by Alice Feeney
“It’s so strange to think that I could have been in this movie”—she shakes her head—“if I hadn’t turned them down.”
She’s crawled so far up her own arse, she can’t find the way out.
“Yes, you mentioned that last time.”
I so badly want to punch her in the face. She deserves it, but I’ve never punched anyone in the face, and I’m not sure I’d know how to do it without hurting myself. Her red lips part, and I dread to think what is going to come out of her poisonous mouth next.
“I know how daunting it can all feel when you don’t have much experience, but Tony knows what he’s doing. I’m sure he wouldn’t have put you forward for this if he thought he could get you something better. Sometimes you just have to take what you can get.”
Fuck you and your egotism poorly disguised as empathy.
“I saw Tony today actually,” I manage, unsure where I’m going with this.
“How lovely. How is he?”
“He’s good. He mentioned he doesn’t represent you anymore.”
Her smile falters so fleetingly I almost miss it. “That’s right, it was time to move on.”
It must be quite something to love yourself as much as she does; I wouldn’t know. But something about her is a little tragic and broken. The spotlight led Alicia somewhere dark, and she couldn’t understand when the light went out. I guess nobody explained to her that even the sun disappears for a while, once its turn to shine is over. All stars are born to die.
“Oh, look at your little red shoes, so sweet. It’s like you’re trying to be Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz all over again,” she says. “It took me a while, but I think I’ve just about forgiven you for stealing a part that should have been mine at school.” Her words sound a little slurred. I never knew she’d auditioned for the part; she must have hated me, especially given I was in the year below. Alicia was always queen bee and always got her own way.
“I … I had no idea that you—”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“No, really. If I’d known, well, I think you would have been terrific.”
Water doesn’t melt witches in real life, best to kill them with kindness.
She laughs. “I know I would, but it really doesn’t matter to me now. It was over twenty years ago! You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here tonight…”
You probably just invited yourself like usual.
She doesn’t wait for a response, which is good, because I can’t come up with a polite one.
“We’ve been keeping it a secret, but I don’t think he could stand to be apart any longer, I know I couldn’t. He’s here somewhere. It can be so hard maintaining a relationship when you’re always away filming, but I don’t need to tell you that. How is your husband?” She looks around the room. I really have no interest in meeting her latest boyfriend. I’m about to make my excuses and walk away when she speaks again. “Jack, darling, come on over here and say hello to your co-star.”
I feel physically sick.
Jack emerges from a huddle of men in the corner of the room and strolls over in our direction. She snakes her skinny arm around his waist as soon as he’s within touching distance, but he only looks at me, as though he knows he’s standing next to Medusa. She kisses him on the cheek, watching for my reaction the whole time, her red lips leaving their mark. My smile is in serious danger of sliding off my face, and holding it there is exhausting.
“Now, I know those pictures in the papers weren’t real, but I can’t stay too late to keep an eye on the pair of you tonight, so don’t go getting any funny ideas. I need my beauty sleep for my audition for the next Fincher film tomorrow,” she says. My face gives me away for less than a second, but she sees it. “Oh, you have an audition too? You didn’t think you were the only one, did you? Bless, always so sweet and naïve.”
“I’ve just seen someone I just must say hello to, will you excuse me?” I say to them both, with the best smile my face can manage.
I walk away without waiting for either of them to reply. I find myself in a red room this time—red walls, red furniture, my red shoes scurrying across a plush red carpet—unable to stop thinking something that I shouldn’t. The thought is only on loan, a temporary rental that I already know I will have to give back sooner or later. I mustn’t hold on to it. But for now, for just a little while longer, I permit myself to indulge the idea. I get myself another glass of champagne, the words repeating themselves over and over, loud and clear inside the privacy of my own mind:
I wish Alicia White was dead.
Forty-one
Essex, 1988
We have carpet.
Brand-new red carpet all over the flat, except in my bedroom, which already had pink carpet, and in the kitchen and the bathroom, which both have a new floor with a name all of its own. It’s called lino, and I like to skid across it in my socks. Maggie says the carpet is red so that I can practice being a film star, but for now my favorite thing to do is to slide all the way down the stairs from the flat to the shop on my bottom. John laughs at me and does it, too, yelling he’s going to race me down the apples and pears. He does that a lot, makes up silly rhymes that mean something else. Apples and pears means “stairs.” Dog and bone means “phone.” Sometimes I don’t know what he’s talking about, like when he says brown bread—we only ever eat white. Maggie looks over the banister at us racing down the stairs and takes a picture on John’s camera.
“Eejits,” she says, but she smiles, so it’s okay. I hear her put on the TV upstairs, leaving John and me laughing, but then there is a knock on the outside door and we both jump. It is Sunday. It is always just the three of us on Sundays, unless we go to the pub to see Uncle Michael, and we’re not going there today because John says we need to lie low. I thought that might mean sleeping on the floor or something, but Maggie said it means something different without telling me what that was. There is a tall basket at the bottom of the stairs next to the outside door, and we keep umbrellas in it. There are also golf clubs, and a baseball bat, even though we don’t play either of those things.
John picks up the bat before pushing me behind him, then moves closer to the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Mrs. Singh,” says a voice outside, and I recognize the sound of the beautiful woman from the corner shop, with her brown skin and red spot. John opens the door a little, still holding the bat out of sight behind him.
“How can I help?”
“Someone has left something outside your shop, and I thought you should know.” She sounds sorry, but I’m not sure what for.
John leans out of the doorway and stares at something that I cannot see.
“What is it?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer.
“What is it?” Maggie asks, like a grown-up echo. She has reappeared at the top of the staircase, and I know he won’t ignore her; nothing makes her more cross.
John’s mouth opens but the words don’t come out at first, as though they got stuck. Then he takes the cigarettes he gave up giving up from his pocket and lights one. It seems to help him speak again.
“It’s a box.”
Maggie comes down the stairs superfast. “Well, open it.”
John thanks Mrs. Singh and brings the box inside, dragging it through to the betting shop, where there is more room. It’s large and looks very heavy. He takes a penknife from his pocket, cuts the cardboard, and lifts the lid right off.
Maggie’s face turns white and cross. “Go upstairs,” she says in my direction, but I don’t move, I want to see what it is. “I said, go upstairs!” She pushes me. She seems very upset all of a sudden. I start to walk away, slowly, and when I turn back, I see an empty white coffin. Not a big one, like I’ve seen at funerals; this one is about the same size as me.
Forty-two
London, 2017
I imagine what Alicia would look like dead as I make my way around the party.
I realize that these thoughts are neither normal or healthy, but they
are the only ones currently occupying my mind, and I’m rather enjoying them. I need another drink. The club is full of bars, so that at least is one desire that shouldn’t be too hard to satisfy. I climb the spiral staircase and head for the third floor, the place physically farthest away from Jack and Alicia.
I don’t know what I’m so upset about or why I’m so surprised. Men fall for women like that all the time; as if they can’t see the bitch behind the beauty. Why should Jack be any different? It isn’t as though I thought there was anything real between us; obviously the sexual tension was just an act for when the cameras were rolling, and any friendship that developed as a result of spending all those months filming together was just the product of time shared, the camaraderie of a common experience.
As for the audition, I think I’m justified in feeling upset about that. Tony made it sound as if the part were already mine. I guess agents, like normal human beings, occasionally tell people what they want to hear. Maybe he was trying to boost my confidence after the online article about the affair I’m not having. Maybe he could see that I was falling apart and was simply trying to stitch me back together, protect his investment.
The drinks are all free, paid for by the film company, so I have another. I feel like I’ve earned it. Anxiety changes my relationship with food and drink; it comes between me and food, forcing me closer to alcohol. I know I need to slow down, but sometimes the advice we give ourselves is the hardest to hear. The barman looks surprised to see me again so soon. I tell him this glass is for my friend, and he nods politely. My acting skills are clearly fooling nobody tonight.
I head down to the floor below, another room, another design. This one is all about black leather sofas and low lighting, with modern art clinging to the walls. There are black blinds hiding the outside world from us, and us from it. And there’s another bar, housing a barman who hasn’t served me yet, one who can’t judge me the way I’m currently judging myself. This will have to be the last glass for now.
Down another flight of steps and I’m back where I started on the ground floor. I won’t make myself stay too much longer, but I can’t leave just yet. Besides, where would I go? I need to be seen to say hello to a few more people for the sake of my future self. So much goes on behind the scenes in this industry that the general public doesn’t know. Perhaps it’s for the best. When magicians reveal how they do their tricks, it’s hard to still believe in the magic.
Beyond the imposing façade of the Georgian architecture, I see a room I’ve yet to explore. This one is purple, with a metallic bar and lighting so low that the faces in the room are more like shadows. I feel a breeze, and I see something beyond the purple room: a garden. I step out into the secluded, yet spacious, hidden gem, such an unusual find in central London. A white tent in the middle of the walled courtyard is decorated in gold stars, with a champagne bar in the far corner. This is where everyone has been hiding—out in the open. I get myself another drink, ignoring the stern voice inside my head strongly advising me not to, then I scan the faces all around me and spot the director and his wife. They’re talking to some people I don’t know, but I join their group anyway, feeling a little safer surrounding myself with at least some familiar faces. I make an effort to listen to their conversation, hoping it might drown out the thoughts inside my head. I think I see the flash of a camera, but when I look up, I can’t see anyone pointing anything in my direction. Besides, there shouldn’t be anyone here from the press tonight, it’s not that sort of party.
The director’s wife takes a packet of cigarettes out of her bag. The smell of cigarette smoke can still transport me back in time, and the memories it invokes are not always good. I watch as she puts one between her gloss-covered lips and notice how unusual it looks—long and thin and completely white, as though there is no filter.
“They’re fancy-looking cigarettes,” I say as she lights up.
She removes it from her mouth with manicured fingers. “Would you like one?”
I haven’t smoked since I was eighteen.
“Yes, please,” I hear a voice say, before realizing it is my own.
She lights it for me, shielding the flame from the wind with her free hand, and I listen to her Hollywood stories without really listening. I inhale deeply, enjoying the temporary high of the nicotine. I’m starting to think there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to be the version of me I could live with. The version of me who could be forgiven for all the terrible things I’ve made myself do to get where I am today.
My attention is easily drawn away from the conversation, choosing instead to focus on the back of a smartly dressed man on the other side of the courtyard. His height, build, and the way his hairline tapers at his neck are all a little too familiar.
It’s him.
I can’t see his face, but every fiber of my being is telling me it’s my husband.
I feel a lot colder than I did before, and my fingers holding the cigarette start to tremble. My eyes are willing him to turn around, to prove to my mind that it’s wrong, but he doesn’t turn to face me; instead he starts to walk away. I follow, as quickly as I dare without drawing attention to myself, but I can’t keep up and soon lose him in the crowd. I retrace my steps, through each of the different-colored rooms, scanning wildly for another glimpse of Ben, before coming back to the courtyard, still unable to see him.
I must have imagined it.
I’m tired, a little drunk, my mind is playing tricks on me again, that’s all.
I return to the group I was standing with before—safety in numbers—then allow myself to get lost inside my own thoughts once more, the alcohol and the tobacco joining forces to coax them out of me. I’m still wondering whether I have just seen a ghost of a man or a memory.
Ben can’t be dead.
Because I didn’t kill him, I would remember if I had.
I remember everyone else that I’ve killed.
Forty-three
Essex, 1988
Today I’m learning how to shoot a gun.
Some bad people want to hurt me, and Maggie and John. Maggie says we need to be ready. I’m not sure what it is we need to be ready for, but I know that I’m scared. Maggie says that it’s all right to be scared, but that I have to hide my fear somewhere I can’t find it. I think that must be what she does with the car keys, because she loses them all the time. Maggie says I have to learn how to turn fear into strength. I don’t know what she’s talking about. I just want to go home, and I realize that home is the flat above the shop. I don’t think about my old home much anymore, I don’t ever want to go back there now. I have nice things here, and I don’t want to “die in the dirt,” like my brother once said that I would.
We drive to a place called Epping Forest. It’s morning, but it’s so early that even the sun isn’t up yet; the moon is still doing a sideways smile in the black sky. We walk for a little bit, Maggie, John, and me, crunching over leaves and twigs, and I decide that I like the forest. It’s nice and quiet, not like the shop. John says if we see anybody else, we have to say we are going for a picnic. I think that’s silly, nobody goes for a picnic this early in the morning and we don’t have any food with us.
The police took the gun that Maggie shot the bad man with, but we have two new ones now, presents from the man we call Uncle Michael. He gave them to us at the pub last Sunday. I think he needs a haircut—it’s grown so long he looks like a girl. I must have pulled a face when Maggie said I had to learn to use a gun, but then she promised it would be fun, like my Speak & Spell machine. The one I am going to learn to shoot is called a pistol—even guns have lots of different names, like people. It looks nothing like my Speak & Spell—it is silver, not orange—and it feels heavy in my hand.
Maggie opens up the bag she has been carrying and takes out some tins of Heinz baked beans. I wonder if we are having a picnic after all, but then I see that they are empty. She puts the tin cans all over the place; some on top of the leaves on the ground, and some in the branches of th
e trees. Then she comes back to show me what to do. John doesn’t do or say much. Maggie tells him, “Keep watch,” but I’m not sure what he is meant to be watching—there is nobody else here.
Maggie can hit the tin cans from real far away; they make a funny noise when she does and topple over. She puts them all straight again, gives me back the pistol, and says that it is my turn. The pistol is so heavy it’s hard for me to hold it straight. I close one eye, just like Maggie did, then I squeeze hard and fall backwards when the gun goes off. John laughs at me, but Maggie doesn’t. She makes me do it again, and again, and again. Until my arms ache and my ears are hurting from all the loud bangs. I start to cry because I don’t want to do this anymore.
Maggie tells me to stop, but I can’t.
She tells me to stop crying again, and when I don’t the second time, she takes the pistol from my shaky hands, pulls down my trousers, and smacks me hard on the bum with it. I scream and she does it again.
John is looking the other way. He’s staring at a perfect-looking tree and has been smoking one cigarette after the other since we arrived. I see a pretty letter A carved into the bark and wonder when he had time to do that.
He turns to face us both. “I really don’t think this is necessary.”
“They sent a coffin as a warning, John. I won’t lose her too,” Maggie replies through her teeth.
“She can’t do it.”
“Yes, she can.”
“I’m telling you, she can’t.”
“And I’m telling you to shut the fuck up.”
He stares at the ground.
I stop crying because I know Maggie won’t stop hitting me until I do.
She gives me the gun back without saying anything, then pulls up my trousers. I’m so mad I think about pointing it right at her, but she’d probably kill me if I did that. I don’t want to disappear, and I don’t want to die in the dirt in a place called Epping Forest. I know she loves me really. She must do, she says so all the time.