by S. E. Lynes
That chuckle. You take her off so well, Rosie love. You make me laugh. I love it when you make me laugh.
‘Whereabouts are you based, Emily?’ I asked.
‘Richmond way,’ she said, placing her hand to her chest. ‘With my brother, for my sins.’
For my sins. Hadn’t heard that phrase in years.
‘Little two-bed terrace,’ she went on. ‘Nothing fancy. Keep the old overheads low.’
While we chatted, you set the table and Bridget pulled a bottle of lager from the fridge for herself and poured a glass of Cab Sauv for me.
‘Heavens, no,’ Emily said when Bridge offered her a glass. ‘One sniff of that and I’ll drive the car straight into the hedge! But thank you.’
As we ate, we exchanged stories, got to know each other on a personal level. Bonding, you’d call it. Emily didn’t ask about your dad or the accident and I wondered if you’d already told her, if you even bothered telling anyone about it any more. I guess I’m used to people avoiding the subject, and as for you, you’ve spent most of your life without your dad, so for you the way we live is normal.
Anyway, Emily told all those funny stories about her days on The Bill, do you remember? The pranks they pulled! I couldn’t believe my ears.
‘Ah yes, I remember one day we…’ Emily could hardly get it out for chuckling. ‘We stretched cling film over the loo seat, under the seat, I should say, on the porcelain bowl itself. We stretched and stretched it tight, tight, tight, so you couldn’t see it. We were laughing so much we were crying. And then we put the seat down and you couldn’t tell there was anything there.’ She gave a hoot, pushed up her glasses and wiped her eyes with a piece of kitchen roll. ‘Anyway, so me and my friend, we waited, her in the other cubicle, me at the sinks, pretending to, I don’t know what, fix my hair or my lipstick or something.’
‘And then?’ You were perched on the edge of your seat, desperate to know.
‘And then the superintendent, as it were, came in. I said hello, but casual, nothing-naughty-happening-here sort of thing, and she went into the cubicle. Next thing, we hear this shriek! Poor woman had peed all over her knickers, her tights, her you name it—’ She broke off, helpless.
Well, that really tickled you, didn’t it, Rosie? Your forehead was on the table; your shoulders were shaking. I hadn’t seen you laugh so much in a long while. And when she told us the one about smearing strawberry jam on the actual loo seat and that famous actor – what was her name? Oh, it’s gone. Anyway, she sat on the jam, and your face when Emily told us that was an absolute picture.
‘Sticky Bum we called her after that,’ she added, just as you hit your peak of hilarity, pushing up her glasses and wiping her eyes again. Honestly, I thought you were going to spit your cottage pie across the table. ‘Sticky Bum!’
We laughed so much that evening. The surprise of it was moving for reasons I can’t really explain. I guess, when I remember times with your dad, I remember having people over for dinner, meeting up with friends in the pub. I remember laughing a lot more. Emily is one of those people who’s funny by accident, isn’t she? Except I suspect she knows exactly what she’s doing. Disingenuous, I’d say, but in a lovely way. She kind of bumbles through what she’s saying, but actually, her comic timing is perfect. And when she showed us that picture of herself when she was twenty, well.
‘Emily,’ I said. ‘You were absolutely stunning.’ Her face was smooth, her long blonde hair fell straight over her shoulders and she didn’t have her glasses on. Really, she was quite beautiful.
‘Ah yes,’ she said, a little sadly. ‘I was never tall, but I did have a nice face. You’d never think it to look at me now, would you?’
‘Oh no, that’s not what I meant. I just meant…’
She patted my hand. ‘It’s quite all right. I know what you meant. I’m a great deal older now, and after the fall, I put on weight and never lost it. Plus the old limp isn’t exactly desirable, is it? So the television parts dried up, and I found I wasn’t as physically strong as I had been.’ She smiled and looked at you.
None of us asked her about her fall, perhaps for the same reason she didn’t ask about our set-up: out of politeness.
‘You’d be surprised how physically demanding theatre is,’ she said after a moment. ‘That’s why I was pleased that you do your karate and what not.’
‘Taekwondo,’ said Bridget, who, I realised, had barely spoken. But then, knowing her, she probably wanted to stay in the background and let you and Emily get to know each other.
‘Bridget’s a black belt second dan,’ I said. I suppose I was keen to lighten the mood. I didn’t want to go from her misfortunes to ours and end up with us all crying over our cottage pie.
Emily’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Black belt, eh? Do you teach it?’
Bridget shook her head and stood, her face deadpan.
‘Too dangerous,’ she said. ‘For the others, I mean. I’m a deadly weapon, Emily.’
You and I started laughing, and seeing us, Emily caught on and laughed too.
‘I’ll clear these plates,’ your auntie said, grinning. ‘Would you like some coffee, Emily?’
* * *
After you’d helped your auntie Bridge clear away the plates and make coffee, Emily got down to business and told us about your audition.
‘Now, this one is in Islington,’ she said. ‘I’ll send details. It’s at a casting agency, so it’s all above board. You’ll see when you get there. Quite an elegant suite of offices, I would say. There’s a main reception where you give your name and they’ll buzz you up. The offices are on the third floor, and the lady you’re seeing is called Kate Paxton.’
‘When is it?’ you asked.
‘This Friday at 5 p.m.’ Emily checked her watch. ‘What are we now, Wednesday? I suppose that’s tight for you, Toni, with your work, but I can take Rosie if you’d like. I don’t have any appointments that day, so it’s not a bother.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage.’
‘Well let me know if you change your mind. I’ll send the script through with the details. It’s all pretty straightforward. You speak into the camera and the casting agent will read the other part. Toni, perhaps you can rehearse it with her?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Happy to.’
I was thinking your auntie Bridge could take you, but once Emily had gone, she said she had a client that Friday and couldn’t turn down the cash. As Emily had said, there was no way I could get you there for five, and after all the time off I’ve had, I couldn’t really ask for more. There was no way I would have let you go all that way by yourself, so there was no choice.
We would have to rely on Emily after all.
Twenty-Six
Rosie
I’m in my bedroom. I’m under my covers, in my cave of light. I know when this is! I can tell by the feeling in my tummy that it’s December. Not the Christmas feeling; I’m tingling because I’ve just got the main part in Little Red and I know that because I’m texting Ollie to tell him. I’m so stoked. I haven’t told anyone else about it yet except you. And Auntie Bridge, obvs. Not even Naomi.
So. Me and Ollie, sittin’ in a tree, t-e-x-t-i-n-g. ROFL!
Texting! Not even on social media, literally just directly on our private numbers. Afterwards, I always delete, even if it’s not phone-check night.
That’s amazing, he’s written. Congratulations. He has added a party-popper emoji.
My stomach flips. Thanks. Where do you live BTW? House emoji.
London.
Duh. I want him to know I’m joking so I put a crying-with-laughter-face emoji.
Near Kingston. He’s put a winking face with a tongue!
Cool. He lives near Kingston! That makes sense, if we have loads of mutuals. I want to ask where exactly, but I don’t want to be weird and stalkerish. I want to ask if he has a girlfriend, but hello? Psycho alert. Another message:
Guessing you live near Richmond if you’re in the Cherry Orchard
. This time he’s really gone for it on the emojis – there are two cherries and two theatre masks.
Twickenham. Near the rugby ground. I find a rugby-ball emoji! I had no clue that was there, literally.
Do you play rugby? Rugby-ball emoji.
No. LOL. Three crying-with-laughter faces.
You don’t look like a rugby player. Winking face.
Don’t I? Shit! No emoji fits. I just press send.
No way. You’re too pretty. Smiley blushing face.
I feel myself go bright red even though there is no one in my room and no one can see me. I’m so gassed that he said I’m pretty, even though that’s, like, anti-feminist and wrong and I know it’s not about looks, it’s about what a person is like underneath. He sends another text without me even replying!
You’re supposed to say I look nice too. Winking-with-tongue-out face.
Oh no. How embarrassing.
Soz. You do. I like your hair. (And your eyes and your chest, I so don’t say, LOL.)
I like your eyes. Are they green or blue??? Mad-eyes emoji.
Blue. Bright-red-face emoji.
Have you gone red for real? Send me a picture. Grinning face.
My heart feels like it’s beating in my throat. I push the phone to my chest and take two deep breaths. Auntie Bridge always says that’s the best way to cope with stress, because it gives you oxygen and oxygen makes you feel energised, so I always do that and my do re mi fa so la ti do, except I’m in that moment again now, here in my soup, and I’m looking at myself as if from the outside, except with the feeling from the inside, and I’m not stressed. Stressed is not what I am. Not exactly.
Send me a picture…
I push back the covers and sit up. I still have the phone against my chest. This is mad. It isn’t like he can see me through the phone or anything, but I’m literally hiding myself all the same. I run to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. My eyelashes go darker and clump together a bit. They look longer, as if I have, like, mascara on or something. That makes my eyes look bigger, so I dry my face without drying my eyelashes and lean into the mirror and say what big eyes you have and laugh. I am still laughing as I leave the bathroom. That’s when you shout through – our flat is so small we hear everything.
You OK, love?
Ye-es. Just needed the loo.
OK. Night then, baby.
I jump back into the bathroom. Make the landing silent by bending my knees loads. I flush the chain and call out:
Night, Mummy. Love you.
Back in my room, I put on some of that strawberry lip salve you got me for Christmas and scratch my lips with my teeth to make them look bigger and redder. I smile and take a selfie. It’s horrible, so I take another. I look gross. My nose looks big and white and… urgh – blackhead alert. I feel so ridiculous. How do my friends even do those selfies? The ones that if I did, you would kill me. How do they know how to do that face… like they’ve been caught by surprise in their underwear or they’ve been embarrassed but they’re actually pretty confident all at the same time? And most of them have loads of make-up on even though they’re just chilling at home, even when they’re in their PJs and sometimes their pants. Do they, like, sleep in their make-up or do they put it on just to take the picture? Do they spend hours alone at home doing make-up just to take one selfie? I would ask but Naomi doesn’t do those pictures either – she’s like, no way – and I’m too embarrassed to ask the ones who do. I can’t do a pretty filter or puppy ears or anything because I haven’t got Snapchat either, or an iPhone6.
I can’t change my face so it looks right.
I try taking another picture. It’s still crap, but I’m so stressed now I actually have gone a bit red for real. I PM the picture to Ollie and dive back into bed. I pull the covers over my head and do a little scream into the pillow and then I stare into the phone.
Nothing.
The screen fades.
I tap it back into life.
It fades again.
I tap back, scroll through Instagram, but there’s no new posts. Then the message icon goes red. OMG. It’s Ollie.
Beautiful. Blowing-kiss emoji.
Beautiful.
Twenty-Seven
Toni
Emily sent you the script for the audition. It was an advert for toothpaste; I forget now which one. I thought you had a really great chance of getting it because you do have lovely teeth. They are like mine, actually, well, like mine were before they got smashed out of my— sorry… before I lost them in the accident, I should say. The top front row of my teeth are all false, as you know, or maybe you’ve forgotten. I never take them out. It’s too upsetting seeing my mouth collapse inwards like a crone’s, not to mention the thought of you or your auntie Bridge having to see them in a glass on the bathroom shelf.
No. I’m too young for that.
Anyway, you came into my bedroom and sat on the bed to chat to me while I was putting away some clothes. Once I’d finished, you asked me to test you on your lines and handed me the script.
Nothing in life is perfect…
That was the first line, I think. On it went, the usual nonsense.
So I can’t buy designer clothes? So what? I’m happiest in my comfy old jeans. So I can’t afford cosmetics like the fashion magazines? So what? I prefer the natural look…
That kind of thing. Bullshit, basically, sorry to swear.
And then you had to flash your pearly whites and say:
But if there’s one thing I never compromise on, it’s my smile…
We laughed about how cheesy that was, didn’t we? Once you’d got it off pat, you sent it right up, doing an American accent and swishing your hair like the L’Oreal ad. I love it when we laugh together like that. We have the same sense of humour, you and me. And in that moment, I loved the fact that, even though your auntie Bridge was the actor, you’d come to me for help.
You’d come to me.
* * *
I began to get concerned when late on Thursday night, you complained of stomach pains.
We were sitting in the living room watching a movie on Netflix together when it started. Your auntie Bridge had a gig at the Fox in Twickenham. I was supposed to be going with her, but I wanted to stay with you the night before your big day. I’d treated us to a microwave dinner for two and we’d eaten it on trays on our knees.
‘It’s probably nerves,’ I said. ‘You got sick last time, so you maybe have association on top of everything.’
‘What?’
‘Last time you had an audition, you were too sick to go, weren’t you? You’ve got an audition tomorrow, so I’m just saying maybe your subconscious is worrying you’ll be sick again and is making you have those symptoms. They’re not real.’
‘But I feel really sick,’ you said, ‘like I’m going to throw up. It’s that microwave meal. I shouldn’t have had Indian food. My stomach’s all swollen, look. It’s rock hard.’
‘It won’t be the dinner. It’s too soon for it to be that, and besides, I had the same thing and I’m fine.’
‘I can feel it, Mummy. My stomach’s like a stone.’
‘When did you last go to the loo?’
You bit your lip in thought. ‘Wednesday? No, Tuesday. Maybe Monday?’
‘And it’s Thursday night. There you go, you see, you’re probably constipated. Classic stress. You could try a laxative, I suppose, but it might send you the other way.’
‘No, it’s OK.’ You stood up but immediately doubled over.
‘Rosie, honey.’
‘I’m OK.’ You grimaced. ‘It’s cramping. It really hurts, Mum.’ You met my eye. ‘What if it’s not better tomorrow? What if I’m not better? I keep doing do re mi fa so la ti do, but it’s not working, it’s not working, Mum.’
‘Oh, come on, baby girl. Think of all the hurdles you’ve jumped over. You can’t let a silly audition affect you like this. You were Little Red, for goodness’ sake, star of the show!’
I k
now. I know that was the wrong thing to say. I should have said that it didn’t matter, that none of it mattered. But I said what I said in the moment, what I thought was best, and I see now that I got that wrong. But it’s so hard to get it right all the time, and I’m not perfect, love. I’m just a mum. Any parent will tell you how difficult it is when their child is standing in front of them looking for answers and they’re thinking, But I don’t know the answers. No guidebook can ever prepare you for the million different ways in which a child can test you. You were staring at me with your big bewildered eyes, my darling, and you looked so afraid. I wanted to take that fear away, of course I did. I wanted to make it right.
‘What if it’s not better?’ you were asking me.
I didn’t know. I wanted to tell you to stop fussing, to ignore it, but I also really wanted to say, Don’t worry about it, you can stay in bed. I will look after you. In other words, half of me wanted you to go, half of me wanted you to stay. I guess that’s every parent in the world for you.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I did say that in the end. ‘There’ll be other auditions. You go on into your room and get into bed. I’ll bring you a hot-water bottle.’
You slumped away. I made a hot-water bottle and wrapped it in your white towel with the little piggies on it that you’ve had since you were a baby. It used to cover your whole body, that towel, when you were tiny and chubby and warm in my arms. Your daddy used to blow raspberries on your belly, used to hold you up high, his arms strong and straight: Whee! Look at her fly!
Ah, happy times…
Anyway, I sat by your bed and I massaged your tummy. It was as hard as a rock, up as far as your ribcage. I suspected your bowel was impacted, but rubbing it seemed to ease the pain. ‘If you’re no better in the morning,’ I said, ‘I’ll call Emily. There’s nothing at all to worry about. I’ll take care of it.’