by Jean Ure
“Oh.” Fawn’s lip curled slightly. “A children’s thing.”
“It’s still acting,” said Dodie.
“I suppose. If it ever actually gets shown.”
“Why wouldn’t it?” I said.
“Well.” Fawn shrugged. “It could just be a pilot. Sometimes they just do one episode to see how it works out and then they junk it. It’s what actors say when they want people to think they’ve been doing something when really and truly they’ve just been out of work. Resting,” she explained, for those of us who might be ignorant. “Then when you ask a few months later why it’s never been shown they go, ‘Oh, it was pulled.’ That means cancelled,” she added. “And nobody can prove that it wasn’t, cos I mean occasionally things do get cancelled. But other times it’s just actors pretending.”
I frowned. “You think Rachel’s boyfriend is just pretending?”
“More likely she’s just pretending,” said Fawn. And then she did her little scornful laugh and went, “Actor!”
“It hardly seems very likely,” agreed Chantelle.
I found it all a bit worrying, what with Nat and now Fawn. Anxiously, I asked Rachel if she was sure Danny didn’t know when the show was going to be on TV.
“I hope it’s not one of those they cancel,” I said.
Rachel looked alarmed. “Why would they cancel it?”
“It’s what they do! They make a pilot and if it doesn’t work out they cancel it. Is that what Danny made? A pilot?”
“I don’t know.” Rachel put a finger in her mouth and nibbled at a piece of skin. “He’s done ten episodes!”
“Oh! Well, in that case,” I said, relieved, “it should be all right.”
So much for Fawn! She didn’t know everything, however much she liked to pretend that she did.
She had called a final dress rehearsal for Saturday morning, ready for the performance next week, so Friday night I was staying on at school again. Being so busy with rehearsals, not to mention helping out with costumes, meant I was seeing almost nothing of Rachel at all. Two Saturdays in a row I got to stay on at school, while Rachel went home by herself. She hadn’t said anything about a date for Danny’s TV series and I kept forgetting to remind her. On the second Saturday I remembered at the last minute, but I was too late. She had boarded the school bus and gone off to the station before I had a chance. She had become like a ghost just lately, sadly drifting about with nobody bothering to notice her. A sort of shadow.
Earlier in the week she’d had another card. I only knew who it was from because I recognised the writing on the envelope: bright green and all in capitals. Otherwise I would never have guessed. Rachel had just given this little secret smile. No sighing, no squealing. Even Fawn couldn’t have accused her of being a drama queen. It was hard to look back and remember how bouncy she had been at the start of term.
When we went up to the dorm on Friday evening we discovered that Rachel’s precious photo had come loose and floated to the floor.
“Oh, look!” cried Fawn. “The actor’s taken a tumble!”
I bent to pick it up.
“What’s that on the back?” said Chantelle.
I turned it over. Someone had rubber-stamped it, Starlight Academy. And then underneath, typed on strips of gummed paper:
Danny Vitullo
Age: 16 years
Playing Age: 13–15
Hair: Dark
Eyes: Brown
Height: 5’4”
Build: Slim
Credits:
Slightly in Peter Pan, London Hippodrome
Steve in Gangbusters, 10 episodes, Eastern TV
We all turned to look at Fawn. She shrugged. “Obviously a publicity shot. It’s what agents send out to casting directors.”
“So it’s true,” said Dodie. “He really is an actor!”
“I said he looked like one,” crowed Tabs.
“That’s right, you did,” said Chantelle. “Give yourself a gold star!”
“I think Rachel ought to have a gold star,” said Dodie. “I mean –” she took the photo from me and considered it, head to one side – “gorgeous, or what?”
Fawn said, “Huh!” And then, “Funny she doesn’t mind going out with an actor …”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. We were supposed to be a team, and Rachel had let us down. I wasn’t sure that Fawn would ever forgive her.
The first thing I did when I arrived home on Saturday afternoon was triumphantly inform Nat that she had been wrong. I had proof!
You’d have thought she might at least say she was sorry, but all she did was start off again about this girl in her class that had told them her boyfriend was a pop star, like that took away any need to apologise. Before I could say anything, however, Gran appeared, looking pleased with herself.
“See what I’ve found!” She held out a book. “The Castle of Adventure! That’s one you haven’t got.”
I said, “Ooh, thanks, Gran!” doing my best to sound enthusiastic. I hadn’t the heart to tell her I’d grown out of Enid Blyton.
“We went into town,” said Nat. “Me and Gran. Went round the charity shops.”
Gran said, “Yes, and see what else I came across!”
“Gangbusters!” cried Nat.
Gran nodded. “I remember my mum buying me this book for my tenth birthday. They’d just shown the series on television, and then they brought out the book. See?”
She passed it across to me. It was an old paperback, a bit tattered and torn. On the front was a photograph of three kids: two boys and a girl.
“Steve was my favourite,” said Gran. “I was really in love with him!”
“Which one’s Steve?” I said. But I already knew. I didn’t need Nat self-importantly jabbing a finger at him.
Gran sighed. “Isn’t he just gorgeous?”
“Not bad,” agreed Nat. “But why’s his hair like that?”
“You mean styled,” said Gran. “It was the fashion in those days. Oh, he was a heart-throb!”
Nat giggled. “I suppose I could go for him.”
“Me too,” said Mum, peering over my shoulder.
Nat prodded at me. “What d’you think?”
I swallowed. I didn’t know what to think.
“I used to write his initials all over my school books,” said Gran. “DV … Oh, he was so lovely! I’m afraid whoever plays him in the remake will have a hard job convincing me. I suppose it will be some trendy young man. Still, no doubt he’ll appeal to you girls. You can keep the book if you want. I’m a bit too old for heart-throbs!”
I was very confused. My head was, like, spinning. I carried the book up to my room and sat there, on the bed, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. There had to be an explanation. There is always an explanation for everything. Tiny slivers of ideas went darting through my brain. Suppose … maybe –
It was no good. I still couldn’t get it. I heard Mum coming upstairs and went out on to the landing. I said, “Mum …”
“Are you still swooning over Gran’s heart-throb?” said Mum.
I held out the book. “It’s Rachel’s boyfriend,” I said.
“You mean, that’s the part he’s playing?”
I said, “No.” I stabbed a finger on the photo. “This is Rachel’s boyfriend!”
There was a pause.
“This is the original cast,” said Mum. She said it like perhaps I hadn’t quite realised. “The book must be at least –” she opened it and glanced inside – “forty years old. They obviously did their best to find lookalikes.”
“But, Mum,” I said, “he’s got the same name! It says on the back.”
Mum turned the book over. “Steve … Danny Vitullo. That’s the name of Rachel’s boyfriend?”
I nodded.
“In that case, he must be his dad. You know these things run in families.”
I did so want to believe her! But Mum could see that I didn’t.
“You’re not convinced,” she
said, “are you?”
I said, “Mum, I’ve seen his photo. It’s the same boy!”
Mum studied me for a moment. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go and find out.”
“How?” I bleated.
“How do you think?” said Mum. “The same way we find out everything these days!”
She led the way downstairs to the room Dad used as his office.
“OK. Let’s put it into Google. Danny Vitulo. Was that how it’s spelt?”
“Two ‘l’s,” I said.
“Vitullo,” typed Mum. “Actor,” she added. “And there we are! Danny Vitullo. Let’s see his Wikipedia entry. Born 1946 …”
I said, “1946?”
“That’s what it says. Born 1946, died 1981. Not very old. Young actor, mainly remembered for his role as Steve in the Eastern Television series Gangbusters. Died in a car crash. Not married.” Mum looked at me, thoughtfully. “It seems you may be right. This is Rachel’s boyfriend.”
“But why?” I wailed. “Why would she do such a thing?” All that squealing and sighing. How could she? And there I’d been, defending her!
“Try not to be too hard on the poor girl,” said Mum. “She’s not the first person to spin stories about herself. I remember when I was at primary school I told everyone your gran was best friends with this famous woman that was a TV presenter.”
“What, and she wasn’t?” I said.
“She was her cleaner,” said Mum.
I stared at Mum in amazement. “Mum! What made you do it?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I suppose I wanted to feel important.”
“Did they ever find out?”
“No, and if they had I’d have just died! So whatever you do,” said Mum, “I don’t think you ought to confront Rachel.”
“You mean I just have to go on pretending?”
“I think you should do your best to let it die. Like, if she starts talking about it, don’t ask her questions or do anything to encourage her. It’s probably just a passing phase. The chances are she’ll come back to school next term and it will all be forgotten.”
“What I don’t understand is where she got the photograph from,” I wailed. “It’s this huge great glossy thing with bits stuck on the back saying all about him, like how tall he is and how old he is and—”
I stopped. I knew where she had got the photograph! The same way she’d got most of her stuff. I remembered, the night I’d gone for a sleepover, pulling the box out from under the bed and Rachel snatching it back and telling me that those were her photographs.
I found them in one of those container things.
“She got it out of a skip,” I told Mum. “She gets everything out of skips, cos her horrible old grandmother won’t let her buy things.”
“So she must have come across his photo and begun to daydream. It’s not unusual.”
I thought that daydreaming was one thing. I daydream even now about beautiful Jez! But I wouldn’t ever pretend he was my boyfriend. Not seriously. Maybe to myself; just now and again. Not to other people!
“I wonder if Starlight Academy still exists?” I said.
“Probably not,” said Mum. “It was a long time ago. Let’s put it in and see what comes up.”
We discovered that Starlight Academy had been a children’s drama school. It had opened in the 1950s and closed just recently, a few months ago.
“That would make sense,” said Mum. “Obviously when they closed, everything was cleared out and dumped in a skip. But how dreadful that Rachel has to go grubbing about like that! I hope it makes you realise,” she said, “how lucky you are.”
I said, “Yes, Mum.”
“I mean it,” said Mum. Even back in the bad old days –” she meant before she and Dad had won the lottery – “you never had to get stuff out of skips. Charity shops, maybe. But digging around in other people’s rubbish.” She shook her head. “That is desperately sad. I can’t help feeling it was fate that made you and Rachel both have chicken pox at the same time. I know you blame Nat for breathing over you, but from the sound of things Rachel really did need a special friend.”
Yes, I thought bitterly, if only it didn’t have to be me!
“Mum, we don’t have to tell Nat,” I said, “do we? Or Gran?”
Mum said, “We needn’t tell Nat but your gran’s not going to rest till she has a date.”
“We could always say it’s been cancelled,” I suggested. “It’s what they do, they cancel things! They do it all the time.”
“Well, maybe,” said Mum. “Or maybe I’ll tell your gran the truth. She’ll understand. She knows the whopping great lie I told about her and the television person!”
I arrived back at school on Monday morning to find Rachel hovering anxiously.
“There you are,” she said.
I made a grunting sound.
“I wondered where you were!”
“It was the traffic,” I said. “We got held up.”
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
I said nothing to this, just pushed past her into school. She came flustering after me.
“I thought you might be sick or something.”
“It was just the traffic.”
“Auntie Helen’s been sick. She’s had this really bad c—”
“It was the TRAFFIC!”
I went storming on ahead of her, along the corridor. I didn’t want to be late for class; they are very strict at St With’s. I also didn’t want to be lured into conversation with Rachel. How could she have lied to me like that? We were supposed to be friends! She hurried to catch up with me as we reached our classroom.
“I asked him,” she hissed.
I didn’t say, Asked who? I knew all too well who she was talking about.
“Danny,” she said. “About his TV show? He’s going to find out and let me know.”
Fortunately I was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Mrs Blair, our form tutor. I really really didn’t want to have to talk to Rachel about her mythical boyfriend. It was even worse than Nat’s story about the girl who pretended her boyfriend was a pop star. At least she’d had a boyfriend. Rachel’s was just totally made up. All that stuff about bumping into each other in a shop. And sending cards to herself! And the big glossy photograph with Love from Danny. How could she?
For the first two lessons I very studiously kept away from her, as well as I could. We usually sat next to each other, but one of the Days was off sick so I quickly zipped across the room and slid into her empty seat. I knew Rachel would be hurt, and probably wondering what she’d done to upset me, but how are you supposed to react when someone will insist on talking about a boyfriend that doesn’t even exist? I couldn’t just keep on grunting or changing the subject.
The bell rang for morning break and I could see Rachel dithering by the door, waiting for me. I was quite relieved when Fawn grabbed me by the arm and yanked me back, saying, “Hey, Zoe!” She obviously wanted to get me on my own, without Rachel.
“Listen,” she said, “Friday after the performance …” THE PERFORMANCE! It really meant a lot to Fawn. “My mum and dad are coming to pick us up and take us out for a meal. All of us! They’ll bring us back afterwards, but it probably means you’d have to spend the night in school, unless your dad wouldn’t mind collecting you really late, like nine o’clock or something. Will they let you come? D’you think it’ll be OK?”
“No problem!” I said. “I’ll just call to make sure.”
I was so excited to be included. The others had been friends since Year Seven. And now I was one of them!
“Us lot have all got permission,” said Chantelle. “We always have permission to go places with Fawn’s parents.”
“I’ll get permission,” I said. “I’ll call Mum this evening!”
“Tell her you’ve absolutely got to come, cos it’s a celebration.”
“Like a wrap party,” said Fawn.
I said, “Rap party?”
“Wrap! Like all wrapped up. It’s what they do when they finish making something for TV … they have a wrap party.”
Fawn knew everything there was to know about television. Like other people might say, “I’m going to be a teacher,” or “I’m going to be a doctor,” Fawn always said that she was going into television. She was either going to be an actor or a director. One or the other; maybe both. None of us doubted that she would.
Talking of television made me think – not that I wanted to – about Rachel.
“You did say we’re all invited?” I said.
“Yes! All of us.”
“Even Rachel?”
An expression of disgust appeared on Fawn’s face. She said, “You must be joking! You think I’m going to ask her?”
“All of us just means us,” said Chantelle. “She’s not one of us!”
I couldn’t honestly blame them. All the same, when we turned to leave the room and I caught sight of Rachel’s face, pale and stricken, at the door, I felt a pang of real anxiety. So, obviously, did Chantelle.
“You don’t think she heard?”
“Oh, so what if she did?” Fawn tossed her head. “She’s only got herself to blame. We put up with all the embarrassment, like the hair and that awful dress, making us look like total idiots, and then she goes and does this! What does she expect? We have yet to discover,” added Fawn, rather sourly, “what Miss Seymour will say when she finds she’s not taking part. It was meant to be all of us.”
“We could always say she helped behind the scenes,” I suggested. “Cos, I mean, she would have done.”
Fawn gave me a look of extreme irritation. “Don’t keep making excuses for her!”
I protested that I wasn’t. “I was just saying—”
“Well, don’t!” snapped Fawn.
Thinking about it later, it came to me that Fawn was probably feeling a bit guilty. After all, Rachel had offered to help, like with the costumes, for instance. It was just that Fawn had been so angry she had refused to let her.
I didn’t get to speak to Rachel for the rest of the day; I hardly even saw her. It was like she was deliberately avoiding us all. Even Chantelle noticed.
“I do hope she didn’t hear!”
She sounded worried, which quite surprised me. I’d never thought of Chantelle as being sensitive. She was always so upfront and aggressive. She looked at me, almost pleadingly.