A slice of glinting sunlight was reaching in through the doors and my body gradually moved towards it. I moved through the doors, into the blinding brightness and on to the broad, shallow steps that spilled on to the pavement. Then I was rushing, zooming back into life. My senses rushed back into me, stinging like the sudden pain of saliva surging into your mouth on a first bite.
I think I fainted then, because the next thing I remember is seeing the fleshy red of sunlight through my eyelids. I could hear Anton’s voice. Then, in the shadow of David’s head looming over me, I opened my eyes using my will and my muscles, which – thank you, thank God – were connected again. I couldn’t help laughing, and there was the sound coming out, the sound of me making myself laugh. I could hear everything back in the real world like I’d burst back up to the surface from underwater. I asked my arms to reach up and they did what they were told. I held on to Anton’s forearm with my left hand and David’s with my right and they helped me up. I was shaking and I wanted to cry with relief and shock.
‘Are you all right? What happened?’ asked David.
‘Mmhmm,’ was all I could say. I gave a wobbly nod.
‘That was some nice passing out there, Zoë. You smacked right down on the floor. You’re lucky you didn’t split your head open.’ Anton sounded almost impressed.
‘You hurt anywhere?’ David sat me back down on the steps and sent Anton for some water. My knee did hurt, and my arm. I could see some skin had come off by my elbow and there were a few little blood speckles. But I was OK. It was all over, I was OK, it had just been some kind of weird fainting fit.
Anton reappeared with water and Gemma was following behind. She looked worried but stood back a little and let the boys fuss over me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, looking at Gemma first, then the others. ‘But I’m feeling properly weird. I think I’m gonna have to go home. Will you say sorry to Steve for me, too, for flaking out on rehearsal?’
‘Sure, sure.’ David went to help me up. ‘I think we should put her in a cab though, guys, in case she passes out again. How much cash have you got?’
The guys were so sweet. They called me a taxi, gave me a few extra quid for the fare and told me to text when I got home so they knew I was safe. When I got in I sent them a thank you message. Then my head started to crowd with thoughts of what had happened. It wasn’t normal, I was sure of it. I thought of the guy in the wings at the theatre. I could see his face as clearly as if he was standing in front of me. I felt an odd sort of rush thinking of the way he looked at me, his expression was charged with something but, as precisely as I could remember the look in his eyes, I couldn’t read it. The more I argued with myself that I’d just had a dizzy spell, that people just faint sometimes – especially in the middle of a summer day, the more I thought of his face. He flooded my head – not just because he was amazingly, stunningly attractive, but because he’d been the one person there who seemed to know something was happening to me, while it was happening.
But it was over and I didn’t want to think too much. I was so tired. I got into bed and tried to make my mind blank, sinking into the soft safety of my pillow. I kept remembering those dark edges that had crept into my eyes and, although it wasn’t cold, I shivered and drew my duvet in closer. The last thing that went through my mind as I drifted into sleep was the stagehand’s wonderful face and that strange look.
Chapter 6
At a silly hour in the morning, I woke up aching. It was just before six a.m. and I thought I must be really ill. I’d expected to sleep for an hour or so and instead I’d passed out for about twelve. I’d never fainted before. If I was ill, at least that would explain it. What else could explain that horrible experience? All the thoughts I’d managed to fight off the evening before came rushing back, mixing with odd feelings left over from my sleep.
I’d had really vivid, weird dreams like I often have if I’m running a temperature. I lay there, trying to remember as much as I could of what had played out in my mind during the night. I chased after the quickly fragmenting, disappearing images, like I was trying to make out the shape of an impression left in a cushion before it could spring back flat.
I’d been back in the theatre, only it had looked different, sort of tatty and lurid. I was backstage I think, but I didn’t recognise much as I rushed from room to room to room. I was angry about something – really furious, the rage had been bursting through me – and each room I went into, I’d throw things on to the floor and smash things against the walls. I was opening drawers and emptying everything out, but I didn’t know what I was looking for. I had an odd sense of time running out, like I was being chased, but I hadn’t seen any other people in the building, it had felt quite dark and deserted. I seemed to be going through all these different doors of all different sizes, like something from Alice in Wonderland, and I’d fought through swathes of curtain and come out on to the stage.
I was standing on that spot on the stage where I’d had my fit or whatever it was the day before. And there was the stagehand, watching me with that same mysterious look in his eyes; he was trying to come towards me, but something seemed to be stopping him and he seemed to be struggling. Then, something knocked the breath out of me and I looked up into the space above the stage where the rigging and lights are. I just stared, until I started floating upwards through the maze of metal and wires and out through the top of the theatre into the sky, as if there were no roof. It was night and, as I floated higher and higher, in patches of yellowy light below, I could see the tops of houses and trees. I’d had flying dreams before, but usually, I’d be moving quite fast and feeling quite euphoric. This time I’d been just sort of drifting and I didn’t feel good at all, quite desperate actually.
I wanted to write everything down before I forgot, but as I sat myself up to get a pen and notebook out of my bedside table, pain shot through my hands and made me wince. I pulled them out from under the duvet and was freaked out to see scratches and cuts all over them. What had I been doing in my sleep? I wasn’t a sleepwalker normally, more like the opposite – it often took me a few minutes after waking up to be able to move. I got up and checked myself over in the mirror. I had sore patches on my legs too, and the grazes from falling over on the steps. I wondered if bruises might start to appear over the next few days. Apart from all that, and the messed-up hands, I seemed OK. I looked at myself in the mirror for a while. It was the same old me. The same old bed hair, that slightly ginger blond that wasn’t properly pretty blond or a nice fiery red but somewhere rubbish in between. The same old messy freckles.
I let the sensible voice in my head convince me everything was fine and normal and what happened the day before was just a one-off and finished with. I was a bit ill with something. It would pass.
I’d left a note for Dad when I got in the day before to say I wasn’t feeling good and he’d obviously let me sleep right through till morning. He’d be getting up in an hour or so and I wondered whether to tell him about fainting. I decided not to this time. If it happened again, I’d tell him; but I knew he’d just get worried and, if it was a one-off, there was no point in putting him through it. He’d probably insist on taking me to the doctor and I knew all he wanted to do was concentrate on the book he was trying to write – he was spending as much time as he could in the library at work, or the study at home. He had enough on his plate without worrying about me.
When he knocked softly on my door at about seven-thirty, I was sitting up in bed, trying to read.
‘Come in,’ I called.
‘I’m off to the library in a minute,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Oh, I’m OK, just a bit icky, think I might be getting a cold or something,’ I lied. I figured I’d just act headachy and lie low for the day, pursuing my traditional holiday pastimes: napping, reading, eating and watching TV.
‘Can I get you anything? Do you want me to stay?’
‘No, I’m OK thanks,’ I smiled. ‘There’s soup and juice
and everything I need downstairs. I’ll sort myself out. You go.’
He nodded and smiled back at me. ‘Feel better, sweetpea.’
Hopefully a day of rest would see off the strange lurgy and I could still go to the rehearsal the next day. I worried how Gemma would act with me and I thought about telling her what had happened. But when I imagined trying to explain it, I couldn’t think what I’d say that didn’t sound ridiculous, or like I was making excuses.
I kept trying to read but none of the words were going in. Everything was going round and round in my head. The things I’d said to Gemma, and where on earth they’d come from. That sick feeling, the terror of losing my senses. The stagehand – those piercing eyes.
Watching TV was a better distraction, but there was only so much daytime rubbish I could watch before my mind started wandering again. So I called Katie.
‘If you’re feeling up to it, come over.’ She made the offer I’d hoped she would when I said I was ill but bored. ‘Katy’s coming over in a bit, too. We were going to talk holiday plans, but we’ll try not to be too boring if you want to join us? It’ll be good to see you – we’re flying out first thing on Friday, so we’ve only got a couple of days . . .’
‘That’d be nice, thanks. I’ll get changed and come over now if that’s OK?’
‘Yay – sure thing, see you in a bit.’
I could see that Katy had already arrived when I walked down Katie’s drive; she was perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, with her back to me, waving her arms wildly. She’d obviously launched straight into a story. I quickened my pace, not wanting to miss out.
‘We’re just discussing “the dinner with Justyn”,’ Katie tipped me off as she opened the door. I clapped my hands together. There had been much build-up to the dinner: Katy-with-a-y finally goes out with Justyn-with-a-y. We rushed through to the kitchen, knowing Katy could only be put on hold for seconds before she’d overheat. I smiled to myself, imagining smoke coming out of her, her vocal brake pads struggling against the outpouring of her urgent news.
‘I swear to you, honestly – hi Zoë – I might as well have been one of those blow-up dolls.’
‘Er, what?’ I looked bemusedly over at Katie, wondering what exactly I’d missed, and nodded as she brandished teabags in silent offer.
‘For all the attention he paid me,’ Katy continued, ‘after all the hassle he gave me to get me to go out with him. You remember – he’d wait at the school gates in the morning . . . and then he started with all the creepy Bluetoothing – all that agonising I went through: was it too weird and obsessive or should I cut him a break . . .’ Katie put my mug down in front of me and I smiled thanks. ‘Well, I’ve concluded I made a big mistake because I finally say yes to him, and then we’re sitting there, and he’s looking over my shoulder the whole night – it was like I could have been anybody. And I’m sure he was looking at the other girls in the restaurant, too. What is all that about?’
‘Maybe he was nervous?’ Katie offered. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t glad you were there.’
But Katy wasn’t having any platitudes. ‘Well, he had his chance. I’m not going through that again, he can go for pizza on his own next time to ogle. I really don’t know what was going through his mind – Zoë, what have you been doing? What’s with the state of your hands?’ Katy sneaked the question in, totally underhand, mid-sentence, and with that, allowed herself to pause for a sip of tea. It took me a bit off guard when I was just enjoying having my mind taken off everything.
‘Oh. I’m not sure, I think I was doing weird things in my sleep. I woke up and they were like that.’ I said it over the top of my mug, thinking that might be enough for Katy and she’d go back into her story, but there was an unusual pause and they both looked at me, slightly puzzled. OK then, let’s talk about it, I thought. It might actually be a relief. ‘I had some weird dreams, after I fainted yesterday . . .’
‘You fainted? Are you OK? What happened?’ Katie looked worried. It actually felt good to say it out loud, so I carried on.
‘Actually, it was the weirdest thing, I’m a bit freaked out by it. I’m not sure what happened but I felt sick – we were on stage – and everything went dark, but I didn’t faint until later, like maybe about half an hour, forty-five minutes later, when I left the building.’ I looked into my tea as I remembered. ‘The weird bit is, I was walking and talking but without controlling it myself. My lines were coming out but I wasn’t saying them. And then when we had a break, I was talking to Gemma, you know, the other girl in the play, and it was like I wasn’t me. I was saying stuff but I honestly didn’t know where the words were coming from. It was almost like I was hypnotised, or . . .’ I happened to glance up then, and the Katies’ faces stopped me in my tracks. I caught a glimpse of them looking at each other oddly and it dawned on me how I must sound. They looked back at me and tried to look concerned, but even Katie had an odd hint of something I didn’t like, like she was thinking I was losing it. I backtracked as best I could.
‘Anyway, I passed out on the steps outside, just for a few seconds, and got a few grazes.’
‘And the dreams?’ Katy pushed me, but there was a look in her eye that made me think I ought to tread carefully so as not to sound insane.
‘Oh, I just dreamed about the theatre; it’s this spooky building, and there was this lovely stagehand guy who was watching me, us . . .’ The image of him filled my head again and I couldn’t help blushing.
‘Stagehand guy? Katy jumped in.
I was so busy thinking about him, I didn’t stop to worry about how I sounded, I just blurted, ‘Oh my goodness. He was the most beautiful guy I’ve seen in – well, forever.’
Katy let out a high pitched ‘Ahhaaaa!’ and clapped her hands together excitedly. ‘Now we’re getting to the bottom of this dizzy spell!’ she exclaimed at top volume.
Katie giggled. ‘You never fancy anyone, Zoë – that’s great.’
I’d only dated once since we all started secondary school together. But we didn’t talk about Joe – not after he dumped me to get back together with his ex. They were forever nagging me about boys though, because I never did fancy anyone. Until now.
‘Details please,’ Katy demanded.
‘Oh no,’ I said, kicking myself for my loose tongue but grateful the subject change had stopped them looking at me like I was nuts. ‘I didn’t even speak to him, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ When I thought about going back to the theatre, I got a rush of excitement that he might be there, mixed with the dread of going back after yesterday’s drama. ‘I’ve got another rehearsal on Wednesday,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Maybe he’ll be there. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘You’d better,’ Katy warned. ‘Ugh, he has to be better than Justyn – I can’t believe he even let me pay half after that. I only offered thinking he’d refuse . . .’ And that was the end of my share of the attention, thank goodness.
It was great to switch off for the rest of the afternoon and let the Katies tell me about their holiday plans and help with wardrobe/packing decisions. As I walked home though, I thought of how they’d reacted when I’d tried to explain what had happened. I realised that if even my closest friends weren’t ready to hear about this then I was on my own.
Maybe there wasn’t anything to worry about, it was over after all. I berated myself for over-thinking it and told myself it must have just been straightforward lightheadedness – the heat, dehydration, not eating enough. But every time I tried to convince myself it was nothing, I thought of him. And the look on his face, which was seared in my brain, sent me back to thinking there was more to all this than a plain old dizzy spell.
Chapter 7
‘Had any more girly fainting fits since we saw you last?’ said Anton when I found the others at a table in the theatre café just before rehearsal. I guess that was his idea of asking how I was. I shook my head.
We sat and chatted for a while and it was good to feel a bit more normal about be
ing back. As soon as I got a minute alone with Gemma, though, I said I was sorry for before and that I didn’t know why I’d said what I said unless it was because I was ill. She gave me a thin smile.
‘Don’t worry about it. You feeling better?’ She touched my arm and seemed honest about asking. I was relieved she seemed to have just about forgiven me.
‘I think so,’ I said as we walked through to the auditorium.
‘OK folks, seeing as we’ve got most of our costumes and props sorted now, let’s have a quick walk through for direction, as a reminder and so we can catch Zoë up on what she missed last time, and then we’ll try and do the whole play right through.’ Steve pushed his hands together like he was praying and made one of his pursedlips faces. ‘I’m going to try my best not to interrupt because we’re getting to the point now where we need to get used to doing full run-throughs. OK? Just try to remember all the things we’ve been working on and give it your best, yes?’ He was all hyper and excited – and it was infectious.
We dumped our stuff backstage and, secretly, I looked around, searching for a glimpse of the stagehand. But there was no sign of him and I was surprised by how deflated I felt.
As we did a super-fast walk through, I made notes on my script so I could revise the stage direction changes later. Then Steve made us each sit where the audience would be while he stood in for us, one by one, so we could see how much bigger our gestures needed to be. He was right. What we thought was totally OTT on stage actually looked and sounded about right if you were the one watching.
We took ten minutes’ break and all chatted outside. It was a grey day but heavy with heat. One of those days when you wish for a thunderstorm to clear the air. A couple of staff walked past us in their black shirts and I felt a flash of anger at myself when I thought of the stagehand again. This was getting obsessive. I needed to get over it. I tried to focus on Anton’s story about some crazy guy they’d had to throw out of the bowling alley.
The Last Act Page 4