by Jenny Harper
‘Sure.’
‘Yesterday – it’s my fault, I know – but, well, you woke him up with the radio and of course I’d forgotten to tell him you were coming so he got a bit of a shock, but anyway, would you mind keeping the noise down a bit? During the day when he’s sleeping, I mean?’
‘Darling! Of course. Mea culpa.’ He thumped his chest. ‘How thoughtless of me.’
‘No, it’s all right, it was my fault.’
‘Sweetie, I’ll be an angel. You won’t even know I’m here.’
‘Don’t be silly, we love having you here.’
‘Enough to feed me?’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘Ravenous, darling. Just finished the show and I never like eating before it. Got to keep sharp. That edge of hunger adds a certain je ne sais quoi, I always think.’
Marta smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right. I was just going to forage in the fridge, I think there’s some lamb left.’
‘Su-perb.’ Tom followed Marta through to the kitchen and settled himself at the scrubbed pine table. ‘Jakey out?’
‘Jake’s working tonight.’
‘He’s so admirable. Pulling pints. Such a thankless job, I always think.’
‘He enjoys it,’ Marta said defensively. ‘He meets lots of interesting people. Anyway, it’s only temporary.’
‘Of course. He’s job hunting. What’s his line again?’
‘Marketing. He used to work for one of the big banks before—’
‘Tell me about it, darling.’
‘I suppose actors are used to the kind of life where jobs come and go. But you must get lots of parts, Tom, don’t you?’
‘Bits here, bits there. What I need are more weighty parts and a better mix of theatre and television.’
‘I thought you liked theatre?’
‘Love it, darling, simply adore it. There’s nothing like connecting with a live audience, know what I mean? It’s an actor’s life blood. Got any wine, by the way?’
‘Oh sorry.’ She pulled a bottle out of the fridge, found two glasses and placed everything in front of him.
‘Thanks. But theatre doesn’t pay. Truly, that’s the long and the short of it. And living out of suitcases all the time, well—’ he shrugged, ‘—you can imagine how tedious it gets. Bottoms up, darling.’
‘Is television harder to get, then?’
‘Not harder, not exactly.’ He frowned. ‘Maybe I should change my agent. Angela Cutler. She just doesn’t seem to have the right contacts. I mean, I get ten theatre auditions to every one in film or television. And I think some people,’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘you know—’
Marta didn’t know. ‘What?’
‘Well, offer favours. To the casting director. Or the producer.’
Marta laughed. ‘You mean those old stories about the casting couch? I thought that kind of stuff went out with the silent movies.’
‘How sweet. Sadly, not. And I’m too principled to stoop to that kind of thing.’
‘Of course. So you’d like more television roles?’
‘I’d kill for them, sweetie. Simply kill for them.’
Marta scraped the remains of the lamb casserole into a saucepan and started stirring. When they sat down to eat a few minutes later, she said thoughtfully, ‘I know someone. A script writer.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘My old English teacher, as a matter of fact. Ann Playfair. She taught all three of us, Jane and Carrie and me. She was brilliant, the kind of teacher who inspires you. I think we all had a bit of a crush on her.’
‘What kind of stuff does she do? This is still fantastic, by the way,’ he said, waving a forkful of lamb towards her before it found its way to his mouth.
‘She writes one-off dramas. Soaps, too. She writes for Emergency Admissions.’
Tom choked and coughed. ‘Emergency Admissions? You’re kidding!’
‘She’s been with the show for years. Do you watch it?’
‘Do I watch it? Darling, who doesn’t?’
‘I could call her if you like. Just to get some advice. See if there’s anything on the horizon.’
‘You’re adorable, did anyone ever tell you that?’
Marta smiled broadly. ‘And other names. But I do like to help, if I can. Would it help?’
‘Who knows? But nothing ventured, as they say.’ He grinned again. ‘A part in EA, now that would be an income.’ He dropped his fork on his plate and held out his hand towards her, curled it round hers softly, then lifted it to his lips and kissed it with a show of gallantry. ‘I’d be forever in your debt. A call from you. A personal recommendation, even to the script writer, I mean, it all helps, you’ve no idea.’
Marta retrieved her hand. ‘Then I’ll do it. As soon as I get time.’
She caught the kiss Tom blew her playfully. Having Tom here was fun.
Tom, strolling up the road from the newspaper shop the next morning, saw Jake Davidson close the front door of the cottage, stride down the path and turn towards the bus stop.
The pastry in the brown paper bag was still warm. There was plenty of money in the pot in the hall, enough to get both the paper and a Danish. So thoughtful of his hosts to provide pocket money. And now he’d have the place to himself to brew a cup of roasted coffee and settle down with the Mail and some good gossip.
His mobile rang when he’d barely sipped the first cup. ‘Tom here.’
‘Tom?’ It was Angela, his agent, sounding apologetic.
‘Hello Angela darling. Any news about Look Back in Anger?’
He knew there was news and he knew by the sound of her voice it was bad. Bloody Angela, she was so hopeless.
‘Sorry Tom. You didn’t get it.’
Damn. Stupid, bloody West End, he never had managed to break into the big time. She was putting him up for the wrong parts, that was the problem. He should never have read for Cliff, he should’ve been auditioning for the lead, Jimmy Porter, that was much more his style. She couldn’t get anything right. ‘Fuck.’
‘I know, I know. Sorry.’
‘Who got it?’
She named a well-known actor.
‘The ginger fucking fruitcake? Sod it, Angela, you’ll have to do better than this. I do need to live, you know.’
‘Sure, Tom, but—’
‘Don’t give me your buts.’ Tom’s anger fizzled, then sputtered out. ‘Anything else in the pipeline?’
There was a sigh and the rustle of paper. ‘Not at the moment, Tom, no. I’ll keep looking. How’s Edinburgh going?’
‘You know how it is up here. A thousand bloody shows on the Fringe every sodding day. There’s no chance of getting a decent audience.’
‘How many last night?’
‘Five.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah, five. There are more of us in the cast, for fuck’s sake. I’ve got a good mind to jack it in and come back to London.’
‘You can’t do that, Tom. Anyway, it’s only a few more days. What have the crits been like?’
‘All right. Moderate to good. Listen, do you know anyone on Emergency Admissions?’
‘Don’t think so. Why?’
‘Might have a line in there. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Great.’
‘And Angela—’
‘Tom?’
‘Get off your backside and get me some fucking work.’
‘I’m doing my best, Tom.’
‘Maybe your best isn’t good enough.’
‘Well, if you feel like that—’ She sounded hurt.
‘No, no,’ he said hastily. He couldn’t do without Angela Cutler, not yet anyway. ‘You know I love you really. Just do it, huh?’
‘Do you really? I sometimes wonder.’
‘You know I do, sweetheart. You’re the best.’
There was a small sigh, before she said, ‘Bye Tom.’
Fuck her. Fuck them all. Women. They needed so much bloody maintenance.
Now he had indigestion.
He’d been banking on the part in Look Back in Anger. Even Cliff would have done, a few months in the West End would have been good news. He shoved the pastry away from him, topped up his coffee and downed it quickly. Maybe he’d have a quick look around while Jake was out. He could use the computer, do his emails.
The master bedroom was spotless – Marta kept a neat household. He pulled open a drawer in the long dressing table beneath the window. Women’s stuff. Nail polish, cosmetic brushes, hairbrushes, lipstick. The next drawer held knickers, tights, socks. Tom felt through them expertly. Women often concealed small, valuable items in their lingerie drawer.
His fingers tightened round a polythene bag that felt lumpy and hard. Jewellery. Costume stuff mostly, silver chains with silly little pendants, hoop earrings of the kind Marta favoured, baubles. A couple of rather better items – a fire opal set in gold, on a gold chain, and a pair of earrings that looked as though they might be sapphire and pearl. A brooch in the shape of a bow, a clumsy thing, old fashioned and heavy, but the stones looked real and the setting just might be gold.
Tom weighed it in his hand, studied it, then shoved it in his pocket, rolled the polythene bag back up as he found it and replaced it carefully under the knickers. It didn’t look like the kind of thing Marta Davidson would wear much. With any luck, she wouldn’t even notice it was missing until he was long gone. He’d drop into the pawn shop with it tomorrow.
Tom found Jake’s computer in the small room next door. He booted it up, signed in to his email, dealt with the dozen or so that required a response, then logged onto his favourite site.
A scarlet sheet floated into the screen, then settled into graceful folds.
Bed Buddies welcomes...
His breathing quickened. Screwing Angela Cutler was a duty – she had to be kept happy – but with Bed Buddies he could get great sex with absolutely no commitment and at no cost. Ideal. And perhaps he’d find a new buddy while he was here in Edinburgh, that’d just be the icing on the cake.
‘Hairy Mary.’ She sounded a laugh.
‘Annie get your gun.’ Hmmm.
‘Super Ficial.’ Maybe not.
‘D.A. Delight.’ Fucking hell. Now that was a name he hadn’t seen in a long time. D.A. Delight.
Tom smiled radiantly at the screen and tapped in a message. Now he could really have some fun.
Chapter Nine
‘So he’s like, what? And I was so embarrassed, Suzy, I just can’t tell you,’ Emily Harvie said into her mobile. She was lying on her bed, staring at the poster of her idol, Stephen Isserlis, wrapped around a cello and smiling at the camera like it was a woman he was about to seduce.
‘Forget it, Ems. You’ve sown the seed in his brain, haven’t you? And you can take it one step further at my party.’
‘Yeah, your party.’ Emily perked up at the thought of her friend Suzy’s party. ‘I’ve got to get some new clothes. My mum’s so mean though, I don’t know how I’ll do it.’
‘Do the old “all my friends are getting a new dress” routine. Never fails.’
‘You don’t know my mum. Still, I’ll work on her.’
‘You need to look really wicked to get Robbie’s attention.’
‘Robbie,’ Emily sighed dreamily. ‘Do you really think I’ve got a chance, Suze?’
‘Course you have, you’re sweet looking and clever, too, and he likes clever girls.’
‘He’s so much older. I don’t think he thinks I’m cool.’
‘That’s why the new dress is important.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ The sound of a snigger outside her bedroom door triggered an alarm in Emily’s head. ‘Listen, Suzy, gotta go. See you in the morning.’
‘See you, Ems. Bye.’
While she was saying these last words, Emily was crossing the floor of her bedroom and now she flung open the door to find Ross darting across the landing towards his own room.
‘Stop, you sneaky little brat! Come here.’
Ross turned and stuck his tongue out, his round face cheeky. ‘Emily fancies Robbie,’ he chanted. ‘Emily fancies Robbie.’
‘Shut up!’
Ross turned and faced her, crossing his arms across his chest. Already his figure was filling out and his shoulders were becoming broader and squarer. He was shaping up to have his father’s stocky frame. ‘Robbie Jamieson’s really into drugs,’ he said knowingly.
‘He so is not!’
‘Is.’
‘He’s not. Anyway, how would you know?’
‘His brother Sandy’s in my class, remember? He tells me stuff.’
‘I don’t believe you. Robbie’s really cool.’
‘I’ll tell Mum you’re going to get off with him.’
‘You will not! Why would you do that?’
‘Keep my big sister safe,’ he smirked.
Emily strode across the landing and grabbed her brother by the T-shirt. ‘You dare and I’ll kill you,’ she said threateningly.
‘Oh, I’m really scared.’
It had been some years since Emily could dominate Ross physically. She let go of the T-shirt with a small thrust and studied him. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
Ross pretended to think. ‘Let me see—’
‘Ross.’
‘Okay, okay. You know I’m off to school camp soon? I want to borrow your iPod.’
‘But you’re away a whole week!’
‘Yup.’
‘That’s too much.’
‘I’ll just go and tell her now, shall I?’ He moved towards the top of the stairs.
‘All right, all right,’ Emily said hastily. ‘You’re a smelly toad though.’
‘And you’re a smelly armpit,’ Ross giggled and ducked into his room as Emily’s hand flashed out at him.
She could hear him laughing inside his room. Having little brothers was such a pain.
Casting aside her irritation, she set her mind instead on the challenge ahead: getting finance for a new, Robbie-catching outfit. She skipped down the stairs and into the kitchen.
‘Hi.’
Her mother looked round from the stove, where she was staring vacantly at a saucepan of spaghetti that was bubbling and spluttering and dribbling over the rim and down in spurts onto the worn white enamel.
‘It’s boiling over, Mum.’
‘Mmm?’
‘The saucepan.’
As her mother continued to stare at her, the pot gave a extra-vehement hiss and a small fountain of bubbles shot in the air and cascaded downwards. Emily stepped across the kitchen and pulled the saucepan off the heat.
‘Mu-um,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Spaghetti. Water. Boiling over?’
‘Oh.’ Jane’s gaze began to focus and she looked first at Emily and then at the saucepan. ‘Oh sorry. I hadn’t noticed.’
What on earth was wrong with her? She’d been acting really strangely in the last few days. She’d forgotten to buy Emily’s favourite cereal bars for her lunch box, there were no clean knickers this morning because apparently the washing hadn’t been done and now she didn’t even seem able to cook supper without burning it. Emily’s mood, itself stretched to breaking point by Ross’s pathetic but all too successful attempts at blackmail and her own anxiety about the challenges that lay ahead, veered to irritation rather than sympathy. Still, she needed to choose her words carefully.
‘Can I help, Mum? I mean, you seem a bit tired.’
‘Help? Oh, would you Emily? Thanks.’ Jane dragged a hand over her forehead in a fruitless attempt to prevent her hair falling into her eyes. ‘Can you stir the sauce?’
Emily lifted a tomato-smeared wooden spoon from the work top and stirred as her mother appeared to pull herself together and swing into action, laying out cutlery and place mats for supper.
She waited a few minutes.
‘Mum?’
‘Mmm? What?’
‘You know you said I could play the Forster if I passed my Grade Six?’
‘We haven’t had the results yet.’
‘But if I do—’
‘I’ll think about it, Emily.’
Her mother spat the words out as if they were something nasty. Her face was all screwed up. Not good. Bother. Maybe she should’ve started with the dress. Emily turned away, hunched her shoulders and stirred crossly. Mum had been putting her off and putting her off about the cello. What was wrong with her anyway? Her teacher said that all cellos needed to be played to keep sweet and that was even truer of the best cellos than cheap ones – and anyway, Mum hadn’t played the thing for years.
She turned the problem over in her mind, watching the lumps in the Bolognese sauce and wondering vaguely if she should try to break them up. Perhaps her mother was feeling bad about not letting her play the Forster, so maybe she could capitalise on this by asking for a new dress. What was the best plan? To argue more about the cello, or move straight on to the request for a new outfit? On this occasion, the need to impress Robbie won over her music.
‘You know I’m going to Suzy’s party in a couple of weeks?’
‘Mmm.’
‘And you remember it’s my birthday soon?’
‘I’m not l-likely to forget that, Emily.’
Promising.
‘I really need a new dress.’ She glanced at her mother, whose face was a blank canvas. ‘And some shoes?’
‘Dad and I have already bought your present. And I’m not sure about going to Suzy’s party, Em’
Emily threw the spoon into the pot, turned her back on the stove, crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. ‘Honestly, Mum! I’m not a baby. I can look after myself. Everyone’s going. And I’ll be the only person there looking like a complete twat.’
‘Emily!’
She’d gone too far. Her mother hated bad language.
‘Sorry. But still—’
Jane sighed. ‘I’ll think about it, Emily. I’ll see what your father says. Have you d-done your homework?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Well, why don’t you go and finish it, then you can watch that television programme after supper.’
Emily sighed again, this time more heavily.
‘G-go.’
It was hard to make bare feet sound indignant on cushion flooring, but she slapped her soles down as hard as she could anyway. Benji, curled up in his bed in the far corner of the kitchen, half-heartedly raised one ear and peered at her with sleepy curiosity, out of one eye.