Perfect on Paper

by Gillian Harvey

  Then she thought of Toby – the stress he’d been under. The man he’d used to be and hopefully would be again.

  ‘So, let’s hear it!’ Dan said, smiling.

  ‘Now? Can’t I just perform it when you guys dance?’

  ‘No, I think we need to hear it,’ Dan reiterated, waving his hand slightly in a way that clearly indicated the rest of them should sit. They did, cutely dropping into assembly-mode and sitting with crossed legs rather than grabbing chairs to perch on.

  ‘Ok,’ she replied. Because if she couldn’t perform it in front of this funny collection of young men, all of whom were rooting for her to succeed, then she was never going to make it in front of the cameras. Still, it felt more nerve-wracking than it ought to have as she uncrumpled the paper and began to read.

  When she finished her performance the room was quiet. She looked up, trying to read into their facial expressions.

  Then Dan began to clap, and the others gradually joined in. ‘Clare, that was great,’ he said. ‘Such a brave thing to do.’

  ‘Are you sure? Do you think I might be making a mistake?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said. ‘I think you’re doing exactly the right thing.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  On the way home, smiling at the memory of the troupe’s reaction to her performance, Clare had a sudden jolt of anxiety.

  She hadn’t heard from Steph.

  It wasn’t that unusual for the pair of them not to talk for a few days – it wasn’t as if they lived in each other’s pockets or followed each other around. But after her no-show at the café, surely Steph would normally have rung her to apologise or explain. Or Clare would have rung her.

  She felt a sudden pang of worry near her heart. ‘Claudia, phone Steph,’ she said.

  ‘Phoning Steph.’

  The phone rang seven times before the answerphone clicked in again.

  ‘Phone Steph,’ she said, again, determined to get through.

  This time, the line clicked open to reveal silence.

  ‘Steph?’ she said.

  ‘Hi,’ came the reply. It sounded like Steph, yet at the same time, it didn’t.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Silence.

  ‘Steph, are you OK?’ she said, suddenly and instinctively knowing the answer.

  Silence.

  ‘Look, I’m coming over,’ she said. ‘Right now.’

  It took ten minutes to get to Steph’s house – a modest newbuild at the end of a terraced row on an estate built in the grounds of a Victorian hospital. Lights were on in all the windows, but John’s car was nowhere to be seen.

  Feeling sick, but not quite knowing why, Clare rang the doorbell. ‘Steph?’ she called through the letterbox. ‘It’s me!’

  There was a moment’s silence, then the sound of someone walking.

  When her sister answered the door, Clare barely recognised her. Her hair was greasy and dishevelled and tied up in a messy bun. Her face was swollen from crying; she was wearing a towelling dressing gown that was in need of a wash. But it was Steph’s eyes that struck Clare the most. They were expressionless.

  ‘Steph?’ she said, stepping into her sister’s hallway and hugging her unresponsive body. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ A sudden fear. ‘Where’s Wilbur?’

  ‘He’s upstairs,’ Steph replied, her voice a monotone. ‘Don’t worry, he’s fine.’

  ‘And John?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Oh, Steph, why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t John call me?’

  ‘I don’t think he knows what to do.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ Clare said. ‘What’s the matter, are you depressed? Sick?’

  Steph let out a hollow laugh but said nothing.

  Walking into the kitchen, Clare flicked the kettle on instinctively. Why was it that she always felt problems could be solved with a cup of tea? Probably something about being British.

  It took an hour for her to get Steph to open up. How she hadn’t been sleeping. How she’d wake up in the night with racing thoughts. How, a few days ago, the feeling of dread that she’d been keeping at bay had descended on her and try as she might she couldn’t shift it.

  ‘Oh, Steph,’ Clare said, covering her sister’s hand with her own. ‘You should have called.’

  ‘You’re so busy,’ her sister shrugged.

  ‘Never. I am never too busy,’ Clare said, looking into Steph’s eyes for emphasis. ‘Do you understand?’

  Steph nodded.

  ‘Right. Well, we’re going to call the doctor right now and get you an appointment. And until John gets home, I’m going to stay here, OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Steph let herself be hugged and even ate a little of the sandwich Clare made.

  But the whole time she spent with the shell of her sister; Clare couldn’t help feeling that somehow she’d got it all wrong. She’d been wrapped up in her own life, her own petty worries, her own feelings of inadequacy. And she’d let herself believe that everything was OK with her sister – even though there had been signs, even though she’d known, hadn’t she, deep down, how hard she had found it herself after Alfie had been born, and that it was possible Steph might go through something similar.

  She was going to stop playing games, stop trying to micromanage everything and start getting real with her own life. Stop trying to change the world when she hadn’t even got her own ducks in a row.

  ‘I’m sorry, Steph,’ she said for the seventh time, looking at her sister. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be.’

  ‘We’ll fix this, you know. It’s not easy, but we can fix this.’

  For once, Toby noticed something was wrong as soon as Clare got home. And she was grateful. As they cuddled on the sofa for the first time in an age, she remembered those awful days after Alfie’s birth when she’d felt as if her world was closing in. And how it had been Toby who’d helped lead her back to life again.

  He had been her rock then, and she was determined that whatever had happened to fracture their relationship would be fixed.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Clare and Katie were just finishing clearing the table the following evening when Toby opened the front door and shouted a loud ‘I’m HOME!’

  ‘Is that Dad?’ Katie asked, her face a picture. ‘Do you think he’s all right?’

  ‘He … he seems fine,’ Clare replied.

  The door was pushed open with such force that it hit the wall, its handle leaving a small dent in the plaster.

  ‘Girls!’ Toby trilled, bounding into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got some great news!’

  Clare smiled in spite of herself. She’d been feeling sick with worry since she’d realised how ill her sister had become. But Steph was getting help now, and it was hard not to catch Toby’s infectious smile, even if she couldn’t quite join his over-the-top enthusiasm. ‘Go on?’ she said, putting her pile of plates next to the sink. ‘What is it? You’re taking over the TV studios? You’ve won the lottery?’

  ‘No and no!’ he said, still grinning.

  ‘Don’t tell me, you’re pregnant!’ she joked.

  ‘Mum!’ admonished Katie, her cheeks reddening.

  ‘No, but close!’ he said. ‘I’ve got tickets to watch the You’ve Got Talent live final in London! They were giving them out at work and I grabbed the final four.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Wow!’ said Katie, seeming genuinely impressed. ‘Can I come?’

  ‘I thought we could all go together as a family – it’ll be fun!’ he continued.

  ‘But Toby,’ Clare said, feeling a rising sense of panic, ‘you know I’m at that, um, conference again tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, his face falling slightly. ‘But you could meet us … go afterwards?!’

  ‘
I’m not sure – it starts pretty early and lasts … well, most of the day,’ she said, feebly. ‘You know, networking. If I’m starting my own firm …’ She was beginning to hate the lies.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, the wind firmly out of his sails.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘Let me see what I can do. The venue’s not far from there, so …’

  He cheered up at this. ‘And Katie? You’ll come, will you, sweetheart?’

  ‘Definitely,’ she said, excitedly.

  When Clare was settling down with a well-earned coffee, Toby came and sat with her, holding the tickets. The ink was starting to run in the corner of the top one, smeared by the sweat of his thumb. ‘Alfie said no, too,’ he said, sadly. ‘It seems he’s doing something football related.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. Look, you and Katie will have a lovely time. And I’ll make sure I’m there,’ she said – which wasn’t a lie, after all.

  ‘But won’t I look a bit of an idiot with empty seats around me?’ he asked. ‘Like nobody wants to sit with me?’

  ‘They’ll put someone else with you I’m sure,’ she said. ‘You know, move someone from the back to the front. They’re not just going to let a prime seat stay empty. Plus, who cares? You’re not in it for the positive publicity, and you can’t spend your whole life worrying what other people think.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ he said. ‘Or, maybe I could see if anyone else from work wants it?’

  ‘I’m sure someone will.’

  She watched as her husband typed something in on his phone and pressed a button decisively. ‘Group text,’ he said, as he looked up and met her eye.

  Moments later, Toby’s phone began to ring. He looked at the caller ID and his eyes widened.

  ‘Hello?’ he squeaked. ‘Yes. Well, yes, of course. I should have … No, you’re right. Well, yes it would be. Well, yes, us too! OK, see you there.’

  He hung up, his face pale, the red blotches reappearing on his neck. ‘That was Hatty,’ he said. ‘She was … rather friendly actually. Seems she’s keen on going – to show solidarity to Martha. She didn’t get her hands on any of the tickets yesterday … and she seemed, well, really nice.’

  ‘That’s good, right?’

  ‘Yes. I think.’

  Once the kids were in bed and Toby was snoring in front of the news, Clare pulled out Alfie’s bag and emptied its contents into a desk drawer. Then, quietly, she went up to her bedroom and began to fill it with the things she needed: Martha B.’s sunglasses, which she’d squirreled away underneath the underwear in her top drawer, and the top and trouser combination Nadia had chosen for her final outfit. Nadia would be bringing the make-up and hair things, but Clare slipped her own make-up bag in too – just in case.

  At her laptop, she printed out confirmation of her train ticket, before clearing the cache on her search engine, which would probably only make things seem more suspicious if Toby decided to check up on her. Feeling like someone on the run, she packed everything into the bag and put a folder on top for good measure – just in case someone decided to take a peek.

  She knew that Toby didn’t believe her story of another property conference in Town; she knew that he was worried, and probably a little suspicious about her motives. But she also knew that she wanted to keep her secret, just for one more day.

  He’d started to notice things again, in a way he hadn’t for a while. Noticed when she stayed out late or wasn’t home on time. Asked questions. Seemed suspicious and interested. In fact, at long last, showing her that he cared. Just with the worst possible timing.

  She was relying on the fact that it would all be over tomorrow; and with Toby and Hatty sitting in the front row, it would be over in rather spectacular style. She just hoped that after what she intended to do, Ann stuck with her and came to her new firm. And that she might still be able to find herself a client or two.

  She went back downstairs to her husband, who was watching the headlines with one eye open. ‘Hi, love,’ she said, feeling like a cheating spouse returning after a liaison. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Nothing on the news we need to worry about?’

  ‘No, seems fine for once.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’m off to bed,’ she said, straightening up again. ‘Got to make an early start tomorrow.’ She’d promised Dan she’d be there by 8 a.m.

  ‘Clare,’ Toby said, as she reached the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do I need to worry about this thing you’re going to?’

  ‘Toby,’ she said, with a small smile. ‘Seriously, just trust me – it will be fine.’

  She just hoped she was right.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Clare practised her breathing in a way that was meant to relax her, according to internet research. She watched her stomach inflate under her sequinned top and then breathed out through her mouth, deflating her belly like a wasted balloon. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. Her legs stretched before her in satin trousers which Nadia had assured her were ‘flattering’.

  Before the Martha B. episode, Clare had been involved in just two live performances. The first had been a recorder recital when she was five. She and the other grade one recorder students had been forced to stand in front of the whole primary school and play Frère Jacques in unison. She’d managed to get through it, but still remembered the humiliation of having to screech out the notes under the judging gaze of her peers.

  ‘Hey, you! Great playing,’ a year six boy had said to her afterwards in the playground, playing an imaginary ‘air recorder’ and laughing.

  She’d managed to avoid getting on stage through the rest of primary school. But in secondary, she had joined a drama club simply because two of her friends had, and it was that or spend lunch hours sitting in the classroom on her own. She’d enjoyed it for the most part, but had accidentally thrown herself into some of the improvs with too much gusto and ended up being awarded one of the main parts in the Christmas panto.

  It hadn’t been a great performance but judging by the fact she’d got called ‘Cinders’ for the next four years, it had certainly been memorable.

  Now she was here – about to rap live to the nation. But although the nerves coursed through her body, she realised she was kind of looking forward to it, too. It was a peculiar kind of excitement – the kind of excitement that comes with actually wanting something and being afraid that it might be taken away.

  Her legs still ached from their almost continuous rehearsals. ‘Are you all right?’ Dan had asked earlier, worriedly. ‘You’re not limping are you?’

  ‘No,’ she’d lied. ‘It’s fine.’

  She hoped it would be. She’d been working on her flexibility – she’d wanted to leave one particular move she’d planned a secret even from Eezee Troupe. Just in case it went wrong.

  Dan had looked concerned but had agreed to the mystery part of the performance.

  Clare now stood there, using her notes and keeping her voice quiet. ‘I’m preserving it,’ she told the concerned producer. ‘Don’t want to get hoarse.’

  One of the runners appeared now at her side. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked. ‘Psyched for the performance?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she lied.

  In truth, she was even more nervous now than she’d been last time. Knowing that Toby and Katie were here, and that even Hatty had come along, made it all the more nerve-wracking. Even now, she could see them on screen looming large in the front row. Hatty was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘Team Martha’, with ‘#MehToo’ writ large on her forehead with eyeliner.

  Dan had started talking about a release on iTunes, and about a producer who kept calling. She had no idea what the future might hold. All she could do was concentrate on the next few minutes. The ink was barely dry on her lease for the offices and she knew she
definitely wanted to run her own firm. She’d heard of portfolio careers – but it was unlikely the term was designed to cover being an international rap sensation and a conveyancing solicitor under the same umbrella. Yo! Yo! Sign da lease, innit?

  The thought of Toby, Katie and even Hatty witnessing her final move first-hand made her even more nervous, but she steeled herself. After all, it wasn’t really any different from their watching it at home on TV. It just meant that she’d see their reaction there and then, rather than hearing about it later. Besides, she reassured herself, she couldn’t really see into the audience once the lights went up. She’d just pretend they were back in the church hall, rehearsing where nobody could look, no one could judge and there was no fallout no matter how badly it went.

  At her side, Eezee Troupe were squatting, flexing, stretching and flipping their way through their warm-up.

  ‘Ready in two,’ said a stagehand, appearing by her side in the near-darkness.

  Then Clare’s stomach gave the obligatory dip and roll as she heard the first notes of their short film intro being played. ‘I want to send a message to women out there,’ she heard her screen self saying, ‘that we all deserve to be seen and valued for who we are.’ The music turned up tempo and Dan appeared on screen. ‘I grew up on the wrong side of the streets …’ he said, ‘dropped out of school at fifteen. At eighteen, I met a man who changed my life …’

  Clare tuned out, mentally rehearsing her lyrics for the last time.

  ‘Ladiees and gentlemen,’ said the slightly over-the-top voice-over bloke. ‘Performing for you live, iiiitttsssss Martha Beeeeee and the Eeezeeeee Troupe!’

  And this was it. In three minutes, she reminded herself, it would all be over.

  They walked onto the stage with the lights down, then, as the first beat of the music began to play, she felt her body move instinctively. She raised the mic and began: