by Jenny Oliver
Seb sighed and shook his head, then gave her shoulder another squeeze before she straightened herself up tall and pulled on her sunglasses.
‘Shall we go home?’ she said, as if the whole previous conversation hadn’t happened.
If people sense your weakness, Anna, they take advantage of it. She remembered her mum saying that as they walked back to the pokey flat, the vintage Chanel clutched in her hands, beige nail varnish shimmering. If you have any problems, you talk to me not them. Anna remembered nodding, wondering how she was going to be able to ring her dad to let him know that she’d got in. The phone was in the living room where her mum slept. If you’re injured, you dance through it, we’ll fix it. If they know, you’ll be marred with being weak for ever, Anna. And no one associates winning with weakness.
They drove home in silence, the countryside streaking past the window in bright lines of green, red and yellow, but Anna stared ahead at the grey Tarmac.
‘Look, don’t worry about the kids, Anna. It’ll get better,’ Seb said as they pulled up outside Primrose Cottage.
‘Too right it will,’ she said, glancing at him briefly before opening the car door. ‘Because I’m never helping those little shits again.’
She felt him put his hand on her thigh. An image of her kiss on his cheek just ten minutes ago made her wonder if she could put her hand over his where it rested on her skin but her body wouldn’t let her. Instead, she stepped out of the car and walked over to drag open the rusty garden gate, lifting it on its broken hinge. As she walked up the path, the thorns on the big fat yellow roses caught her top, the stems sagging even further under the weight of their grotesque petals and heady aroma. ‘These fucking flowers,’ she shouted, ripping them off her before storming up to the door.
At the end of her first year at the EBC School, they had staged a performance of Swan Lake. Anna had felt a rush of triumph when cast as one of the four in the Danse Des Petits Cygnes.
Linked with three others, Anna? Is that what you want? her mum had said, glancing up only briefly from a minestrone soup she was stirring. It’s a good start, but I’ll come and watch you when you’re The Swan Queen, Anna. When you’re Odette. The soup bubbled in the pot and when she flicked the spoon to rest it on the side, it sprayed drops of red against the white tiles. Anna had watched them trickle down, holding her breath and keeping her eyes wide so she wouldn’t cry.
I’m not saying this to punish you, Anna darling. I’m saying it to make you better. Don’t settle for what they tell you is good. You decide what is good, what is the best. If you believe in something enough, and you’re determined, you’ll get it. I want to spur you to do better, she had said, taking a sip of the soup at the same time as ripping off a piece of kitchen towel so Anna could wipe her eyes. You have to go out and grasp what you want.
The photo of the girl, two years above, playing The Swan Queen had been glued neatly into Anna’s book.
She paused at the shabby door of the cottage, the rose scratches just welling with blood on her arms, the air burning her lungs like a sauna, and thought, I don’t want this. I’m better than this. You have to go out, Anna, and grasp what you want, she reminded herself, before thrusting the key into the lock.
I have to go out and grasp what I want.
Chapter Seven
As forecasted, the temperatures continued to soar, with no end in sight for the excruciating heat. Predictions of record temperatures, warnings of elderly people dying and sun-worshippers frazzling covered the front pages of the papers that Anna read over commuters’ shoulders as she sweltered on the London Underground.
Her face pressed close to a stranger’s sweaty armpit and her body squidged between the door and three Russian tourists and their luggage, she closed her eyes and tried to stay calm and relaxed. She was meeting her ex-assistant, Kim, at Zédel in Piccadilly. After the disastrous Razzmatazz rehearsal, Anna had emailed her to ask if they could meet up to discuss her ‘options’. Kim had emailed back within three minutes: Honey, Hermione said things weren’t great. Would love to chat strategy. Meet me Tuesday. We’ll have some champagne.
The day after, she’d been woken at midnight by a text that left her lying in bed, eyes open as the muggy heat enclosed her like hot soup, the monotonous thrum of the fan like the incessant drone of a fly suffocating her senses, feeling like she was opening doors that should remain firmly closed. Feeling like the girl in The Red Shoes, with the feet that couldn’t stop dancing.
Anna Banana. Long time, no see. Heard on the grapevine Pleb Davenport snapped you up. Clearly should have taken him out at school when I had the chance. Intrigued why you’re on Tinder. Intrigued enough to meet up and find out. Luke Lloyd.
She had deleted it without replying, ignoring the deadly, intoxicating thrill she had felt on seeing his name.
And now she was shuddering along on the burning Piccadilly Line dressed in last year’s Céline pencil skirt, Stella McCartney flesh-coloured tank-top and the metallic green Jimmy Choos she kept in their bag in their box, under her bed. The heels were a little too high for Grazia to approve this season but when she looked down at them, just visible under the Russian tourists’ luggage that she had had to shuffle right up to, they made her smile.
When the Tube doors opened, she saw posters for films that she hadn’t even known were coming out, books she might want to read had she known about them, gallery exhibitions she had let pass her by. Drinking in the advertising as she rode the escalators, she felt a cool breeze flutter her tank-top away from her skin and allowed herself a second to exhale. Calm and relaxed, she repeated. Were her hands sweating from nerves or heat? She wondered.
And then she was out ‒ out in the light. Out into London. Beautiful, packed, busy, loud, bustling, hectic, crystal clear, effervescent, pushy, rude, loud, boiling, steaming London.
Wow. She took a moment to stand in the corner of the pavement by Lillywhites and just stare at the statue of Eros, his little winged feet and bow poised ready for aim. I heart London, too, she thought watching him. She gazed up at the huge advertising boards that gleamed with lights and reflected the blinding sun as pictures of McDonald’s and Burberry macs blasted out at her. And the buses, big and red and lined nose to tail in traffic like red ants marching forward. Oh and pigeons, how she’d missed the pigeons, pecking about at chewing gum and takeaway wrappers. She had never been so grateful to see such grubby, deformed birds before in her life. No big, plump Nettleton wood pigeons for her, she would always be faithful to their scrawny London cousins that hung on to their existence by whatever means possible.
Her hand resting on the brickwork, she took a breath in and inhaled the toxic taxi fumes and burger smoke air. People barged her shoulder, stopped in front of her to consult their maps, shouted into their phones next to her. No one sat serenely on benches and gazed at the wide blue sky. No one stopped for a chat outside the local coffee shop nor walked their fat, groomed dog and perused the Sunday papers over a brioche here. This was London. My London, she thought, gulping in the sounds, the heat, the smells, the pollution, the noise, as if jump-starting the battery inside herself that had been slowed to a Nettleton crawl.
She was so excited that she turned around and took a selfie of herself with Eros in the background, then deleted it and took another, better, one and posted it on Instagram. When someone smashed into her ankle with a suitcase, she shouted ‘Ow!’ loudly and they told her to fuck off. Even that made her smile.
Crossing the road, she trotted past the wooden awnings of a shop refit, pushed through crowds around a stall selling tourist tat, made a note to pop into Nespresso and perhaps peruse Wholefoods later, and then beamed a smile at the stunning Zédel doorman who tipped his hat and smiled as she strutted her way in in her sky-high heels feeling every bit the London woman about town rather than mucky country antique worker.
She was walking into her future.
This was where she belonged, she thought as she skipped down the stairs and glanced at herself in the
corridor of mirrors, checked her hair and her nude lipgloss, brushed down her skirt and popped her clutch under her arm. Not too shabby, she thought.
‘Anna Whitehall! Over here.’ Kim’s brash Anglo-American drawl called from halfway across the restaurant.
The waiter led her over to where tiny, petite, fiercely ambitious, Kim was already seated with a glass of Prosecco and a bottle of mineral water.
‘Love this place, hun.’ Standing up, Kim air-kissed her from where she stood, then waved for Anna to sit down and proceeded to fill her glass with bubbles. ‘Did you find it OK? Not quite Brambly Hedge, is it?’ She bellowed a laugh that made other diners turn and look their way.
Anna had to quash the fact that she had been the one to bring Kim here on Kim’s first day working for her, and instead smiled through a sip of Prosecco.
‘Drink as much as you can, hun, we’re totally on expenses.’ Kim lifted her glass in a cheers and drank a gulp. ‘God, I remember that skirt from the Céline show, wow, I haven’t seen that for ages.’
It was then that Anna noticed Kim’s outfit. Her Aztec-print shirt, cigarette pants and flat patent loafers. Her own clothes suddenly felt the season or two out of date that they were ‒ her skirt three inches too long, the heels on her Choos too high, her sharp-edged clutch bag not casual enough. Damn it, she thought. She looked like she was trying too hard. She looked like she was out of the loop.
‘So, hun, I heard about your redundancy. What a bitch. Highest salary always goes first…so unfair. I mean, I never thought it would have been you though. You must have been gutted. And with the wedding on the horizon. The Waldegrave.’ She made a sad face. ‘You didn’t lose too much, did you? Who’d have seen that collapse coming? What’s happening with the world?’
Anna gave a tiny shake of the head. ‘I’m in talks with the administrators, it’s fine.’
‘I heard the invitations were fabulous.’
She inwardly cringed that Kim hadn’t been sent one and wondered what the gossip was behind her back. Did they discuss how she would have afforded such a wedding at such a place? Did they wonder how she would top it now?
She remembered her lovely invitations. How she had always thought she’d want a proposal at the top of the Eiffel Tower or in a gondola in Venice, but Seb had proposed in Hyde Park. Sitting at a picnic table, daffodils just opening. He’d dropped something on the floor and said, ‘Hey, Anna, check this out.’ And she’d bent down to look where he was pointing under the dark, cobwebby table and scratched into the leg of the table was, Seb Davenport wants to marry Anna Whitehall. Under that table, like kids playing, she’d felt carefree and without expectation. His penknife-carved graffiti had been photographed and sent out on glossy paper to all the guests.
Kim had carried on talking as Anna was swept off with her memory. ‘And it’s shit out there. There’s nothing in the arts. No one’s moving. And, to be honest, it’s hard when you’ve been let go because people, you know, they wonder why you. I’m not saying that’s what they’re saying about you, but there’s always that worry.’ Kim smiled and then glanced down at the menu as the waiter came over and hovered by the table. ‘We’re not ready,’ she said, without looking up, and Anna gave him a beaming smile to try and counteract Kim’s curtness.
Poise, Anna repeated to herself as she looked at the menu but didn’t take anything in. Poise. Shoulders back. Just keep cool and calm and don’t get riled and think about the fact that she may be your one chance to get out of Nettleton. Poise, poise, poise.
‘So, what have you been doing with yourself? I have visions of you in Oklahoma!, singing at the top of your voice while riding a horse through fields of corn,’ she snorted.
‘I’m, erm, I’m in antiques at the moment. High-end antiques.’
‘Oh I love it, like Sotheby’s?’
‘Yes, something like that,’ Anna said, brushing down the napkin in her lap, straightening her blouse, and not quite meeting Kim’s glance.
‘Amazing.’ Kim clicked her fingers for the waiter and he was back in an instant. ‘So I’ll have the carottes râpeées, then the salmon tartare and a green side salad. And we’ll have another bottle,’ she said, tapping the neck of the prosecco. ‘Anna?’
Anna hadn’t even looked. Her eye had been caught by her green metallic shoes glinting in the overhead lights. It suddenly occurred to her that her whole outfit, her whole spiel, was like her mum’s Chanel bag. Kept neat, clean and precious in the cupboard and brought out for special occasions when she wanted to impress, to be who she thought she deserved to be rather than who she was. ‘Oh, the carrot for me too, and then, erm…’ She rushed over the menu. ‘The sea bass.’
I am the Chanel bag, she thought.
‘So I have something that I think you’ll be really interested in.’ Kim leant forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled and tapping so that her blood-red polish glinted glossy in the light. ‘Really, really interested in.’
‘You do?’ Anna took a nervous sip of prosecco.
‘Uh huh.’ Kim nodded, and Anna realised that she wasn’t just going to tell her, she was going to have to work for it.
‘I’m all ears,’ she laughed, hearing the simpering in her voice and inwardly cringing.
‘You are?’ Kim sat back and crossed her legs, her lips spreading wide in a teasing smile. But then the waiter brought over two plates of carottes râpeées and Kim squealed with delight. ‘This is my absolute favourite, it’s to die for.’ And then proceeded to scoop up the carrot with her fork, moan about the flavour and then start to talk about what mutual friends in the industry were up to.
Anna was on the edge of her seat, desperate to bring the conversation back to whatever it was that Kim was about to dangle in front of her nose, but realised that she was going to have to wait. This was all part of Kim’s fun. Knowing that she was squirming in her two seasons-old skirt.
The carrot was cleared away, more prosecco was poured and they were finishing up their fish by the time Kim lounged back, crossed her legs, sucked on her electric cigarette and said, ‘So there’s a job. In New York.’
Anna eyes shot up and locked with hers. ‘You’re serious?’
‘Deadly,’ Kim drawled. ‘If I wasn’t doing so well here, I’d take it myself.’
‘And you think it would suit me?’
‘Hun, it’s right up your alley. PR and marketing based, New York Dance Academy. I think it’s a year’s minimum commitment. They tried to recruit in the US, but no success. People aren’t moving. Salary isn’t as competitive as it could be but, for someone like you, it would be the perfect way to get your name back out there. They have someone over here recruiting next week, I think. I’ve mentioned your name. They’d like to meet.’ She took another puff on her electric cigarette and then let her red lips stretch into a big wide smile as she delighted in Anna’s shock and obvious excitement.
‘Wow,’ Anna said, hardly able to take it in. New York, that was the dream. That’s the pinnacle. That was where she was meant to end up. God, her mum would go silent on the phone if she told her, she’d be so damn delighted. Her name wouldn’t be in lights, but she’d at least be in the Lincoln Center, sitting in the seats of the David H. Koch Theater, looking up at that ceiling paved with gold. She’d be strutting up Fifth Avenue, shopping in Saks, lounging in Central Park after work. Her and Seb could practise their baseball swings and stroll arm in arm around MOMA.
Seb.
The thought of him brought her back down to earth.
‘Dessert, ladies?’ The waiter asked as he cleared their plates.
‘I’m totally dieting but, what the hell, the tarte tatin, of course. What else would you have here?’ Kim rolled her eyes.
‘And for you, Madam?’
Anna had promised him a year in Nettleton. A full year. That had been the deal. If she went to New York, she went on her own. She knew that, she knew he wouldn’t leave this new job. Could she go on her own? Would she do that? When they were meant to be getting
married? Would she pass up an offer that would put her back on track? The excitement of starting again, Stateside?
‘Just a coffee.’ She shook her head at the offer of dessert.
‘Oh well, I can’t have dessert if she’s not having it. Scrap the tarte tatin, I’ll just have an espresso,’ said Kim.
‘No, have a dessert,’ Anna said, ‘I just didn’t feel like it.’
‘I’ll only have one if you have one.’ Kim pouted.
‘OK, fine.’ Anna skimmed the menu feeling like she owed her the calories in exchange for the job news and said, ‘I’ll have the profiteroles,’ without thinking.
Seb had taken the job at Whitechapel Boy’s School, she knew, mainly to stay in London near her. She had taken him to Zédel to celebrate, running in from the pouring rain; she’d said it was her treat but, on her salary at the time, she could afford only wine and dessert. And they had sat giggling in the fancy restaurant sharing profiteroles, swiping their fingers across the plate to lick up the last of the chocolate sauce and eeking out the wine till the waiters were clearing up and they were turfed out into the drizzle.
‘Good girl, Anna.’ Kim smiled and reordered her tarte. ‘So, New York. Fun, hey?’
‘Yeah, definitely.’ Anna nodded.
‘Will Seb mind?’ Kim probed.
Would Seb mind? This was the step she was meant to take. This was the next rung up on the ladder. This was part of her life plan. New York. Would Seb mind?
Seb would be livid.
‘Probably.’ She laughed, as if it was nothing, and Kim guffawed wickedly. Then the waiter appeared with their rich desserts and poured thick chocolate sauce over Anna’s profiteroles and the whole thing made her suddenly feel a little bit sick.
As they walked out into the glaring sunshine and headed back towards Piccadilly Circus, Anna was a bit woozy from the prosecco, not to mention the idea of broaching NYC versus Nettleton with Seb. Kim lit a normal cigarette, chucked her soft slouchy bag over her shoulder and moaned, ‘Jesus, it’s so fucking hot, all the time.’ Then she kissed Anna on both cheeks, waving the fag dangerously close to her hair, and said, ‘I’ll be in touch, or someone will be in touch re New York. Try and play the redundancy down, or at least make sure they know you were over-qualified.’ She snorted a laugh. ‘They’ll just want to see ambition. Hunger.’