you intend to follow in his footsteps!’

He smiles at me expectantly. There’s a sweet, somehow familiar smell on his breath. I try to laugh politely but a kind of snorting sound comes out instead. He doesn’t seem to notice.

‘Now’ He wheels round. Gwen, balancing two cups of hot tea, expertly sidesteps him. He yanks open one of the filing-cabinet drawers and pulls out an instamatic camera.

‘Smile, Evie!’

I blink and the flash goes off. Out spits the picture. Simon throws the camera back in the drawer. ‘There you go!’ He writes my name at the bottom in big block letters with a red marker. ‘Now we won’t forget who you are!’ He beams, sticking my picture on to felt board with a pin. ‘Here she is! Evie Garlick! About to take the London acting world by storm! Now. Lots to do. Lots to do. Lovely to meet you, Evie. Did your parents pay by cheque?’

I nod.

‘Brilliant! Boyd Alexander is your teacher. Won an Olivier last year for Miss Julie at the National. An expert in Ibsen. Brilliant director.’

I nod again. I’ve no idea what an Olivier is, but I’m pretty sure Miss Julie is by Strindberg.

‘Brilliant,’ I say. Obviously this is an important word to master.

‘Absolutely’ He accelerates into the hall. ‘Gwen, when you’re ready!’

‘Yes! All right! Here you go.’ She hands me a slip of paper with an address written on it. ‘I’ve arranged for you to share accommodation with two extremely lovely girls who are staying on from last term. They’re really very lovely, very dedicated. And just…lovely. I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable…’

‘Gwen! If you don’t mind!’

‘Yes, I’m coming! For goodness sake! So lovely to meet you.’ She turns and scurries into the next room, carrying the two mugs of tea, a large leather diary and a packet of shortbread.

And I’m alone, for the first time, in the offices of the Actors Drama Workshop Academy.

Which is costing my parents untold thousands of dollars. That I had to campaign for six whole months to be able to attend. Which is further away from home than I’ve ever been in my life.

Just those three things alone should make it amazing.

I close my eyes and try not to cry. Then I get up and look at my photo. Sure enough, one eye’s open and the other one’s closed. I look like a drunk singing.

Here she is, Evie Garlick. About to take the London acting world by storm.

I show up at the address on Gloucester Place, my new London home, wheeling my bulging suitcases (the ones encased in layers of brown packing tape to keep them from exploding). They got stuck no fewer than four times in the terrifying grip of the Underground escalator. During rush hour. The experience is akin to an extra circle in Dante’s Inferno. Commuters vault up the steps on the left, the rest wedge in behind one another on the right. Tourists, however, suffer public humiliation as they grind the entire system to a halt by attempting to negotiate their bags unaided through the endless tunnels to platforms which, on the little multicoloured map, appear to be all in the same place. In reality they’re about as close as Amsterdam and Rome. The concierge at the Belle View Hotel insisted taking the Underground was cheap and easy. But I’m here now, hot, sweaty and considerably older than when I woke up this morning.

I take a deep breath and ring the bell.

A tall, slender girl dressed in a scarlet Chinese silk robe with a green face mask on opens the door. Her hair’s wrapped in a towel round her head.

‘I’ve got a date tonight,’ she announces, waving me in. ‘A real live English date!’

I’m not sure what to say.

‘Cool.’ I drag my bags up the steps.

‘You’ll love this.’ She props the door open while I continue to wrestle with my luggage. ‘His name’s Hughey Chicken! Isn’t that terrific? I got his number from a friend of mine in New York. She says he’s divine. You’re here for the room, right?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

She holds out her hand. ‘I’m Robbie.’

‘Evie,’ I introduce myself. ‘Evie Garlick.’

‘Really?’ She frowns and the green mask cracks a little. ‘Have you ever thought of changing your name?’

‘Well, I…’

‘We can talk about that later. I suppose you want to see it.’ She’s heading off down the hall, the silk robe flapping round her thin ankles. Pushing the door open, she switches on the light. ‘Ta-da!’

I walk in and look around.

It’s a cupboard. The kind of space that in America, they’d shove a washer and dryer into. There’s a narrow single bed covered in a brown bedspread, a lopsided wooden wardrobe in the corner, and a window that looks out onto a brick wall. The walls are covered in a sixties floral print of maroon and lime, and the carpet was at one time pink. There are bald patches in it now: pale threadbare sections just visible by the dim light of the single bulb that dangles from the ceiling, encased in a dusty paper lampshade.

At £70 a week, I was expecting something more. Something much more.

‘Isn’t it heaven? Everything you’ve ever dreamed of? Don’t worry, my room’s just as bad. She wraps an arm round my shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s get drunk.’

I put my handbag down on the bed and follow her into the kitchen.

‘Fancy a sidecar?’

‘What’s a sidecar?’

‘Oh, Evie! Well, it’s just heaven on a stick! Or in a glass. Or in our case’—she rummages around in the cupboard—‘in two slightly chipped service station promotional coffee mugs.’ I watch as she blends together generous doses of brandy, triple sec and then crushes a wrinkly old lemon with her fingers. ‘Ice?’

‘Sure.’ Her face mask, gone all crusty, is beginning to flake off.

‘Cheers!’ She hands me a mug. ‘Come with me while I wash this mess off.’

I follow her into the bathroom and sit on the toilet seat, sipping my cocktail while she splashes cold water on her face. The bathroom is long and narrow, with deep-pile navy-blue shag carpet. Every conceivable surface is covered in beauty products—cold cream, astringents, shampoos—used razors are heaped into the corners of the tub, along with an overflowing ashtray and several abandoned coffee cups. The air is heavy and damp, a sweetly scented fug of perfumed bath oil and rose petal soap.

I take another sip of my drink and watch as Robbie rubs off the mask. Her face is pale, lightly freckled, with no discernible eyebrows. Bending over, she unwraps the towel from her head and a pile of white-blonde curls tumble onto her shoulders. She lights two cigarettes from the pack in her robe pocket and hands me one, leaning back on the sink and taking a long, deep drag. I’ve never really smoked before, never quite got the hang of it. But now, with the thick, sweet mixture of brandy and triple sec smoothing its way through my veins, it’s easy to inhale without coughing. I roll the smoke round my palate and exhale slowly, just like Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep.

Suddenly things don’t seem so bad after all.

I’m free. Sophisticated; drinking in the middle of the day and hanging out in a bathroom with a girl I’ve only just met.

‘Let’s go sit somewhere where we can pass out in comfort,’ Robbie suggests and I follow her into the living room. Dark and draughty, it faces onto a busy through road. The greying net curtains flutter every time a truck or bus whips by. She puts on a Van Morrison tape and throws herself onto the faded black leatherette sofa, dangling her long legs over the side. She isn’t wearing any underwear. I sit across from her in one of the ugly matching chairs.

‘So, what are we going to do about this name of yours?’ She blows smoke rings into the air; they float, like fading haloes above her head.

‘Do we have to do anything about it? I mean, it’s not that bad, is it?’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘You want to be an actress with a name like Evie Garlick? I can see it now: Romeo and Juliet staring Tom Cruise and Evie Garlick. Evie Garlick is Anna Karenina. The winner of the Best Newcomer award is Evie Garlick!’

She giggles.

‘OK. Fine.’ I’ve lived with this all my life. ‘What would you suggest?’

‘Humm…’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Raven, I think. Yes. I like Raven for you. On account of your hair.’

‘My hair’s brown.’

‘Oh, but we can change that, no problem. What do you think?’

‘Evie Raven?’

‘No, sweetie! Raven for your first name! Now let’s see…Raven Black, Raven Dark, Raven Night, Raven Nightly! It’s perfect! Raven Nightly. Now you’re bound to be famous!’

I never thought of dyeing my hair. Then again, I haven’t come all the way to London just to be the way I was back home. Still, it’s a pretty big leap. ‘Raven Nightly. I don’t know. It sounds like a porn star.’

‘And Tom Cruise doesn’t? I think it’s fantastic. And listen, I’m good at this; I’ve made up all my friends’ names back home. My girlfriend Blue; she was the first person to start that whole colour-naming thing.’

‘Really?’ I’ve never heard of the colour-naming thing.

‘Absolutely! You don’t think my real name’s Robbie, do you?’

Suddenly I don’t feel so sophisticated any more.

‘My parents named me Alice.’ She grimaces. ‘Can you believe it? I had to do something and androgyny is so much more now, don’t you think?’

‘How old are you?’ Maybe she’s older and that’s how she knows all this stuff.

‘Nineteen. And you?’

‘Eighteen. And you’re from…?’

‘The Village.’

I stare at her.

‘New York City’ she explains. ‘The Big Apple. Born and raised.’

‘Wow’

She’s a New Yorker. And not imported; she’s always lived there. I’ve never met anyone who actually lived in New York all their lives. It seems inconceivable that children would be allowed in New York; somehow profane and dangerous, like having toddlers at a nightclub. Surely the entire population consists of ambitious grown-ups from Iowa and Maine all clawing their way to the top of their professions in between gallery openings, Broadway shows and foreign film festivals.

‘Wow,’ I say again.

She grins, basking in the glow of my small-town admiration.

‘I…I may be living in New York soon,’ I venture.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I have an audition for Juilliard next month.’

‘I see.’ Her face is hard and unyielding, like a door slammed shut. ‘Those auditions are fuckers. Bunch of self-satisfied cunts, if you ask me.’

‘Oh.’

A bus careers past, forcing a rush of cold air into the room. Robbie turns away. I follow her gaze but all I can see is an empty bookcase and the glossy black surface of the television screen.

‘I mean, it’s not like I’ll get in or anything. It’s just, it’s Juilliard, isn’t it? Everyone auditions for Juilliard!’ I laugh, or rather, I make the kind of wheezing sound that could be a laugh if levity were involved.

We listen to the music and sip our drinks.

Suddenly she smiles and the door swings open again. ‘Hey, don’t mind me! You’re going to find it out sooner or later so I might as well tell you now: I’m a shit actress.’

I’m stunned. ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, Robbie!’

She holds up a hand to stop me. ‘No, it is true. Believe me. I auditioned for Juilliard three times. And NYU and Boston and, well, just about everywhere else on the planet Earth. Look, it doesn’t even bother me.’ Her voice is breezy. ‘I’ve made my peace with the whole thing. Really’

At eighteen, I don’t know anyone who’s made their peace with anything, let alone a devastating admission of their own artistic limitations. It’s threatening to me…how can she even say these words out loud? I’ve an overwhelming desire to change her mind.

‘I’m sure you are good, Robbie! I mean, sometimes it takes years for people to grow into their type. And while that’s happening it can be very awkward. After all, not everyone’s an ingénue.’

‘You are, aren’t you?’ Stretching her legs out, she nestles back into the sofa. ‘So, tell me how you got started.’

She’s changing the subject.

‘I don’t know’ I lean back in the chair. ‘I did a play, in grade school. I was a little taller than the others…actually, I was put back a year. The truth is, I couldn’t read properly or tell time or anything…’

I don’t know why I’m telling her this. I’ve only known her about half an hour. But, instinctively, I feel safe. There’s an energy about her; a lightness I’ve never encountered in anyone before, like something’s missing. And where a thick layer of convention and criticism would normally be, there’s only air.

‘That’s dyslexia,’ she says matter-of-factly.

‘Really?’ My parents were so embarrassed by my backwardness, it was never discussed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Trust me, I’ve spent more time in clinical physiological testing than you can imagine. Go on,’ she urges, making that sound normal too.

‘Oh.’ I’m thrown by my unexpected diagnosis. ‘Well, when I was growing up, in the Virgin of the Sacred Heart Girls School, you were just thick. Anyway, there I was, a bit stupid and definitely spacey, taller than all the other girls and pretty weird-looking because my mother really wanted a boy—she used to cut my hair short—and then I got the leading role in the school play because I was tall with short hair.’

A tenderness washes over her features. ‘And you were good at something!’

I stare at her. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s always the same. You want to be someone else and then you are and people applaud…’ She grins. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘It was the only time I can remember feeling like I belonged in my own skin. No one really wanted to hang out with me until then. And then my parents came along.’ I see my mother’s bright smile, my father wearing a tie, sitting in the front row of the school auditorium. ‘They were proud of me. They’d never been proud before. That’s when I made up my mind I was going to be an actress.’

She’s still and quiet; frowning at the floor.

I’ve said too much. The anxious, naked feeling I grew up with returns. Suddenly I’m back in school with my short hair and ugly uniform, trying too hard to make friends with the cool girls.

‘I can tell the time now,’ I add quickly. ‘It just took a little longer.’

She laughs; the frown vanishes and with it my awkwardness.

‘What about you?’ I ask.

‘Me?’ She presses her eyes shut. ‘I’ve been acting all my life!’

‘So you must be good,’ I persist.

‘You know what?’ She sits up. ‘I’m not even that interested in it.’ And, leaning back, she wiggles her red-painted toes, admiring her handiwork.

For a moment, I can hardly speak. ‘But…but, why are you here, then?’

‘Oh, darling!’ She smiles at me indulgently. ‘Who in the world wants to get a job? And besides, I know I’ve got some sort of talent; it’s just I haven’t really found my milieu yet. It’s all simply a matter of time. Never mind.’

She lights a fresh cigarette, the glow of the flame illuminating her porcelain skin. ‘So, what I’m wondering, Raven…’

I flinch. ‘That sounds really odd to me.’

‘You’ll get used to it. So what I’m wondering is, I have this great date with Hughey Chicken and he’s got a friend he’s supposed to meet tonight in Camden. So I’m thinking that maybe you’d like to come along too. A kind of double date.’

‘You mean a blind date.’

‘Yeah, well. I guess, if you want to look at it that way’

What other way is there to look at it?

‘Actually I have a boyfriend. He’s a graphic artist at CMU.’

She looks at me. ‘And…?’

‘Well, I’m not into being unfaithful or anything. I mean, we’re probably going to live together when I get back.’

‘Relax! I wasn’t suggesting you offer him bed and breakfast. We were just going to hang out. After all, it’s London! Don’t you want to meet people? Have fun?’

I hesitate.

Obviously the cool thing to do is say yes. But what if he turns out to be ugly? Or weird? Or even not ugly and weird but out of my league—handsome and cool? I think of Jonny; of his funny, crooked smile. If it’s only to hang out, I guess it doesn’t matter. He’s not possessive. And it’s not like I’m going on my own…But what would I wear? I’ve only just got here; I haven’t even unpacked.

Robbie’s smiling at me, swinging her legs. ‘So, what do you think? We’re going to meet in this pub and then go on to see a band at the Camden Palace.’

‘I…I don’t know.’

‘Rave…’ She’s already shortening it. I now have a nickname from a name that isn’t mine. ‘Rave, the thing is, I don’t know Hughey either. See? So it’ll be fun. An adventure!’

I don’t know why this makes sense but it does. (The sidecars may have something to do with it.) ‘OK, sure. To keep you company, that’s all. But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll use my own name tonight.’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Fine. But I wouldn’t mention your last name if I were you.’

The front door opens.

‘Hello!’

‘We’re in here!’ Robbie calls. ‘Getting drunk!’

A young girl in an ill-fitting brown coat peers in. She looks about fifteen, with heavy, straight, shoulder-length hair pinned back from her face by a bright pink barrette, and enormous round blue eyes. She’s carrying a stack of books—a thick, leather-bound reprint of Shakespeare’s first quarto, a Penguin guide to Romeo and Juliet, a copy of The Seagull and a well-thumbed edition of Chekhov’s short stories.

‘Hi.’ She crosses the room and holds out her hand. ‘I’m Imogene Stein.’

I stand up. ‘Evie Garlick. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Evie’s coming with me to meet Hughey Chicken!’ Robbie beams, raising her mug.

‘Better you than me,’ Imogene carefully places her books on the floor and shrugs off her coat. Underneath, her dress is a drop-waisted pinafore affair, at least two sizes too big and her shoes are the kind of solid, brown oxford lace-ups my grandmother favoured. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘Sidecars. Want me to make you one?’

‘Yes, please.’

Robbie gets up and Imogene collapses onto the sofa. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a fag?’ she pleads. Robbie chucks her the packet before heading into the kitchen.

I watch as she lights up. There’s something wrong with this picture. She looks like a Laura Ashley poster child but sucks deeply and greedily, throwing her legs over one another like a forty-year-old prostitute after a long night.

‘So,’ I take a stab at conversation. ‘You’ve been out?’

Nothing like stating the obvious.

She passes a hand over her eyes. ‘Rehearsing. The Seagull.’

‘Yeah? Which scene?’

‘The last one. You know, ‘I’m a seagull. No, I’m not. Yes, I am.’ She takes another drag and for a moment it looks like she might inhale the whole thing in a single go.

‘That’s a great scene.’ I try to sound encouraging. ‘And a killer speech.’

She nods, exhaling a stream of smoke from her nose. ‘Yep. I am a seagull. I am definitely a seagull.’

We sit in silence.

Maybe she’s a method actress. Method actresses take their work very seriously.

I catch her eye and smile.

She stares at me. And then, to my horror, her eyes begin to fill with tears.

Shit. If she thinks she’s a seagull, we’re in real trouble.

‘I love him. I love him and he doesn’t even know I’m alive!’ She buries her face in her hands.

Is she in character? Should I be improvising with her? I stand up. ‘I think I’d better unpack or…something…’

‘But I love him! I know he’s the one! I just know it!’

Robbie comes back in and hands her a teacup minus a handle. ‘He’s gay, Imo. Everyone knows it. Sorry. We’re out of mugs.’ She refills my drink from a tarnished silver gravy boat.

‘He’s not gay!’ Imo hisses. ‘Just English!’

‘He wears cashmere socks, thinks football is violent and lives with a man named Gavin. Who’s an organist,’ Robbie adds. ‘Face it. He’s gay. Of course, you don’t have to believe me but I did grow up in the Village and if I can’t spot a gay man then I must be blind.’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Imo’s scene partner, Lindsay Crufts. He’s very handsome, extremely well-spoken and a total ass jockey’

‘Robbie!’ Imo glares. “Ass jockey” is not a term I want to hear again to describe the love of my life!’

Robbie winks at her. ‘Golly but you’re cute when you’re angry!’

‘You know’—Imo shakes her head—‘for a girl who’s about to shag some loser by the name of Mr Chicken, you’ve got a lot of nerve!’

Robbie giggles. ‘You are so jealous!’

‘Yeah, right!’

I’m on the edge of this conversation, dying to join in. I raise my mug grandly. ‘And while you’re shagging Mr Chicken, I’ll be stuck shagging Mr Chicken’s mysterious friend!’

They both look at me and laugh.

I laugh too. But I don’t know why.

Imo pauses for breath. ‘You don’t have any idea of what shagging means, do you?’

‘Sure,’ I flounder. ‘It’s dating, right?’

‘Fucking,’ Robbie explains. ‘Shagging is English for fucking. Makes it sound like a carpet.’

I dismiss it like it’s old hat. ‘Yeah, I knew that. I just got…confused.’

They exchange a secret smile.

I’m not sure I like them. I hate the way they both know how to smoke and mix drinks and the bathroom’s disgusting…maybe I should find my own place.

There’s a knocking, or rather a pounding, at the front door. ‘Hello! Hello!’

‘Shit! It Mrs Van Patterson, the landlady. Have you met her?’

I shake my head.

‘She’s a total nightmare. Dutch. And tight as they come.’ Robbie prods Imo with her big toe. ‘You get it. She likes you.’

‘Does not!’ Imo pushes her foot away. ‘You go.’

‘She hates me! At least you look like a virgin.’

‘I am a virgin.’ Imo sighs. She puts down her teacup and pulls herself off the sofa. ‘Fine! Send the virgin. The virgin will do it!’ And she grumbles her way to the front door.

I lean across to Robbie. ‘Don’t you think she’s a little young to be drinking?’

Robbie shakes her head. ‘She’s nineteen. Not that you’d know it. Her father’s this big Hollywood agent. Bags of money. But her mother’s a total freak. Dresses her like a twelve-year-old, insists that she calls her every day. She’s a Born Again. Really into Jesus. It’s so sad, really’

‘But her name’s Stein. That’s Jewish, right?’

Robbie nods. ‘Ever heard of Jews for Jesus?’

I haven’t. But I’m tired of being the odd one out.

I give an all-purpose response. ‘Fuck!’

‘Exactly!’ she agrees.

We can hear the front door open and she signals to me to be quiet.

‘Hello, Mrs Van Patterson. How are you this afternoon?’

‘You girls are using too much hot water! The electricity bill is enormous! It’s outrageous how much water you use! The boiler is on a timer! You must not press the immersion button. Ever!’

‘But the hot water runs out every time we do the dishes. Or if one person has a shower.’

‘Really! I’ve never seen anything like it! What are you doing? Bathing every day?’

‘It’s been known to happen.’

‘Listen, don’t you get smart with me! Twice a week is more than enough.’

‘Where I come from, it’s completely normal to bathe every day’

‘Where you come from, people are spoilt! Americans think the world is made of money! You girls don’t know how lucky you are! Gloucester Place is one of the finest addresses in London. Have you ever played Monopoly?’

‘Yes, Mrs Van Patterson, I have.’

‘Well, it’s like Park Lane. It’s not on the Monopoly board but it could be.’

‘Humm…’

There’s a weighty silence.

‘Have you girls been smoking in there?’

‘No, Mrs Van Patterson! Of course not! Why? Can you smell smoke?’

‘Yes, I can smell smoke!’

Imo lowers her voice. ‘I think it’s the guys upstairs. I mean, it’s none of my business. But I’m pretty sure I’ve caught them lighting up in the hallway a few times.’

‘Ahhaa. I see. Right. You are a good girl, Imogene Stein. A nice, well-mannered girl. Much better than that roommate of yours. But you must not use so much hot water, OK? Right?’

The door shuts and we can hear Mrs Van Patterson stomping upstairs.

Imo comes back in and sits down. ‘Well, another near miss for the House of Chekhov’ She raises her teacup.

Robbie and I look at each other, then raise our mugs too. ‘I’m a seagull!’ we chorus.

Imogene smiles. She’s young and old, all rolled up at once.

‘Yeah, that’s me. I’m a seagull. So’—she taps another cigarette on the side of the box and lights it, propping her legs on the coffee table. ‘Anyone fancy a nice, long bath?’

Standing on the front doorstep in the wind and rain, I fumble in my jacket pocket for my keys. And then I turn and check one last time.

No, she’s definitely not there. Not hovering behind the laburnum or waiting on the other side of the gate.

Not that I really believe in ghosts.

But seeing Robbie is different.

She wasn’t filmy or white or in any way vaporous or ‘ghostly’. In fact, she looked normal, solid, wearing a pair of jeans and one of those ugly orange sweaters she’d knitted when she thought her true calling was as a knitwear designer. (She never stopped searching for her calling; every year there was a new one. And that year we all got jumpers. I still have a couple—one in fuchsia and another in a kind of toxic-waste green. They manage to be both too tight and too loose all at once; I think the neck hole is really an armhole and the armholes neck holes. She called it her ‘signature piece’.)

By the time class ended she was gone. I looked for her, walking to Covent Garden tube station; I half expected to see her trailing behind me, lingering in the shadows of Drury Lane or even standing on the train platform, reading a copy of Vanity Fair. She used to like Covent Garden, was forever picking up Australians in one of the bars in the market.

But she wasn’t there.

And she isn’t here now.

Of course, I must’ve imagined it. It’s amazing what a little insomnia and a few missed meals will conjure up in a girl. I should be relieved. But instead, strangely, I’m disappointed. The older you get, the more friends you lose to marriage, children, work; to adulthood. Friendship itself becomes an apparition; a fleeting spectre, too quick to evaporate in the glaring light of day.

I turn my house key in the lock of the enormous scarlet-painted door.

Number seventeen was once a formidable, cream-coloured, stucco-fronted Georgian property, very similar to all the other formidable, cream-coloured, stucco-fronted Georgian properties of Acacia Avenue, north London. Now, it’s seen better days. It’s the only house on the street whose garden gate squeals like an angry piglet each time it opens, or whose vanilla exterior is peeling away like shavings of white chocolate on a posh wedding cake. And, in a neighborhood where neat little box hedges and topiary bay trees are de rigueur, the garden has definite romantic, wild, overgrown tendencies; much more Brontë than Austen. In summer, the fig tree drops its heavy fruit to form a thick, gooey compote on the pavement below and each autumn the towering chestnut launches conkers at passers-by with eerie accuracy. A defiant, shabby grandeur has replaced its once impeccable façade. But in the five years I’ve lived here it’s only grown more intriguing.

It’s not your average house share. But then again Bunny Gold, its owner, is not your typical landlord either.

When Bunny’s husband, Harry, died unexpectedly ten years ago, it came to light that he’d been, in addition to a loving husband, father, a respected pillar of the Jewish community and owner of an extremely successful accountancy firm, also a chronic gambler.

He’d already cashed in his pension, life insurance and a great deal of their personal savings to meet his debts. Bunny, who’d spent her entire life in a cosy bubble of shopping, socializing and raising their only child, Edwina, was devastated. An affair would’ve been one thing. But leaving her in financial ruin was much worse. Above all, she was unprepared to part with her beloved home.

So she began to rent out rooms, although she’d be shocked to hear it described as a ‘house share’. To her, our living arrangements are the result of an intimate form of artistic sponsorship; she’s a patron rather than a landlord and will only let rooms to performers or artists whose work she admires. And, at seventy-two, her enthusiasm for almost any form of music, painting, dance, or drama, along with her remarkable appetite for the avant-garde, is nothing less than inspiring.

So, there’s me, the actress/teacher, Allyson, an Australian opera singer/teacher and our latest arrival, Piotr, a concert pianist/teacher from Poland.

And, of course, the love of my life, Alex. We share a couple of rooms and a private bathroom at the very top of the house, overlooking the garden at the back.

We are the privileged few.

Postcards from all over the world regularly filter in from previous tenants, along with invitations for Bunny to visit them in Rome, Paris, New York, Berlin…I’ve known a few of them myself over the years. As Bunny says, ‘Evie, if this goes on much longer, one of us is going to have to propose!’

And she’s right. I should get myself together and move on. But it’s never quite as easy as it sounds. Whole years have evaporated, just waiting for the kettle to boil. Maybe one day I’ll be the one sending postcards, even if I only get as far as south London.

But right now, I’m just grateful to be home.

Dumping my bag and coat down on the reindeer antler coat-stand in the front hallway (the work of a Norwegian furniture designer who lived here two years ago and now designs plastic chairs for Habitat), I make my way down to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a ferret around the fridge, only to find Allyson and Piotr arguing about lieder.

They barely notice me as I fill up the kettle and switch it on. Both are fairly formidable; it’s like a scene from Twilight of the Gods. Piotr is incredibly tall and slender; he moves with a confident, swaggering ease, unusual for a man of his height. His dark hair’s cut quite short at the back but still manages to tumble into his eyes, which are a particularly warm shade of brown; the concentrated golden walnut of a tiger’s eyes and equally intense. However, his hands are his most remarkable feature. They’re Rachmaninov hands, vast and powerful; each one easily the size of a grown man’s face. He’s only been here a week and I’ve never heard him say more than three words together. So it’s quite a surprise to hear him speak in full sentences.

Allyson, on the other hand, is going through her Maria Callas stage. If Piotr’s hands are his most distinguishing feature, Allyson’s cheekbones are hers. They’re like two evenly spaced shelves upon which her heavily made-up, green-grey eyes are balanced. Her long auburn hair is scraped back into a perfect chignon and she’s solidly, dramatically, emphatically curvy or, as she puts it, ‘ample yet agile’ (the world of opera being much more image conscious than it used to be). But despite her impeccably groomed exterior, she possesses the mouth of a merchant sailor. After struggling in England for three years now, she’s just beginning to cover roles at Covent Garden and sing a few major parts for Opera North and the Welsh National. That, along with a steady stream of young students, keeps her permanently occupied. But her real chance is coming next month. She’s due to perform a recital of lieder at St John’s Smith Square and has had her heart set on being able to rehearse with Piotr. But now it looks like she’ll have to rehearse alone.

(This is one of the few advantages to shared housing: not all the dramas are your own.)

I move silently to the draining board and retrieve a mug.

‘But why?’ Allyson gestures wildly to the heavens; a move she used to great effect in a regional production of Tosca last March. ‘Give me one reason why not? For fuck’s sake! I’ll pay you whatever you like!’

Piotr leans against the kitchen counter, his hands in his jeans pockets, amused. ‘I’ve already explained to you. German is not a language that anyone should be singing! Ever! Italian, yes. French, OK. Russian, perfect! But German? Sounds like…like a noise you make when you, you know, spit!’ And he demonstrates the noise.

I put the mug down. Maybe I’ll give the tea a miss.

A slice of toast pops up in the toaster.

‘But you play German music! You play Beethoven, Mozart, Liszt…’ Allyson continues.

Piotr tosses the toast onto a plate, opening drawer after drawer in search of a knife.

I hand him one.

‘Thank you. Liszt is not German.’

He looks around.

‘Don’t be so pedantic!’ Allyson accuses, pushing the butter dish across to him.

He sighs, spreading the butter thick. ‘When I play Beethoven or Mozart, I don’t have to listen to German. I listen to music. When I have to listen to German, there’s no longer any music.’ And he shrugs his shoulders; a rolling, slow-motion version that’s somehow distinctly Eastern European. ‘I’m sorry’

Allyson turns away, unable to combat this curious logic with anything but a stream of obscenities.

Piotr, apparently oblivious, turns to me instead, munching his toast. ‘How was your class?’

‘An old man walked out on me,’ I confess, sidestepping Allyson, who’s spluttering under her breath in the corner. ‘He only ever wants to read one poem. One incredibly long poem.’

‘Good for him! So important to stick to your ideals, don’t you think?’

He grins. Allyson growls threateningly.

‘And you? When are we going to see you perform?’

I laugh, a nervous, high-pitched little trill. Suddenly I’m wrong-footed; an intruder in this conversation of artistic preferences and ideals. ‘Oh, no, I…I don’t really do a lot of performing any more. I’m really just a teacher now’

He raises an eyebrow.

I fumble about with a box of tea bags. Even without looking up, I know he’s staring at me.

‘I’m too old for all that nonsense,’ I say at last. ‘I gave it up long ago. Or rather, it gave up on me.’

‘And how is that?’ He takes another bite.

It’s far too late at night to unfold the facts of my failed acting career in front of a stranger.

But I make the stupid mistake of trying anyway.

‘Well, acting isn’t like music, Piotr. I mean, there are so very few jobs and so many people…’

He throws back his head and roars. ‘Ah, that’s true! There are hardly any classical musicians in the world!’

I’m blushing. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that…oh, I don’t know what I mean…’ I start again. ‘Well, I never got to play any of the parts I dreamt about. Never even got near them. I just ended up making B-rated horror films, a few commercials…’

‘You were an actress.’ He shrugs his shoulders again. ‘That’s what actresses do.’

‘No, that’s what unsuccessful actresses do, Piotr.’

‘No.’ He smiles. ‘That’s also what successful actresses do. It’s all the same thing, really’

Like Allyson, I’ve come smack up against the World According to Piotr Pawlokowski. The rules are different here.

‘Well, no…’ I fumble, trying to articulate a yet unformed argument.

‘You’re American,’ he diagnoses my deficiency with a single wave of his massive hand. ‘You make too much of this idea of “success”. No artist sees life as success or failure, profit or loss, good or bad. The point of art is lost if you measure it in commercial terms.’

I blink at him.

‘But it was awful,’ I bleat weakly.

He frowns, popping the last bite into his mouth. ‘And you believed it would be fun?’

There’s a long silence.

I’d never thought about it that way before.

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘I expected it to be much more fun than working in an office or teaching pensioners or…or anything else, really’

He laughs. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

‘Because that’s the way it used to be.’ I can’t help but smile to myself at the memory. ‘It always used to be more fun than anything else on the face of the earth.’

‘Don’t you enjoy playing the piano?’ Allyson comes to my defence.

There’s that shrug again. ‘Sometimes. But “fun” isn’t a word to describe a relationship with an art form that’s embraced every aspect of the human experience for centuries.’ He looks at me sadly. ‘You Americans, I’m afraid, are like children—you don’t like to grow up. What is it? “The pursuit of happiness”. What is that? “To be happy”. Where is the nobility in a life devoted to happiness? It’s a shabby little goal.’

‘Lighten up, mate.’ Allyson moves next to me; she loves confrontation. ‘No need to pick on her just because she’s American!’

‘I’m not picking on you.’ Piotr glances at me, then back to Allyson. ‘But there you go again! “Lighten up!” Nothing must be serious. Everything must be small, fast…light!’ He prowls the floor in frustration, reaching for the words as if they’re hovering in the air around him. ‘You are the hero of your life—especially in art! Without adversity, obstacles, where’s the hero’s adventure? What’s the point? Of course you do bad movies! Stupid commercials! So what? They’re your dragons; you slay them, you move on. You’re bigger than those things!’ He spins round. ‘What do you have to offer people, what experience, if life is only “fun”?’

I open my mouth.

Then close it.

It’s late; I’m overly sensitive. Instead, I focus on stacking the tea boxes in neat little rows. The silence builds, piling up between the three of us.

‘That wasn’t the only reason,’ I say. ‘My happiness wasn’t the only consideration.’

‘God, Piotr!’ Allyson shakes her head. ‘Could you be any more rude if you tried?’

‘Rude?’ He turns to her, baffled. ‘We’re just talking. A conversation, right?’ And he laughs, resting his hands against the counter. ‘What do you want? That we should stand here and flatter one another all night?’

There’s a long pause.

‘Oh. I see.’ His voice is sharp. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to offend you.’ For a moment his eyes meet mine. I’m startled by the kindness in them.

He turns away. ‘I forget how important it is that we agree about everything all the time. I’ll stick with the piano. Good night, ladies.’ He nods his head to each of us, a formal, slightly sardonic gesture, before heading up the steps easily, two at a time.

Allyson launches forward, nicking the mug I just put down and filling it with boiled water. ‘Well! Fuck me!’

The whole exchange has left me disorientated. I open the cupboard door, looking for something to eat. ‘I guess he has a right to his…’

‘God!’ She slams the mug down on the counter, half its contents splashing out over the sides. ‘I thought it would be brilliant to have a pianist in my own home to work with but I’ve never, not in my whole life, met anyone so fucking difficult!’ Plucking a knife off the carving board, she begins hacking at a fresh lemon, throwing it into the water along with a large dollop of honey. ‘What a fucking diva! And what was all that about? Americans and happiness and…Jesus! I would’ve hit him!’

I need to go shopping. I close the cupboard door.

‘His English is good…’

‘Should be! He studied at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia. Still bloody rude!’

‘Thing is, Ally, I’ve been here so long…’

‘Tits! I think I’m getting a cold!’ She wheels round, glaring at me accusingly. ‘Does Alex have a cold? I’d better not be getting a cold, Evie.’

I shake my head ‘no’, relinquishing any hope of actually finishing a sentence.

‘It’s the stress. The stress is outrageous! This concert is doing my nut in! Look at my glands, will you?’

I can’t tell you how many times a week I have to look at Allyson’s glands.

She sticks her tongue out. ‘Do you see anything? Is my throat red? Splotchy?’

No one is more paranoid about her health than Allyson. The kitchen counter is lined with vitamin bottles and herbal tinctures; her room emits a steamy, Arthurian mist from under the door, the result of a humidifier churning away constantly in a corner, and she sleeps more hours a day than a cat. Still, all her effort pays off: she has one of the clearest, most powerful singing voices I’ve ever heard.

I take a peek. ‘No, darling. It’s fine.’

‘Thanks. Oh God, Evie! What am I going to do?’

‘Well.’ I pick up another mug from the draining board. ‘You could always…’

‘Balls! I’ll have to call Junko again. But she’s like a robot; she understands nothing of the power and passion I need for these pieces!’ She looks at me. ‘You have heard about Piotr, haven’t you?’

I shake my head and she leans forward, her voice uncharacteristically low.

‘He’s the one who walked out in the middle of the final rounds of the Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow a few years ago!’

She stares at me eagerly.

I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.

‘It’s the most famous piano competition in the world, Evie! He just stopped playing in the middle of his second concerto and left! When he was on the verge of winning!’

‘But why?’

‘It wasn’t good enough…he didn’t like the way he was playing.’ She rolls her eyes. Ally’s competitive nature is so keenly honed that the idea is clearly anathema. I find it quite intriguing. ‘He’s crazy, Evie! Insane! He was playing Prokofiev Three, with a full orchestra and suddenly he just stands up and walks away!’

‘So if he’s crazy, Ally, why are you so keen on working with him?’

‘Have you heard him? He was playing Gaspard de la Nuit yesterday and I thought I would faint it was so heart-breaking…Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck!’ She collapses her head into her hands. (If Puccini had been composing for Allyson, ‘One Fine Day’ would’ve become ‘Where the Hell Is He?’.)

I take a piece of cheese out of the fridge, turning this new information around in my mind.

‘And now he teaches at the Royal Academy’

‘But he could’ve been huge!’ she mumbles.

We sit a moment.

Eventually, she looks up. ‘You know what we should do? We should go out, you and I; just the girls! We could go dancing or something!’

Every couple of months she does this; she launches into a campaign to force me into socializing, usually just after she’s finished some big job.

‘Well, maybe. I don’t know, Ally. I think I’m a bit old for dancing.’

‘I’m older than you are,’ she reminds me.

‘Yes, but you’re, you know, trendy…’

‘You could be trendy. Let’s go shopping. It would be fun!’

She’s staring at me with those huge, unflinching diva eyes.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘You always say that. If I had your face and your figure…’

‘Ally! Stop it!’ Why am I so embarrassed?

‘You’re not even wearing make-up, are you?’

‘Please!’ I shake my head.

‘I’m just saying it’s a waste! I’m going to stop asking one of these days and then you’ll be sorry!’ Opening one of the dozen bottles, she tosses a few pills into her mouth. ‘So the old fart walked out on you, did he? You’ve mentioned him before—what’s his name?’

‘Mr Hastings.’

‘Poor Mr Hastings.’

‘Actually, he’s a very difficult character,’ I point out, suddenly defensive.

‘Yes, but you would be difficult too, wouldn’t you? If you’d never lived out your dreams. Makes people crazy, Evie.’ She retrieves her drink and kisses me on the top of my head. ‘Night, darling.’

Standing alone, I pour what’s left in the kettle into my mug. There’s not enough for a full cup, so I leave it. And I stare out into the vast black space that’s the garden in the rear.

I’ve never thought of Mr Hastings as having dreams. Or at least not any that extended beyond making my class a misery. The revelation that he might endows him with an unwelcome vulnerability in my mind. This, along with Piotr’s anti-happiness diatribe, has finally tipped me over the edge. I’m exhausted and unexpectedly riddled with self-doubt.

I’m done slaying dragons for today.

Moving mechanically, I wipe down the kitchen counter before turning off the lights. And I have that feeling I get at the end of almost every day: the sensation of having left my body and watching it from a distance—a kind of physical déjà vu. Walking back up into the hallway, I’m floating, insubstantial; repeating the same evening rituals; pausing to make sure the front door’s locked, checking and rechecking.

I turn to make my way up the stairs.

And there, sitting in the darkness of the living room, is Piotr.

He’s at the piano. But there’s no sense of impending action. No crinkle of anticipation, as if he might, at any moment, begin to play. Instead, a powerful calm surrounds him.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s all right. To break the silence, smoothing it over with noise, questions and conversation.

But then an unexpected intimacy overwhelms me.

His stillness is revealing. It’s as if he’s unfolding, very slowly, before me; invisible layers dissolving into the shadows. The longer I linger, the more I can see…

I step back.

This isn’t an experience I should be having with a man I don’t know. A man who doesn’t even like me.

And yet a fierce longing clutches at my heart: to be in a room where I’m not alone and yet where nothing—no words, no movement, no explanation—is necessary.

Walking upstairs, I move as quietly as possible but the third stair from the top creaks unbearably. She’s awake.

‘Is that you, Evie?’

‘Yes, Bunny’ It’s like being a teenager again.

‘Did you lock the front door?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Come in and say good night properly, then.’

I push open the heavy wide door. Her room’s spacious, with a set of small adjoining apartments which take up the entire first floor. She’s sitting, propped up in her lit-bateau bed on easily two dozen pillows, dressed in a linen nightgown covered by a pale-gold bed jacket. Across her lap, an ancient edition of Swann’s Way competes with the half-dozen copies of Hello! and Tatler which cover her bedspread.

Pulling off her reading glasses, she cocks her small silver head to one side, examining me thoroughly. ‘Oh, Evie! If only you tried a little! A bit of make-up, a nice haircut…’

I stare at the carpet and smile. ‘Now, why would I want to do that, Bunny?’

She pats the end of the bed, inviting me to sit down. ‘You never know, darling. Lots of girls meet lovely men at work. That’s where Edwina met her partner.’

(Edwina, her only child, came out as a lesbian and moved to Arizona with a woman from her father’s accountancy firm shortly after Harry’s death. Bunny stayed with them for a month last summer. They run an extremely expensive, chic little gallery specializing in Native American art and are not, as she puts it, ‘unfashionably gay’. ‘They’re really terribly sweet,’ she assures me. ‘Discreet, with very flattering hairstyles. And it’s such a relief not to have to humour them the way one must with a man. You know, Evie, as long as one of you can cook, it can’t be that bad.’ I’m not sure she understands that it’s more than just a convenient living arrangement; with Bunny it’s almost impossible to tell.)

‘Believe me, there are not lovely men where I work. Quite the opposite. And besides, you’re forgetting that I have a perfectly marvellous man of my own. How was he tonight?’

She smiles. ‘As always, the best. Although his diet is appalling, my dear. I made some borscht tonight. Did you see it? There’s a little left over in the fridge. I thought it might be nice, for Piotr, you know.’

‘But borscht is Russian, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, well, close enough. But Alex wouldn’t touch it. Can you imagine?’

‘Who in the world would turn down your home-made borscht?’

‘Well, Harry didn’t think much of it.’ She smoothes away a crease in the sheet. ‘But then, Harry had no taste. No taste buds, even. Too many cigars. Never allow Alex to smoke, promise me!’

‘I’ll do my best.’ I rise to leave and then stop. The mention of Harry reminds me…‘Bunny forgive me if this is in any way inappropriate and you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but…’

She laughs. ‘My goodness, Evie! So formal!’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just…’ How to put this? ‘Do you ever see Harry? I mean, now?’

She looks at me. ‘He’s dead, dear.’

I feel foolish. ‘Yes, I know, I was just wondering if you ever…I mean, if you believe that people can come back, you know, once they’re…’

‘Gone?’

I nod.

‘Well.’ She thinks a moment. ‘He sometimes makes an appearance in the mornings. Shuffles in wearing that dreadful old dressing gown and carrying a copy of The Times. Wants help with the crossword. Stuff like that. Chit-chat, really’

My heart dives forward in my chest. ‘And what do you do?’

‘Well, the shit knows I’m not speaking to him.’ She picks up her copy of Proust again. ‘I just ignore him and he goes away. It’s the cheek of it that’s so annoying; the fact that he thinks he can just pick up where he left off.’

She speaks without a trace of irony or insincerity…can it be true? At any rate, she’s begun reading again—her hint that our conversation is over.

I drift over to the door; still full of questions, but unable to arrange my tangled thoughts. ‘Sleep well, Bunny’

‘You too, darling.’ She looks up. ‘And honestly, if Harry starts hassling you for clues, just tell him to piss off. Never could spell.’

‘Right.’

She goes back to her book and I close the door. Like so many conversations with Bunny, I have absolutely no idea if she’s serious or just having me on.

As I pass by Allyson’s room, I hear her humming softly. Something lovely. Something I don’t know. Probably something German.

I climb the last flight, twisting the doorknob very carefully. Slowly, I creep through to the next room.

And there he is, sleeping. In his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. Alex, my lovely, gorgeous, perfect four-year-old son. I lean down, softly kissing his forehead. And he shifts, brushing away the clinging attentions of his watchful mother, even in sleep.

I could spend all night staring at him, at the gentle curve of his forehead, the soft, smooth pink of his cheeks, the angelic (at least in repose) set of his mouth. Every day he grows more and more beautiful.

Like his father.

A cloud trails across the night sky. Cold white moonlight floods in through the window. Everything’s illuminated, the countless toys scattered across the floor, the second-hand rocking chair in the corner, the brightly painted toy chest…Here is a world where nothing’s lost for very long; where everything’s retrievable. A fragile, temporary universe.

I settle quietly, as I do so many nights now, in the wooden rocking chair and watch.

He’ll be bigger tomorrow and yet I’ll have never seen a glimpse of him growing in the night. But I’m here, nonetheless. A sentinel, standing guard against a whole, impossible, unknowable future.

And here, in the stillness of my son’s room, with the soft, sighing rhythm of his breathing for company, the thought enters again, uninvited.

Would I do it differently?

If I had to make the choice again, is this the fate I would choose?

I look out at the silent street below. At the daffodils bowed by the wind and rain.

It’s a fragile, temporary universe.

And always has been.

‘This is it,’ Robbie says.

We’re standing outside a pub in Camden Town called the Black Dog. The throbbing bass of the music inside pulses each time the door opens.

I waver.

‘Come on,’ she says, swinging the door wide. She’s a New Yorker; nothing can scare her. She gives me a little smile and I follow.

It’s crowded, heaving. A Friday night mix of drunken Irishmen and City boys straight from the office. Jesus and the Mary Chain are wailing on the sound system. The bar is three deep. We find a corner at one of the low round tables.

‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Robbie asks. It’s a group of girls, mid-gossip. They nod and wave their cigarettes at us. ‘Go ahead.’ We perch on the edge of our stools; I’m clutching my handbag in front of my chest like an old lady waiting for a bus. Robbie pushes it down on to my lap.

‘I’ll get us a drink. What will you have?’

I fumble for my wallet. ‘Ah…I don’t know…a beer, I guess.’

She puts her hand over mine. ‘How ’bout a pint? On me.’

And then she’s gone, engulfed in the crowd. I smile at the girls across the table. They ignore me. Can they tell I’ve never been in a pub before? Does it show that I’m American? I readjust the embroidered vintage cardigan Robbie lent me and my Guess? Jeans. Everyone else seems to be chicer, more convincingly put together. With bigger hair, shorter skirts and sharper shoulder pads. I’m the only one with a ponytail. Slipping the band out, my hair falls round my shoulders. I check my Swatch. Almost nine o’clock.

Robbie comes back, carrying two overflowing pints. ‘Here.’ She hands me one. I take a sip and almost immediately spit it back out.

‘Jesus, Robbie! It’s warm!’

The girls across from us stare at me like I’m a freak. Robbie giggles. ‘Yup,’ she says, settling onto the stool next to me. She whips out a compact and reapplies her lip gloss. I marvel at her poise. This is probably the sort of thing she does all the time back home in the Village.

I take another sip of my warm beer. ‘How will we recognize them?’ I feel childish and stupid even asking.

‘Well’—she pouts at herself in the mirror—‘Hughey will be wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.’

I look around the bar. All the men are wearing white shirts and carrying copies of the Evening Standard.

‘Robbie…’

‘Just kidding.’ She slips her compact back into her bag and crosses her legs. ‘He’s bringing me a bunch of flowers, so all we need to do is spot the sap with the bouquet and we’re in business.’

I’m impressed. ‘How romantic!’

She makes a face. ‘I told him to. Start as you mean to go on, Evie. I may be easy but I’m not cheap!’

I laugh and we sit, side by side, staring at the door. It opens and closes. More men in white shirts. More copies of the Evening Standard. Not a single petal in sight.

The girls across from us are laughing loudly, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, flirting with the guys at the table opposite.

‘How ’bout another?’ I’m feeling brave.

‘Sure.’ Robbie hands me her glass and I weave my way towards the bar.

‘What it’ll be?’ the barman asks.

‘Two more pints,’ I say, proud that I’ve mastered the lingo.

‘Yeah, what kind, luv?’ He points to a vast array of pumps.

I blink.

‘Are they all the same temperature?’

He frowns. ‘Yeah.’

I choose the pump with a picture of a harp on it. That seems pretty. ‘I’ll have that one, please.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Suit yourself.’ And begins to fill the glasses.

It’s black.

I panic.

‘It’s black,’ I say.

He hands me the glasses. ‘It’s what you ordered.’ And removes the fiver from my hand. I wait for change but he turns to the next person. I guess that’s it.

I walk back to the table with the drinks.

‘I’m sorry, Robbie. It’s black. I think it may have gone off.’

‘It’s Guinness.’ She takes a sip and wipes the white foam from her upper lip. I hold mine warily. Warm and yellow is bad enough. ‘Don’t worry’ She nods encouragingly. ‘It’s sexy. And Irish.’

We wade through the Guinness. The music gets louder and so does the crowd. I go to the loo and come back. Then Robbie goes. She buys a pack of cigarettes and we bum a light. A couple of spotty city boys try to pick us up. The girls across from us leave with the guys at the next table. It’s 10.10.

I look at Robbie. ‘Well…’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’m not worried.’ And she lights another cigarette, even though she has one burning in the ashtray.

At 10.20 a man appears in the doorway. He’s stocky, wearing a pair of round John Lennon glasses and sporting a shock of spiky, sandy-coloured hair. He’s carrying a slightly crushed single rose in clear plastic wrap.

Robbie spots him and stands up. Walking over, she takes the rose from his hand. ‘This is not a bouquet, Hughey, is it?’ She lets it drop to the floor, where it becomes a chew toy for someone’s dog. ‘Now, are you going to buy me a drink or what?’

He smiles and wraps an arm round her waist. ‘I’d have come sooner if I knew that you were going to look like this.’

‘You should’ve seen what I looked like an hour ago.’ She shoves him in the direction of the bar. ‘By the way, we’re drinking champagne.’

He whistles under his breath and saunters up to the bar.

Robbie winks at me. ‘I told you it would be OK.’

That’s when I notice the guy behind him. Tall and slender, dressed in a faded suit and T-shirt, he stands, lingering by the door, running a hand through his long black hair.

He looks up at me, tilting his head sideways. ‘Hey’ His voice is quiet but deep.

‘Hey’ My voice has gone quiet too.

He holds out his hand. ‘Jake,’ he introduces himself. He has soft dark eyes and the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.

‘Raven,’ I say, holding out mine.

He wraps his fingers round mine. He holds them just a moment too long.

And I let him. As far as I’m concerned, he can hold them as long as he wants.

‘No!’

‘Well, what about some toast, then? Most of the superheroes I know have toast for breakfast. Often with a little peanut butter and banana on it.’

Alex crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘Mummy, nobody knows a real superhero!’

‘I know you, don’t I? And you’re going to have to sit down properly. No standing on the kitchen chairs. Now, with peanut butter or not?’ I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

‘Good morning, mate!’ Allyson’s dressed in a white towelling bathrobe. She swoops down on Alex, scooping him up in a great big bear-hug. ‘Hey, mister! Where’s my kiss!’ she demands, tickling him under the arms.

‘Ewww! Gross! Ugly Aussie girl germs!’ He giggles hysterically. ‘Ewwwww!’

‘No quarter, mate! Give it up! Say, “I love Allyson!’”

‘Never!’ he screams, delighted. ‘Never, ever, ever! You stinky poofter!’

I whip round. ‘Hey! Where did you learn that word? That’s not a word I want to hear again, do you understand me? Where did you hear that?’

He looks at Allyson who, in turn, stares at her toes. ‘Sorry mate. Must’ve been me,’ she admits. ‘I’m really going to try to clean up my language. Promise.’

Sometimes I hate being Mom. ‘Well, it’s not a word I want to hear again from either of you. Do you understand?’

They look at each other and giggle.

The toast pops up and Bunny breezes in, carrying a stack of old magazines, which she plops down on the kitchen table. She’s always the first to wake, the one who puts the coffee on and rescues the milk and morning paper from the front doorstep. ‘I’m off,’ she announces. ‘Allyson, please pass me a plastic bag from that right-hand drawer, will you? I’m going to drop these by the surgery. I went the other day to have someone look at my toe and all they had were a bunch of copies of Horse and Hound. Can you imagine how depressing?’

I pass Alex his peanut butter toast, carefully cut into strips rather than squares, squares being for some reason entirely inedible. ‘What’s wrong with your toe?’

Bunny pops an apple into Alex’s school satchel.

He removes it again when she’s not looking.

‘Nothing, as it turns out. It just looked odd. And that’s all I’m going to say, as you’re dining.’

Allyson and I exchange a smile; only in Bunny’s world is peanut butter toast considered ‘dining’.

‘Oh!’ Bunny swirls round, hands on hips. ‘And someone’s been smoking in the house!’

‘Smoking!’ Allyson gasps, throwing her hand in front of her face for protection. ‘This is a non-smoking household! We don’t smoke in here!’

‘Yes, but there were ashes in one of my favourite china planters; the one with the white orchids. I know it couldn’t possibly be one of you girls.’ She eyes us sternly anyway. ‘I must have another word with Piotr. Damn, the dry cleaning! I’d forget my own head, girls.’ And she darts off, her high heels clicking against the flagstones of the kitchen floor.

Allyson glares at me.

It’s my turn to feel like a child. ‘Stop it! It wasn’t me! OK?’

‘Well, someone had to do it! Probably that beast upstairs.’ She pours herself a coffee and settles down at the table. ‘It’s a disgusting habit!’ she continues, flipping through back issues of Hello!. ‘I cannot live in a smoking household! It plays havoc with your voice…God, what are these people like! Look Evie, “My Plastic Surgery Torment” by Jordan Halliwell. Jesus! Just look at the size of those tits!’

‘Ally!’

It’s too late.

‘Let me see! Let me see the tits!’ Alex bounces up and down, brandishing a piece of toast and pulling at Allyson’s sleeve.

She covers her mouth. ‘Oh, shit! Sorry, darling! I completely forgot!’

I flash her a look.

‘Oh, bugger!’ She giggles.

I’m fighting a losing battle. ‘Sit down, Alex, and finish your breakfast. We’re going to be late and I’ve got a lot of work to do this morning.’ Whatever brief authority I possessed is quickly draining away. Alex ignores me and dances around the table instead, chomping on toast and repeating the word ‘tits’ as many times as he can.

‘Listen.’ Ally’s desperate to make it up to me. ‘I’ll walk him over today. Give me one minute while I pull on some clothes!’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘Come on, Evie. Give me a break!’ she challenges. ‘What can be so difficult about walking a child to school?’

‘Well, he’s got to have his gym things today and he needs to go in the side entrance rather than the front because of the road works on Ordnance Hill, and he’s not to give any of his lunch to that little Indian boy with the nut allergy; it was a close call the last time. And he’s going to bug you about going into the newsagents for sweets but I don’t want him having any, Ally…’

She’s laughing at me.

‘I’m serious!’

‘That’s exactly why you’re so funny!’ She rubs Alex’s hair and he beams up at her. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’

She rushes upstairs with her coffee.

‘And no more swearing!’ I call after her.

‘Mummy!’ Alex yanks my sleeve. ‘I didn’t give him the sandwich, Mummy. He took it,’ he reminds me.

I rub my fingers over my eyes. ‘Yes, darling.’

She’s going to buy him sweets, I just know it. She always does.

Oh…bugger.

And sitting down at the table, I nick a strip of Alex’s toast, skimming through the abandoned magazines. These people live in another world…socialites, Hollywood actors, royalty, rock stars…

‘Mum? Mummy?’

I look up. ‘What?’

Alex is watching me, his small face suddenly serious. ‘What is it?’

I stare at him.

Another face looks back at me.

‘Nothing.’ I stand up, forcing my brain back into the present day. ‘Put your coat on, darling. It’s time to go.’

Allyson appears in a Cossack-style fur hat and long grey wool coat—as always, every inch the diva. ‘Let’s go, mate! Come on! Have you got your gym kit?’

‘I need my crayons!’ Alex bounds upstairs.

Taking a final swig of coffee, she puts her cup down on the table with a flourish. ‘And this time I promise: no sweets, no swear words and in school on time!’

‘Yes. Fine.’ I move on auto pilot, clearing the table of our breakfast things.

‘Are you OK?’

I scrape the toast into the bin. ‘Yes. Fine.’

Allyson leafs idly through the magazine pages.

‘He’s still a good-looking man. Even after all these years.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That Jake Albery’ She holds up his picture. ‘Still handsome, don’t you think? God, I used to have such a crush on him!’

My heart’s racing, hammering in my chest. I force the corners of my mouth upwards into a smile. ‘You’re showing your age, Ally’

She laughs. ‘I know. I’m getting old. “Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, Baby Home Wrecker’s in town!’” she sings, dancing over to the door where Alex waits, dressed and ready to go. Grabbing his hands, she whirls him into the hallway. “Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, da, da, da, da, da, da, da!’”

The front door opens and closes, sealing the world out.

Lingering at the sink, I make myself wash up the plates and mugs, slowly rinsing them under the warm water.

Then I turn the tap off.

Fold the tea towel.

And pick the magazine up again. As I knew I would.

So, he’s back.

Allyson’s right; he does look good—slightly tanned; the kind of gentle wash of colour that’s the result of a couple of weeks in Monte Carlo or Beaulieu rather than a month in Mauritius—and effortlessly chic in a dark tailored suit and crisp white shirt. But there’s that familiar air about him, even in a photograph, a slightly edgy awkwardness as if even after all these years in the limelight he still doesn’t quite fit in. He remains, as always, the outsider, one eye forever on the door.

His hand rests on the shoulder of a glamorous blonde. She has the same glowing tan, amply displayed in her sheer, strappy pink dress, and similar expensively tousled bedroom hair. But her smile is harder, more focused. The cameras are on her and it’s a moment she’s been waiting for. She looks both terrified and intensely determined. Something in my stomach wrenches with recognition. ‘Jake Albery seen leaving a private party at the Café de Paris’ the caption reads. ‘A back catalogue of songs from his hit band Raven is due to be released in May’.

Opening a kitchen drawer, I take out a plastic carrier bag and stack all the magazines neatly inside.

And then I stand there, staring at it.

If only it were as simple as that.

But it never was simple.

Right from the start I should’ve known.

‘Nothing happened.’

‘Nothing?’ Imogene frowns.

We’re waiting for our first day of classes to begin, sitting in the basement studio beneath the North London Morris Dancing Association. It’s a vast square room with wooden floors and an old upright piano in the corner. Light filters in through small round windows near the ceiling; dust particles dance in the shafts of brilliant sunlight, slicing like lasers through the hazy calm.

‘That’s right. I mean, we just hung out. Went to see the band, talked.’ My cheeks are burning. I turn away, pretending to search for something in my brown corduroy handbag. All I can find is a mouldy old mint. I pop it into my mouth anyway.

Around us the room’s filling with students.

‘You’re blushing!’ She giggles. ‘You like him, don’t you?’

I smile back at her.

Yes, I like him.

And I shouldn’t. Jake’s not my type of guy, not that I’ve ever met anyone like him before. There’s something rough about him. I don’t mean physically rough. But he has this dark undercurrent of raw energy I’m not used to; like anything could happen, any time. Besides, I’m not meant to like anyone except Jonny.

Jonny is my type; polite, clean-shaven, on time…the kind of guy who celebrates the anniversary of your first kiss with flowers, even when he doesn’t have any money.

But if I love Jonny, why do I keep thinking about Jake?

I wish he’d kissed me good night. Not just a peck on the cheek but one of those full-on face-devouring sessions that don’t stop with kissing. But I can’t tell that to anyone.

Robbie, on the other hand, happily disappeared with Mr Chicken for ages.

‘Enough about me.’ I’m determined to rein in these thoughts. ‘Show me which one of these fine gentlemen is Lindsay Crufts.’

Now it’s her turn to blush. ‘Where’s Robbie?’ she skirts my question. ‘You guys got back so late last night.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I heard her alarm go off.’ I check my watch. ‘And I pounded on her door before I left. She should be here.’

A slender young man with soft, ashen hair walks in. He smiles at Imo and her whole face lights up. This must be Lindsay. But he takes a seat on the other side of the studio, folds his legs neatly over one another and fishes a worn copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets out of the pocket of his tweed jacket. He reads intently, brow furrowed, nibbling away at his nails.

Imo gazes at him with unrestrained longing. I give her hand a gentle squeeze.

Soon the studio is full; there are about twenty of us and still no sign of Robbie.

At ten o’clock precisely, the door swings wide and Simon enters, wheeling expertly into the centre of the room. ‘Good morning!’ he bellows. ‘Welcome to the beginning of the spring semester! I’m Simon Garrett. I’ve spoken to most of you, and shall, no doubt, speak to you again. However, if you have any questions or problems, either my assistant Gwen or I will be available to help you. Gwen!’

Gwen appears behind him, clutching a stack of papers, which she begins to pass around the room.

Simon whips one from her hand and raises it high. ‘Here are your schedules for the next three months. As you can see, we expect a great deal from you—in addition to your regular classes there are masterclasses, workshops, private tutorials, and plenty of opportunities to see the greatest living actors of our generation in live performances. You’re in London now, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to seize the day! If this is your chosen profession then you’ll need discipline, determination, the ego of a dictator and the stamina of a decathlon athlete! We’ve provided you with the most extraordinary professional actors, actresses and directors as teachers. In return we expect you to be prompt, prepared and, above all, professional.’

There’s an awful hacking sound on the other side of the door; a kind of retching cough, followed by a long, woeful moan: ‘Jesus! Fuuuuuck!’

The door opens and a dishevelled, overweight man, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and sixty, stumbles in, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lower lip. His thinning brown hair is scraped back across his scalp, and he’s wearing a wine-coloured pullover, grey suit trousers and a pair of well-worn black sneakers. He looks like a tramp. Standing just behind Simon, he pulls a gold lighter out of his back pocket. The cigarette fizzes into life. He inhales deeply.

‘Greetings.’ His voice is deep and resonant: the rounded, poignant timbre of a fallen hero. ‘Pardon me. Have I interrupted your St Crispin’s Day speech, Simon? Once more unto the breech and all that? “O! for a Muse of fire,’” he roars, ‘that would ascend the brightest whatever-the-fuck-it-is of invention!’

‘Not at all, my dear man!’ Simon’s all warm authority; they shake hands. ‘Just giving them an idea of what to expect.’ He turns his attention to us. ‘I’d like to introduce Boyd Alexander, who will be your principal acting instructor this term. Boyd has just returned from Russia where he’s been working with members of the Moscow Art Theatre on a new production of The Cherry Orchard.’

There’s an audible gasp; the Moscow Arts Theatre is legendary; the company Chekhov himself favoured.

‘He’s also due to direct the Wars of the Roses next season at the RSC, so we’re very, very lucky to have him.’

Boyd executes a little half-bow, nearly scorching himself with his cigarette in the process.

‘Right!’ He pulls a chair up and collapses into it. ‘Enough about me. Run along, Simon! Now’—he glowers at us—‘what I really want to know is, can you people act? Or are you just poncing about in London on your parents’ credit cards for a few months?’

Gwen and Simon exchange a look.

Boyd waves them on. ‘Off you go, you two! And Gwen, a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. Trust me,’ he purrs placatingly ‘I am, after all, a professional!’

They leave. The rest of us are left clasping our schedules, the way that lost tourists cling to maps.

‘You were meant to prepare an audition speech. So, which one of you has the balls to go first?’

All eyes hit the floor.

He groans, inhaling again. ‘Fine. Shall we do it like this, then? How many Juliets do we have with us today?’

Three hands go up.

‘Of course. Let’s start with the Juliets. And how many of you have prepared balcony scenes? Please rise.’

Two of the girls stand up; a small brunette with glasses and a rosy-cheeked redhead.

Boyd leans forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, my dears.’ His voice is sinister. ‘I want you to do the speech together at the same time.’ He points to the brunette. She’s biting her lip. ‘You take one line and you’—he turns to the redhead—‘you take the next, do you understand?’ She nods, tugging at her skirt nervously. ‘And yes, my darlings, this is a punishment because no one should have to sit through the balcony scene more than once on any occasion and also, as actresses, you should know better. Juliet has some stonking speeches filled with lust, death, suicide, ghosts, the whole bloody lot and you guys have chosen the naffest one of them all!’

They blink at him. The small brunette with glasses looks as if she might cry.

Boyd swivels round to the rest of us. ‘The first rule of being an actor is to grab the limelight. Make the most daring choices you can. Wherever you are, find a light bulb and stand under it! If you don’t want to be looked at, if you don’t want to be noticed, then you’re in the wrong profession. And for fuck’s sake, do something worth watching! Now that you’ve got our bloody attention, keep it! Right! Off you go!’

They stand, huddled together in the centre of the studio. The brunette starts, hands shaking.

‘“Romeo, Romeo.’” Barely audible, her voice is brittle and choked with tears. ‘“Wherefore art thou Romeo?’”

‘Stop!’ Boyd barks, jabbing his cigarette out on the floor. He strides over, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘Are you going to cry?’

She nods her head, unable to form the words.

‘Brilliant! Use it! Channel it! Feed it into the language! Finally! I’ve always wanted someone to do something different with this speech! What’s your name?’

‘Louise,’ she whispers.

‘Speak up, girl!’

‘Louise!’ she shouts back, suddenly irritated.

And he smiles. A great, wonderful, warm, open smile.

His eyes gleam. Bouncing into the centre of the room, he flings his arms wide, throws back his head and shouts ‘Louise!’ until the windows shake. Grabbing her hands, he whirls her round. ‘LOUISE!! LOUISE!!’

And she’s giggling, laughing. ‘Wherefore art thou Louise?’

He catches the redhead’s hand. ‘Go on!’

‘“Deny thy father and refuse thy name!’”

‘“Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,’”

The redhead spins round. ‘“And I’ll no longer be a Capulet!’”

They’ve caught the rhythm; we can feel it.

“‘’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;’”

‘“Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.’”

‘“What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot.’” They take each other’s hands. ‘“Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man!”’

And so they dance, turn, vault around the room, throwing the words back and forth, volleyball in iambic pentameter. It becomes in turns breathless, urgent, fanciful—laced with longing, then drenched in desire; everything a young girl with her first crush would be, standing in the moonlight of her own private garden.

‘I want you to remember this.’ Boyd pulls both his Juliets in closer. ‘I want you to remember what it’s like to be alive, to be young; to have the most wonderful language ever written rolling about in your mouth—the flavour of the words on your tongue and this rhythm, driving you. It’s a sensual experience. Acting’s all about the senses. Well done, both of you.’ He releases them.

They stagger, elated, back to their seats.

‘So.’ He stretches his arms high above his head and yawns. ‘How many Hamlets do we have today?’

Tentatively, I raise my hand.

Imo looks at me.

‘I see.’ Boyd gestures for me to stand up. ‘So, a bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, are we?’

I knew this would be tricky.

‘And what, exactly, is your difficulty with the traditional women’s roles?’

‘They’re boring.’ I’m pretending to be more confident than I am. ‘I’m not good at being young and pretty and…well, that’s all they are; young and pretty’

He grins. Even sitting, he gives the impression of looking down from a great height. ‘Well, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

It’s strange standing in the middle; quite different from how I imagined it. All eyes are on me and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, the adrenalin races through my veins. What is it he said? Make the most daring choices you can? Do something worth watching? Scanning the room, I suddenly spot the old piano. And a brilliant, bold scheme forms in my mind.

I push it towards the centre on its creaking wheels, then sit down and start to play, plucking out the tune to Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’. I’ll slowly build in speed and intensity, a macabre reference to Gertrude and Claudius’s incestuous wedding, and then whirl round and hit them with the first line.

Da da dada…da da dada…

My hands start to shake.

I haven’t played a piano in years.

The tune is only barely recognizable. In fact, it sounds more like the Captain and Tennille than Mendelssohn. But the longer I play, the harder it becomes to break off and swirl round.

I’m stuck.

Shit! I have to stop playing the piano! I have to stop! I’m panicking! I have to stop panicking and I have to stop playing the piano!

I twist round and nearly fall off my seat. A sea of bewildered faces greet me. I feel like a lounge singer. ‘“To be or not to be,’” I shout, sounding remarkably like the guy who sells the Evening Standard outside Baker Street tube station. ‘“That is the question!’”

OK. Calm down. I’ve begun. That’s the main thing.

Only now I’m trapped behind the piano. I try pushing the bench back dramatically. But it makes a hideous, spine-crunching, scraping noise. The whole room gasps in agony. Once up, I attempt to recover by leaning nonchalantly against the side of it. The lid slams down and I end up screaming like a girl.

Sadistically, Boyd allows me to work my way all the way through. And when I finish he just looks at me, arms folded across his chest. ‘Thank you, Miss…?’ He pauses, waiting for my name.

‘Miss Garlick,’ I mumble.

The speech had seemed a lot more impressive in my room last night.

‘Yes, well, Miss Garlick, I believe you’ve given everyone a valuable lesson about props.’

There’s a twitter of laughter.

I want to die.

‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing wrestling with a piano?’ He leans back in his chair.

I stare at the floor. ‘I don’t know…I thought it would be…a good idea.’ I sound like an idiot. Why doesn’t he just let me go? Why does he have to keep torturing me?

‘How old are you?’ he asks.

I pause. Is this a trick question? ‘Eighteen,’ I admit.

‘And what do you like to do?’

‘Uh, well, going out, being with my friends…’

‘You like boys?’

I flush. ‘Yeah.’

‘So pretty much the same stuff Hamlet likes: girls, hanging out with friends, being at school and away from home…normal student stuff. Only, of course, Hamlet isn’t eighteen, he’s thirty’

‘Oh.’ This is obviously important. I only wish I knew why.

He looks at me, tilting his head to one side. ‘Doesn’t that seem strange to you? You see,’ he continues, not waiting for my answer (perhaps already knowing that there isn’t one), ‘long before the play begins, way before his father’s murdered, there’s already something wrong with Hamlet. He enters, fucked.’

I’m not really getting this.

‘That’s what’s so interesting. The hero of our tale is a loser. The most famous play in the world is about a guy who can’t pull himself together, doesn’t have a job, can’t get the girl and who takes four hours to accomplish something he was told he needed to do in the first twenty-five minutes! And then he dies!’

I nod as if it’s all starting to make perfect sense.

It isn’t.

He leans forward eagerly. ‘To be or not to be isn’t about indecision—it’s about failure. He goes through the whole speech, thinks about every angle of the question and then ends up back where he started. So why does the world love Hamlet, Miss Garlick?’

I shrug my shoulders, inwardly kicking myself for not learning Juliet instead.

‘Because’—he speaks with sudden intensity, his face illuminated with feeling—‘very few of us relate to what it’s like to be a hero. But everyone understands what it’s like to fail.’

Boyd stares at me, searching my face for some flicker of recognition.

He’s lost me. I avert my eyes, concentrating on the worn surface of the wooden floorboards, hoping he’ll release me soon. I can sit down and be anonymous.

‘Of course, there’s a lifetime between eighteen and thirty’ he concedes quietly.

‘OK, right!’ he shifts gears. ‘Let’s get this speech moving.’ Standing up, he fishes around in his pocket and throws me a coin. ‘Forget the piano, OK? Let’s keep it simple. Heads you live. Tails you die. Go on—toss it.’

I throw the coin into the air, slapping it down on the back of my hand. ‘Tails.’

‘Is that what you wanted?’

‘I don’t know’

Boyd goes over, pulls Lindsay Crafts to his feet. ‘Here’s the deal,’ he tells me. ‘You can either kill this guy or kill yourself!’

I blink at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Go on, flip the coin! Heads, you kill him. Tails, you kill yourself!’

Reluctantly, I flip the coin again. ‘Heads.’

‘Brilliant!’ He gives me a shove. ‘Off you go!’

I look at him, horrified. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Go on! Kill him!’

I turn to Lindsay. He smiles politely.

‘Come on! What’s wrong with you!’ Boyd claps his hands. ‘Time’s ticking! Let’s go! Stab him! Strangle him! Hit him over the head with a chair! Do something!’

I’m completely paralysed. ‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t!’

‘Then kill yourself!’ Boyd’s circling me, fencing me in. ‘Go on! Do it! Those are the choices—him or you!’

‘I can’t!’ I feel trapped, panicky. ‘I can’t do either!’

‘So say it! Start!’

To be or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d.

‘That’s it! Keep going!’

I press on, the language coming fast and easy now. The speech that five minutes ago had seemed like a nightmare of dragging time, tumbles out with a new urgency.

To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.

Before I know it, it’s over; done. And for the first time I feel as if I’m in control, driving the words forward instead of racing to catch up. It’s an exhilarating, intoxicating sensation—like being behind the wheel of powerful sports car. I wasn’t sure I could do it. And now I want to do it again.

Boyd’s rocking back on his heels. ‘Well, that’s more like it!’

The door to the studio creaks open and Robbie, still wearing last night’s clothes and clutching a takeaway coffee, tries to steal in.

Boyd swirls round. ‘Ahh! An Ophelia! My, my! You’ve definitely been picking the wrong sorts of herbs! And what’s this?’ He plucks the coffee cup from her hand, tosses the plastic lid to one side and slurps loudly. ‘Mmm! Milk and sugar! Perfect for a hangover, wouldn’t you say?’

She smiles uncertainly and I retreat to my seat.

Wrapping a paternal arm round her shoulders, he leads her gently into the centre of the room. ‘Let me explain to you how this one goes. You can be late but you’d better be good. If you’re crap, you’d better make certain that in future you’re on time. So my dear (and, by the way, it’s nice to know I’m not the only person in London who takes personal hygiene with a pinch of salt), I’d very much like to hear your audition speech.’

He gives her his wickedest grin.

She, in turn, looks uneasily at the floor.

Silence extends in all directions; an excruciating, awkward vacuum of embarrassment. I feel for Robbie—wish that I could rescue her. But instead, the best I can do is look away, as if it’s kinder to ignore her as she stands there, staring at the space between her feet as the moments drag by.

Then, very slowly, she lifts her head. Her eyes meet his. And when she speaks, her voice is languid, almost drunk.

i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body, i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling firm-smooth ness and which I will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it-comes over parting flesh…And eyes big love crumbs, and possibly [a smile plays on her lips] i like the thrill of under me you so quite new

The room is silent.

She reaches across and removes the coffee cup from Boyd’s hand and, winking, takes a sip.

No one dares move.

‘And with that, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says at last, ‘I think it’s time for a cigarette.’

As the studio drains of students, Robbie sits down next to me. I turn to her, stunned. ‘I thought you said you were shit!’

She grins. ‘Oh, I can make a scene, if that’s what you want. Now, on to more important matters. Who here thinks I should fuck the teacher?’ She giggles and raises her hand.

Imo’s practically apoplectic with indignation. ‘My God, Robbie! He’s only about eighty! That’s 50 gross!’ she hisses. ‘Why can’t you ever take anything seriously?’

Robbie sighs wistfully. ‘But he’s sexy! Besides, our Mr Chicken doesn’t know his penis from his pancreas. Or my tits from my tonsils. Or, for that matter…’

‘Oh please!’ Imogene stalks off, hands pressed over her ears.

I shake my head. ‘Bad Robbie. Down, girl.’

‘Oh, Evie!’ She leans her head against my shoulder, stifling a yawn. ‘But being good is so boring! And besides, I’m ever such a long way from home.’

Boyd walks over and sits down. ‘Good work today’ he says, tapping me on the knee.

I look at him in amazement. ‘But I completely fucked up!’

‘What you did took courage and balls. Anyone who wants to be an actor has to get used to making a prize prat of themselves. And in my experience the bigger the talent, the bigger the flops. But it paid off, in the end…didn’t it?’

My whole insides warm with pride.

‘And you.’ He turns his attention to Robbie. ‘I’m a big fan of e.e.cummings but I’m willing to wager that’s just a little something you pull out of your back pocket any time you don’t fancy paying for your own drinks.’

To my surprise, Robbie’s pale cheeks are bright red. I thought nothing could faze her.

‘Don’t waste my time,’ he continues. ‘This isn’t a nightclub in Soho and I’m not, despite appearances, a casting agent for the European porn industry. And next time,’ he adds, standing up and reclaiming the coffee, ‘go easy on the sugar.’

That night, watching Top of the Pops and eating a supper of boiled rice, soy sauce and Singapore slings, Robbie composes her list of things to do. She’s possessed, pacing the living room and waving her fork in the air.

‘First off, girls, we need to get Evie here into Juilliard!’

‘Guess that rules out my famous Hamlet speech.’

She ignores me. ‘Second, we need to get Imo laid. Preferably with the homo, so a real challenge, that one.’

‘Hey!’ Imo comes to life from the depths of the sofa, where she’s been lying comatose for almost an hour, staring at George Michael dancing around in a pair of tennis shorts, singing ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’. ‘Why am I second?’

‘Because’—Robbie pauses to take another sip of her drink—‘Juilliard will change Evie’s whole life, whereas getting laid with Mr Nancy Pants will pretty much leave you back where you started.’

‘Oh.’ She leans back again, apparently satisfied but more than likely just pissed.

‘And lastly, we need to devise a way that I can impress the new love of my life, Mr Boyd Alexander.’

‘Try turning up on time.’ I flick a forkful of rice at her.

‘No heckling! I’m on a roll! Now, how can we do this? What we need is an event…something sophisticated, sexy…something where we can all dress up and look fabulous!’

‘You’re blocking the television.’ Imo waves her out of the way. ‘I like George Michael.’

Robbie shakes her head. ‘What is it with you and gay men?’

‘Oh, no! I’m not buying that for one second! That’s definitely one guy who’s straight!’

‘He’s a babe,’ I agree, drenching my rice in soy sauce.

Robbie freezes. ‘I’ve got it! We’ll throw a dinner party!’

‘Do you think it makes any difference that none of us can cook?’ Imo turns to me. ‘Sauce, please.’

Robbie does a little pirouette, the contents of her drink splashing over the sides of her glass. ‘Leave it all to me! Why do you girls always think so small? Don’t you understand? We have the power to be anyone or anything we want! The chance to change our whole lives in the blink of an eye! Anything is possible! Nothing can defeat the House of Chekhov! We will go to Moscow, I tell you! We will!’

I pass the soy sauce to Imo. ‘From Russia with love.’

Robbie drapes herself into one of the large leather chairs, sighing with satisfaction at the perfection of her own plan. ‘You know,’ she muses, unfazed by the fact that we’re not really paying any attention to her, ‘I can’t wait to be famous. I really can’t. I just know I’m going to be good at it.’ And she leans back, her face a picture of contentment and easy, unruffled anticipation.

‘Don’t you love the word naughty?’ she continues, swilling her drink around like character in a Noël Coward play. ‘I mean, the way the English use it? Even the way they say the word naughty is naughty’

Imo and I are transfixed by Duran Duran’s latest video in a way that prevents anything more than just shallow breathing.

‘Well, I love it,’ Robbie whispers, half to us, but mostly to herself. ‘I can’t think of anything more exciting than to be poised on the brink of committing acts of great daring and huge potential naughtiness.’

I’m late. It’s quarter past nine already and I’m still not out of the door. For the fifteenth time I examine myself in the full-length mirror of my wardrobe and attempt to readjust the little scrap of pale pink and blue silk Bunny gave me for my birthday. I try to tweak it with the same quick, sharp flick of the wrist I’ve seen Bunny and Ally use so many times to great effect, but the result is unpromising. I look like an airline hostess. For Air Kazakhstan.

I don’t wear scarves; I never have. So why am I wasting precious time today playing with one that, until ten minutes ago, was firmly (if discreetly) headed for Oxfam?

I’ve lost my books. My room, normally a haven of cleanliness and order, has suddenly erupted into a full-blown mess. I can’t find my papers. I tried to change my handbag to something slightly smaller and chicer, and now have a purse I can’t close, exploding with a selection of strange objects—mentholated breath mints, coloured pens, boxes of half-eaten raisins for Alex…The bed has all but disappeared; covered with piles of rejected clothes, the floor with unread sections of the Sunday Times; I stub my toe on one of Alex’s transformer toys (a bright red superhero which morphs into insect/vehicle) and hop around, clutching it and swearing, and then realize my tights have run…

And I’m forced to conclude that there is no point to having extra time. I’m one of the women who don’t know what to do with it anymore. In fact, the whole day runs much more smoothly if I have no time to think, feel, or deviate in any way from my set routine. Women’s magazines are always pontificating about the emotional rewards of luxurious baths, long walks, stolen hours spent reading or meditating or just being, whatever that may be. But what they don’t allow for are women like me, who simply panic if given an extra twenty minutes in the morning; whose fragile balance of identity can no longer negotiate a world filled with unanticipated freedom in any form without transforming it immediately into an obstacle course of right and wrong choices.

All because Ally took Alex to school today.

Enough. The twenty minutes are long gone now and I’m late again anyway. Part of me is relieved to default to my normal panic stations mode. And as I tear the silk scarf off my neck, fling the contents of the cute handbag back into the enormous canvas holdall that’s normally welded to my arm and shove my feet into a pair of black, stretchy pull-on boots which cover all sorts of leg-wear disasters and have for years and probably will for years to come, I feel the comforting rush of adrenalin through my veins. Better the chaos you know.

I force myself to leave my bedroom, averting my eyes to the mayhem I’m leaving behind (there’s no time, there’s no time, the voice chants over and over in my head) and head downstairs, throwing myself down each flight of steps as quickly as possible. When I reach the bottom, I stop abruptly.

Is that cigarette smoke? Thick, heavy, unmistakable, emanating from the drawing room?

I push open the tall double doors. It’s empty; radiant with sunlight. I’d forgotten that it caught the morning sun or that it was so pleasant; so elegant and inviting. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen it in anything but darkness.

But still the smell persists.

I move around the radius of the room.

Next to the marble fireplace, a Louis-Quatorze chair and a small round table sit, basking in a square of warm light. The chair bears the imprint of a curled figure on its seat and one of Bunny’s treasured collection of Halcyon Days enamel boxes is open; a small pile of ashes cooling in the lid.

‘It’s bad for you, you know’

I spin round. Piotr is standing in the doorway. He’s just woken up, his dark hair looks particularly Byronic, his beard unshaven. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt but his feet are bare.

‘It isn’t me,’ I assure him quickly. (There’s no way of saying that without sounding instantly guilty.) Tilting the ashes out into the palm of my hand, I replace the lid. ‘I don’t know who it is. None of us smokes.’

He digs his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘It’s OK.’ He grins; his eyes are almost amber in the daylight. ‘I won’t tell your dreadful secret.’

‘No, but it really wasn’t me!’ I insist. ‘I don’t smoke. Ever!’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘And yet you’re holding a handful of ashes.’

I pause. There’s that strange feeling again, the same sudden rush of transparency I had last night. ‘I found them,’ I say, avoiding his gaze.

‘I see.’ He stretches his long arms above his head, turning to run his fingers gently through the crystals of the hallway chandelier. A thousand rainbows appear.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ I follow him out. This is too unfair and irritating. ‘Do you honestly think I secretly sneak ciggies in Bunny’s front room, flick the ashes into one of her precious porcelain trinkets and then lie about it when I’m in danger of getting caught?’

He tilts his head. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ I sound like a parrot. ‘Why not? Because it’s…because it’s naughty!’

I flinch. I can’t believe I’ve just used that word in adult conversation.

Apparently, neither can he. ‘You’re a funny woman!’ He laughs, rocking back on his heels. ‘I haven’t met anyone like you in a long time!’

I don’t even want to know what this means.

‘I really don’t smoke,’ I add dejectedly but it only makes him laugh harder.

‘I’m making tea,’ he says at last, rubbing his eyes and pulling himself together. ‘Black tea. With sugar.’

Is this an invitation?

‘You do drink tea, don’t you? Or’—he can barely contain himself—‘I could just put it out on the table and then turn my back and if it should happen to go missing…’

He’s off again.

‘I’m late,’ I say, not moving; not quite sure what to do with the ashes in my hand. ‘I should’ve left ten minutes ago…and will you please stop laughing at me!’ This seems to be a trend today.

The phone rings.

He holds his hands up. ‘OK! OK!’

It rings again.

‘Excuse me.’ I stride purposefully across the hall to where the phone sits on a narrow table. ‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello! Who is this?’

It’s Melvin Bert, the Head of Drama at the City Lit. The rounded, plummy tones of his Eton education are unmistakable. My throat constricts instantly, as a hand tightens into a fist.

‘Melvin it’s me: Evie Garlick.’

‘How extraordinary! I…I was certain I’d dialled someone else…’ He pauses. ‘But…but now that I’m through to you, I think you might do just as well…’

I shake my head.

Piotr nods. Crossing, he takes my hand gently by the wrist and tips the ashes into his palm. He smiles, his fingers warm against my skin.

He disappears down the steps into the kitchen.

I yank my concentration back. ‘What can I do for you, Melvin?’

‘Well, the truth is, Edie…’ He’s never known my name. In the three years that I’ve worked for him, I’ve failed to register in any lasting way on his memory. ‘I need someone to take over Ingrid Davenport’s class on the three-year acting course. She’s been offered something at the National and, at her age, she really has to have a run at it!’

Ingrid’s only fifty. But Melvin, despite his professional career administrating in the dramatic arts, has never been an actor. It continues to baffle him that anyone over the age of thirty would be interested in acting professionally when they could have a nice, comfortable job teaching instead. ‘As I said, I was originally going to ask Sheila but, now that I’ve got you on the phone…’ His voice trails off, ripe with possibility.

This is a rare and exceptional opportunity: a chance to move out of the lower depths of teaching pensioners and night students; to pull myself into the proper, professionally accredited three-year drama course. Maybe even to direct. My heart surges with excitement. And terror.

All I need to do is to say something. Anything at all.

‘Well, Melvin.’ I take a deep breath, determined not to betray my nerves. ‘That’s a…an interesting offer…May I ask what times she teaches?’

There’s the sound of him riffling through papers. ‘Let’s see…yes, the first years are from eleven until one, then the third years are from two until four thirty. She has private tutorials on Wednesday afternoons until six thirty’

He pauses; a sharp, abrupt full stop. It shrieks for some sort of decisive, enthusiastic response. A clock ticks away in my head.

‘Oh.’ My mind’s reeling. ‘It’s just, you see, my son is still in school,’ I fumble, thinking out loud, ‘and…I…I…’

God! Pull yourself together!

‘Let me think…’ I stall, ‘he’s usually out by three…’

Melvin sighs indulgently. The clock ticks louder.

‘I need to get from Drury Lane to St John’s Wood before he…you know…’

I can’t even finish a sentence! There’s no way I’m capable of taking over Ingrid’s workload.

‘Melvin, I don’t think it’s going to work for me right now. I have to be available and…his schedule’s very tricky at the moment…’

What am I doing? What I am saying?

‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand.’ I can hear him tapping his pen. ‘Well, it was just on the off chance.’ He can’t wait to get me off the line.

Suddenly I’m desperate again. ‘Oh, of course! I mean, if you want someone to fill in just for a few days or something…I mean, if there’s anything I can do…’

‘Yes, I’ll keep you in mind,’ he says briskly. ‘Take care, Edie.’

And the line goes dead.

I hang up.

Turning, I catch sight of myself in the antique looking-glass hanging at the bottom of the stairs. A dim, filmy shadow clouds its surface like a phantom, compromising its clarity. Even the elaborate gilt frame can’t redeem its grey face.

There I am, diffuse and uncertain, blinking back at myself. A wave of self-loathing engulfs me.

I’ve done it again.

Every time I’m close to getting somewhere, I back away from the edge of the cliff.

I’ve lost my taste for heights. But I don’t know where or when it happened.

‘Don’t you miss your boyfriend?’ Robbie’s lying on her back on my bed, staring at the ceiling and dangling her legs in the air. She never spends any time in her own room at all, which is just as well, considering what a sty it is.

I’m unpacking my books; stacks of play texts and anthologies I’ve lugged all the way from the States. ‘Yeah, sure. But we talk a lot, so that helps.’

She looks at me. ‘No, I mean, don’t you miss him?’

My face flushes. ‘Yes. I suppose.’

‘Nice to know you’re human, Evie Rose Garlick!’ She gives my ponytail a tug. ‘Hey! I’ve been thinking. There’s this great Fassbinder speech I think you should have a look at.’ She swings her legs round and sits up. ‘I’ll be right back.’

She pads off to her room.

‘Look at for what?’ There are no shelves. I pile my books from largest to smallest against the wall.

They fall over.

‘For Juilliard!’ I can hear her sifting through the chaos.

I start again. Two piles this time.

‘I already have my pieces.’

She appears in the doorway, holding a battered volume. ‘But just look at this!’ She flings herself back on to the bed. ‘It’s amazing! Here. Read it out loud. You’ll love it!’

I take the book. It smells musty, like she stole it from a library. ‘Which one?’

‘“The Model.’”

‘“Sometimes I like to fondle myself…’” I look up, shocked. ‘This is all about…about masturbating, Robbie!’

She claps her hands in glee. ‘Isn’t it amazing? It’s so sexy and raw! If you did that for Juilliard, they’d be floored, Evie! Nobody does that speech!’

‘But it’s…disgusting!’ I say, unable to stop reading.

‘It’s Fassbinder. It’s meant to be shocking. And you’re so cute. You come across like such a good little girl…it would be amazing to turn the tables like this!’

‘I’m sorry’ I shut the book and hand it back to her. ‘I can’t do that speech.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re an actress, aren’t you? What’s wrong with it?’

I open my wardrobe doors. ‘It’s so…so, overt! And …tasteless, Robbie!’ Picking up my laundry bag, I shake my clean clothes onto the floor. ‘I’d be too embarrassed to say those things!’

‘But that’s why you’re an actress, right? So you can say all sorts of shit you normally wouldn’t! Anyway, don’t you ever get yourself off?’

‘Stop it!’ I fold the pieces roughly. ‘And I’m not telling you anyway!’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Why not? I do. Everybody does. I have the most fantastic, big, black, rubber vibrator. Want to see it?’

‘No! I don’t want to see it!’

‘Want to borrow it?’

‘No! I really don’t!’ This is the pile for ironing. ‘Stop it! You’re being disgusting!’

‘So, what do you use? The shower head?’ She looks around the room. ‘A candle?’

‘Robbie!’ I pick up my ironing and march into the kitchen.

She follows. Obviously, she enjoys winding me up.

‘Come on, Evie! Give!’ She hauls herself up on top of the kitchen counter, oblivious to the piles of washing up. She watches as I struggle to open the ironing board. ‘What do you dream of? Two guys at once? Two girls at once? Dogs?’ She bangs her feet against the cabinets like a naughty child. ‘You country girls are the worst!’

‘I don’t do any of that.’ I yank up the ironing board. It balances precariously. Then collapses again.

‘Humm.’ She rubs her chin. ‘I know! Horses! Like Catherine the Great!’

‘Stop it, Robbie!’ I’m becoming upset. ‘I mean it.’

‘I’ll bet you have a thing for big burly black boys…or maybe some sort of pervy incest thing…oh, Daddy and all of that…nothing wrong with that, mind you.’

‘I’m serious! Please! I don’t want to talk about this!’ Pulling the board up again, I wrestle it into position.

‘That’s it, isn’t it! You’re a Daddy’s girl, aren’t you!’

‘Robbie…’ I want her to stop.

‘Oh, look, Daddy!’ She puts on a little girl voice. ‘I’ve grown out of my training bra!’

‘Robbie!’ I turn away.

‘Are you crying?’

A hot, angry tear works its way down my cheek. I brush it away with the back of my hand.

‘Hey!’ She launches herself off the kitchen counter. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Why didn’t you just tell me to fuck off?’

I wish she’d leave me alone. ‘I can’t.’ My throat’s painfully tight.

‘What do you mean you can’t? I’m telling you to!’

‘No, what I mean is, I can’t!’ Why does she have to make such a big deal of everything? ‘When I get angry or upset, I just…just cry, like some sort of fool! I can’t even do it on stage! Whenever I have to get angry in a scene I melt down instead. I go numb and then…’ I’m crying even harder now. ‘I just can’t do it!’

‘Why not?’ She offers me a kitchen chair and sits down next to me. ‘What’s the worst thing that can happen?’

‘I don’t know. No one will like me. I’ll be ugly and vicious and evil, and all this shit will come out and I won’t be able to control it.’

‘Yeah?’ She stares at me. ‘So?’

‘What do you mean, so?’ She’s being deliberately obtuse. ‘No one will like me! I’ll lose everything that’s important!’

‘It’s bullshit.’ She wraps an arm round me. ‘Take me, for example. You could have a real go at me and I’d probably just think it was funny’

‘You’re not like normal people,’ I assure her. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong—I think it’s great. I wish I could be as free as you and not give a shit. But I do!’

She gives me a squeeze. ‘You’re too soft, darling. We have to toughen you up. Are people really that fragile in Ohio?’

I think of my parents. Silence at the dinner table; my mother sitting across from my father, pushing her food round and round on her plate…my father cutting his meat into hunks, forcing it between his lips, glaring at his water glass…

‘No. People don’t really get angry where I come from.’

‘Then New York will be good for you. The whole joint is seething!’

I sink my head against her shoulder. ‘I may not be going to New York.’

‘Oh, yes, you will! If I have anything to do with it! Besides, I need a chum I can torment day and night. Hey!’ She turns to face me, suddenly excited. ‘What would Raven do?’

‘Nothing.’ I roll my eyes. ‘She doesn’t exist, Robbie.’

She pokes me in the arm. ‘Yes, she does! That’s the whole point of alter egos. Come on, what would she do?’

I wish she’d just let this whole Raven thing go…just because I used the name one night…I rub my running nose on the back of my hand. ‘I don’t know…tell you to fuck off, I suppose.’

‘Great!’ Standing up, she pulls me to my feet. ‘So tell me to fuck off!’

‘But I don’t feel it.’

‘So act it! Be Raven!’

This isn’t going to work. ‘Fuck off,’ I mumble.

She’s staring at me, hands on hips. ‘No, you’re not going to New York. Come on, Evie, try harder!’

‘Fuck off, Robbie!’ I start to giggle. ‘I can’t do it!’

She shakes her head, dragging me into the hallway. ‘Well, it’s a start I suppose. Come on!’

‘Why? Where are we going?’ I follow her into her room.

She flings her handbag over her shoulder, chucking a rapidly shedding fur jacket at me. ‘Catch! To Soho, my love! Let’s get you this biggest, most obscene dildo we can find! And then we’re going to stop at the all-night chemists and get some hair dye. It’s time you started taking Raven Nightly seriously!’

I’ve never had a friend like this—someone so sophisticated, exciting and urbane that they don’t even mind if I shout at them. I slip on the jacket, surveying myself in the mirror. Already I look different—cooler; much more grown up. None of my old friends would ever even dare to say the word dildo out loud, let alone buy one.

Robbie hammers on Imo’s door. ‘We’re going dildo shopping in Soho, darling! Can we get you anything?’

Silence.

This is the time that Im can normally be found talking to her mother long distance or leafing her way through the New Testament.

The door opens a crack. A twenty-pound note appears. ‘Something pink. And not too obvious,’ she instructs.

And then it shuts again.

‘This place is a dive.’ Imo brushes her hand over the dirty tablecloth with disdain. ‘I don’t know why we have to do this,’ she says for the ninth time in five minutes.

‘Because’—Robbie’s eyes flit around the room—‘this is where I’m going to teach you how to seduce a man. And we don’t have much time. Sit up, Evie. And push your breasts out.’

‘I am,’ I say, irritated.

‘Oh.’ She looks me over. ‘Yeah.’

We’re sitting in the basement room of a wine bar called Bubbles, located just round the corner from our flat in Baker Street. Everything’s pink: the walls, the tablecloths, the chairs—a kind of bubblegum, Pink Panther pink, which only heightens the sense that we’re extras in a low-budget early 1960s film. However, instead of Rock Hudson and Doris Day bursting into song, we have small clusters of Arabs and balding businessmen enjoying the late-night talents of Rocco Rizzi and his vibraphone stylings. Rocco sits in his black tuxedo and white ruffled shirt on a small circular stage covered in pink shag pile carpet, a disco ball and strobe light dangling above his head. He’s just launched into a particularly slow and heart-felt version of ‘Summertime’. With extra vibrato.

‘I love this song.’ Imo sighs. And she hums along, in her slender, slightly operatic soprano voice.

My wrap keeps falling off. I pull it up again. Tonight, we’re all wearing treasures gleaned from Robbie’s amazing wardrobe, which consists mostly of 1950s evening gowns, vintage cardigans and quite a lot of dead animals. The wrap is one of her prized pieces. It’s made from two rather moudly foxes which attach to one another by biting each other’s tails; a trick accomplished with the aid of little clips glued underneath their tiny chins. One of them has had a beady glass eye replaced with a small black button. He looks particularly deranged. We call him Dave and the other Derek. Dave and Derek accompany us on most nights out, coming into their own after we’ve had too much to drink. Then they chat up strangers and perform lewd dance routines. But the chances of that happening tonight look rather slim.

We’ve already been here twenty minutes and nothing’s happened.

The barman’s back again. ‘Are you ladies ready to order yet?’

Robbie picks up the little cardboard menu of drinks with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘We just can’t decide between all these amazing cocktails!’ she gushes. ‘Look, Evie! “Sex on the Beach,” “A Slow Comfortable Screw”…so many choices and so little time!’ She laughs, a gay Scarlett O’Hara trill.

He’s unimpressed. ‘Well, sooner rather than later, girls,’ he warns us, sloping back to polish glasses in the curve of the pink bar.

‘We don’t have any money’ I remind Robbie. (Every time I turn round, the barman glares at me.)

‘Money is cheating.’ She tugs at her white mink bolero, scanning the room again.

Two men with hair walk in and saunter up to the bar. They’re reasonably young (below fifty), reasonably dressed (suits and ties) and laughing loudly as if they might be reasonably fun too. Robbie’s eyes light up.

‘Bingo!’ She leans forward the way you strain over the edge of the platform for a long-awaited train. ‘Smile, Evie! Imo! Stop howling and smile!’

The three of us sit there beaming. Eventually their drinks are served. They turn round and find us grinning at them.

‘Now look away!’ Robbie hisses. ‘Imo, avert your eyes! That’s right! Toy with them!’

So we all stare at Rocco instead. He gets excited and swings into a Simon and Garfunkel tribute, starting with a disco version of ‘Feeling Groovy’.