The Kiss

by Lucy Courtenay

  He taps his head. ‘Did the bulldozers get your brain too? No one’s going to get bombed around a geriatric crowd of musical-theatre goers.’

  I want to laugh. This is the kind of control I was born for. ‘What’s with the insults?’ I say. ‘Everyone knows how much you love musicals.’

  He fixes his eyes on me suspiciously. ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘It’s not totally a done deal,’ I say, hoping I’ve hooked him. ‘But you’ll be the first to know when it is. Just promise you’ll look into a Hallowe’en party at the Gaslight a week on Saturday. Promise me!’

  ‘Fine!’ says Oz, reeling at the intensity in my voice. ‘Weirdo.’

  At lunch, my new phone has three missed calls and five texts on it.

  Delilah, what the jolly bollies? Of course I’m still keen to do the show. I’ll half-nelson Eunice, get the word around. See you later, P

  Exciting! *claps hands* Rich and I up for it, Henry xx

  I’m afraid I’m no longer available; I have already started coaching pantomime in Canterbury. Honor

  Won’t strike the set until Sunday. Enough time? Trevor (stage manager)

  Is Tab still doing it? Sam

  I consider my newborn idea without the experienced Honor at the helm. OK, so she was the most obvious choice of director, but not the only option if we get creative. And if the past twenty-four hours have taught me anything, it’s ‘get creative’.

  To give myself strength, I gaze at Sam’s blatantly nonchalant text about Tabby. I can fix this. Maybe more besides.

  ‘Oz just told me the show’s back on,’ says Tabby, practically throwing her tray of food at me in her excitement. ‘What have you done?’

  I show her the texts. I particularly enjoy showing her the one from Sam. She goes bright red with delight.

  ‘But you hate the theatre! You hate musicals! Your mum—’

  ‘With a few adjustments,’ I interrupt, ‘What an Ado! could become my new favourite show.’

  My new phone is ringing. I feel prickles rushing up and down my arms as I catch the name on the screen. This

  is my big fish, the key to it all. If I can catch it, my weird idea might have legs. And I know fish don’t generally have legs.

  ‘Delilah? It’s Ella.’

  ‘Thanks for calling back,’ I say. ‘I have a proposition.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You don’t know what the proposition is yet,’ I say, startled.

  ‘Life is boring without the occasional risk. Spill.’

  ‘Can we meet to talk about it?’ I ask. ‘It’s tricky to explain on the phone.’

  ‘Collective starts at five. Come here and we’ll talk.’

  My carefully constructed plans teeter as I hear her words with a punch of dismay. Thursday night? The collective? Jem will be there.

  ‘Oh, and make sure you shave but don’t moisturize,’ she adds. ‘My usual model’s gone to Amsterdam. You’re going to be my canvas instead.’

  I exchange panicky glances with a bug-eyed Tabby, who is listening in.

  Ella sounds amused by my silence. ‘That’s my price.’

  The plan has been sounding so good in my head all day. Even without Honor, it has still felt doable. Now it is starting to fray at the edges. I pray to all the gods I can think of that Jem will give the collective a miss tonight.

  I shut my eyes. ‘I have to be gone by six,’ I say.

  Ella texts directions, which is just as well. I can’t remember anything about the walk to the Watts Estate with Jem four weeks ago, beyond a consuming sense of irritation. Twists, turns, a greenhouse. I stop at the viewpoint where we kissed, swallow and move on.

  Darkness is starting to sink its teeth into the day when I reach the flat. A couple of people are mixing paints already, and the music is low. Ella makes me turn on the spot as she assesses my shape, making me feel like a pig in a butcher’s shop.

  ‘I’ll do your back,’ she decides.

  ‘I didn’t shave my back,’ I say, worried.

  ‘Glad to hear it. I’m not into werewolves.’

  I pile my hair on the top of my head and undress from the waist up, holding my hands to my pathetically flat boobs. Then I lie down on a table she’s covered with a towel. This will be like a massage, with luck.

  ‘So,’ she says, wiping my skin clean from the nape of my neck to the bones of my coccyx. ‘What’s the proposition?’

  ‘They cancelled the amateur show at the Gaslight,’ I begin. ‘I’m trying to revive it. The theatre’s agreed not to get rid of the set, at least until I can confirm things at the weekend, and I’m trying to put the cast back together. The theatre manager thinks I’m insane, but seems happy for me to give it a go seeing how she might still make money on something she thought was dead in the water. There’s a problem with the director, but I’ll find someone else.’ I stop and bite my lip. ‘I hope I find someone else.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’

  ‘No,’ I confess.

  I try to relax as her brush makes its way up and down my back. It’s not as electrifying as Jem painting my hand, but it’s very soothing.

  ‘And I come into it how?’ she says.

  ‘I wanted to ask if you and the rest of the collective would do the make-up.’

  She paints what feels like some kind of line down my spine. ‘I don’t do pantomime dames.’

  ‘You do make-up though,’ I say. ‘Amazing make-up. I thought . . .’

  I stop. Saying it out loud seems so unbelievably stupid.

  ‘You thought what?’

  Oh God. Press on.

  ‘I thought we could do the show as zombies,’ I mumble.

  ‘Jem said it was a Shakespeare musical,’ Ella says after a pause. ‘Not a slasher movie.’

  ‘It’s based on Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing,’ I say, encouraged by the fact that she hasn’t laughed. ‘I think we could reinvent it again. The songs are good. The story has its problems, but if you make everyone zombies then it gets ironic. The set and the costumes stay the same, but with zombies and a few re-writes on the lyrics and some heavy green lighting . . . it might be good.’

  Ella snorts. ‘Grannies watch musicals. I’ve noticed grannies aren’t greatly into zombies. They’re a bit true to life when you’re half-dead yourself.’

  ‘Grannies aren’t going to come,’ I say. ‘Students are. Combine a zombie musical with a Hallowe’en party in the theatre bar – I’ve got someone checking that out – and you’ve got something. I think. I hope.’

  A long silence follows. I can feel her brush making little stabbing gestures down my spine now, flicking and flicking and flicking.

  ‘You asked Jem about the make-up already?’

  ‘What’s he got to do with it?’ I say uneasily.

  I can feel her eyes boring into my back. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a few days. I’m not his favourite person right now.’

  ‘Ah, love,’ Ella says mockingly. ‘Can’t live with it, can’t iron its socks when they’re still on its feet.’

  ‘Who said anything about love?’ I protest. ‘Love is . . . not this.’

  ‘If you say so. The publicity angle could be good. Will we get paid?’

  I think of the funds back in my account. If the show continues, I’ll still have a job. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But I can’t promise much.’

  ‘I’ll talk to the others. We design the zombie look, yes? When’s the show?’

  Oh. My. God. This is happening.

  ‘A week on Saturday,’ I say with a combination of gratitude and terror at what I’ve started. ‘And you can design anything you like, as long as it’s zombie-ish. What are you painting on me anyway?’ I crane my neck, trying t
o get a glimpse.

  ‘Don’t move or I’ll smudge you.’

  She focuses on the top corner of my back, painting something in what feels like an inverted triangle near my shoulder. I manage a sneak look at my phone, which I’ve stationed near my head. Four texts and two voicemails

  will have to wait until my body is my own again. Ten to six. He could be here at any minute.

  ‘Is Jem coming tonight?’ I ask, nice and casual.

  ‘He’d better.’

  ‘How much longer—’

  ‘It takes as long as it takes,’ she interrupts, with a flash of the scary girl I first met. ‘Just lie still.’

  It is an uncomfortable ten minutes. My feet are pointing at the door, so every time it opens my heart beats like an African drum, waiting for his voice.

  I squeal at the blasting sensation of sealant.

  ‘Get yourself over to Kev for the shots,’ says Ella with satisfaction.

  Shielding my breasts with my hands, I swing myself off the table and walk across the room to the camera set-up. It feels like one of those dreams where you’re not wearing anything on your bottom half and your T-shirt’s too short for comfort. At least Jem isn’t here – yet.

  Kev’s face isn’t painted today. ‘All right, Delilah?’ he says, waving his light-meter. ‘Back to me, won’t take a minute.’

  I gaze steadfastly at the long white backdrop as he takes a few readings. The camera clicks and whirrs. I start working through the thousand things on my brain list that I still have to do to make What an Ado About Zombies! a reality, to take my mind off my virtual nudity. Lists soothe me. They remind me of numbers, formulae, immutable things that can fix the world when placed in the right order.

  The door opens.

  ‘About time you showed up,’ says Ella behind me.

  ‘Always with the pit-bull impression, Ella. Some of us have jobs.’

  The blood whooshes into my face, round my ears, down my neck. I am reddening all over like a boiled cricket ball. Still facing forward, gripping my boobs like two fried-egg-shaped life-jackets, I pray for invisibility.

  ‘Finished,’ says Kev. ‘Take a look if you want.’

  My hands are the only things between my modesty and the eyes of the person who hates me most in the world. I’m not up to looking at anything.

  ‘Later,’ I mutter, sidling towards the corner which holds my bra, top and hoodie.

  Ella’s voice is brimful of mischief. ‘Avert your oh-so-wide eyes from my model, Jem. I imagine you’ve seen it all before.’

  I dive behind a curtain and pull on my clothes as fast as I can, stuffing my bra in my bag. Be cool. His stormy

  eyes are hostile as I re-emerge. The bruising on his face has almost all gone. He folds his big arms across his chest like armour.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I mutter, brushing past him and doing my best to ignore the leap of heat in my belly caused by one tiny touch of his skin.

  ‘Don’t be vile, Jem,’ Ella says. ‘Delilah’s—’

  I blaze a message of pleading in her direction. She is quicker off the mark than Val, correcting herself smoothly mid-sentence.

  ‘– leaving now.’

  He grunts and heads for a space by the window, paints in hand.

  Not forgiven then. I focus on Ella, trying now to transmit my thanks via traitorously watery eyes.

  ‘Tell him about the show and the make-up,’ I say in a low voice. ‘Leave me out of it though.’

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Ella asks with interest.

  ‘See you,’ I say.

  Shutting the door behind me, I concentrate on breathing for a bit. It is only as I head back down in the lift that I realize I still have no idea what Ella has painted on me.

  Tears blur my vision most of the way back to town. As I make the turn on to the High Street, a big fat full moon peeps out from behind M&S, shining softly on me, lighting up the snot on my nose and cheeks like slug trails.

  ‘Stop gloating,’ I mutter at its shining face, and wipe my nose on my sleeve.

  I have calls to make so I take out my phone. A new message from Ella flashes up, complete with attachment.

  Ill unzip U any time

  In the photo, I look much taller than I have ever pictured myself. A few escaped, darkish-looking curls lie on one shoulder. Below the curls I curve in and out again like a violin. A long zipper has been painted the length of my spine, silver teeth on a black ribbon. It is unzipped a couple of feet from the top and folded down on one side, revealing flesh, bone, ribs and the corner of a glistening heart.

  I look more closely. The topmost edge of the heart has been chipped off, like a nick on the side of a china plate.

  At eight pm, I’m in front of the reassembled cast for What an Ado About Zombies!, leaning against the long bar of Aphrodite’s Moon to support my shaking legs. This is even more terrifying than my tragic Keynes presentation. Standing by the door, Oz gives me an encouraging wink.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ I begin. ‘It means a lot, especially since you’ve all bothered to come to this dive where the beer’s not even very good.’

  ‘Hey,’ says Niko, prepared to be genial as I have brought more drinkers than he normally has on a Thursday evening. ‘You don’t like my beer, I got wine.’

  ‘Bring out the bottles, Maestro,’ Patricia booms. ‘I’m buying.’

  Cheerful conversations break out as Niko uncorks the retsina. Beneath the swinging bar sign of Aphrodite and her grapes, I reflect on the weirdness of a cast and how it can function as a single creature with one mood. One mood enhanced by free wine. I wish my mood would hurry up and enhance as well. I am cacking myself.

  ‘OK,’ I say, as the wine is passed around. ‘First, the bad news. We don’t have a director.’

  Maria shifts in her seat and looks at Sam in annoyance. ‘You didn’t say she hadn’t got Honor.’

  ‘Delilah didn’t get Honor, no,’ Tab says, a little coolly. ‘So we are going to choose someone else.’

  ‘I could do it, I suppose,’ says Maria with a show of reluctance. ‘I directed a show at school once. It went pretty well.’

  Patricia pours herself a generous glass of wine. ‘Never directed anything in my life,’ she says cheerfully. ‘But I have this show tattooed on my broad backside so I’ll give it a go.’

  When Patricia wins the unanimous vote, Maria sinks back in her chair looking thunderous. I uncross my fingers and rub my knuckles. I’m proud of getting my idea this far, but I can’t help the acute sense of relief that there’s finally a grown-up involved.

  ‘Everyone at the theatre’s still up for it,’ I go on as they all settle down again. ‘Costumes, set, box office. Oz over there is in charge of publicity, and sorting out the cast party.’

  Oz waves, then goes back to scrolling through his screen.

  ‘What about the band?’ asks Eunice.

  My eyes widen. I have forgotten the band. ‘Under control,’ I lie, making a frantic mental note to track them down and beg them to stay in the show. ‘We need to redo the posters though.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the old ones?’ Henry asks.

  This is the bit I haven’t broken to them yet. I brace myself.

  ‘We’re renaming the show What an Ado About Zombies!,’ I announce, before adding a little unnecessarily, ‘because we’re having zombies in it.’

  Patricia spits out the large mouthful of wine she’s just slugged.

  ‘Zombies?’ says Maria in horror.

  ‘Genius!’ blurts Tabby.

  Everyone else is nodding or looking quietly stunned. I take this for encouragement.

  ‘I’ve conducted some research and there’s a definite market for shows with zombies in them.’ My research has str
etched to a few punts around Twitter, but no one needs to know that. ‘Especially in this town, which as you know has got students everywhere.’

  ‘Students never come near us,’ Eunice says, a little sadly. ‘Present company excepted.’

  ‘Your usual audience won’t like what we’re doing, so we have to think wider,’ I say. ‘Hence the change of focus. Which brings me back to my point about the posters. Anyone handy with a spray can? I need someone to go around the town centre adding About Zombies! to all the posters that are already out there. It’ll be fiddly, but it’s cheaper than reprinting. It’ll also look kind of street, which is important if we’re trying to get a younger crowd through the theatre doors. Volunteers?’

  Two of the older members of the chorus – I don’t know their names – look at each other and raise their hands.

  ‘I use a can of hairspray most days,’ says one. She nods at her even more elderly companion. ‘So does Dorcas.’

  I scrutinize their solid grey helmets. ‘Er, OK,’ I say, overcome with a mad urge to laugh and bolt for the hills. ‘Thank you, Dorcas and . . .?’

  ‘Gladys.’

  I’m curious. ‘Do you like zombies, Gladys?’

  ‘Mad for them,’ Gladys says comfortably.

  Maria pushes back her chair with an angry scraping sound.

  ‘Babe,’ Sam says, reaching out a hand to stop her. ‘It could work.’

  ‘It’s the most stupid idea I’ve ever heard,’ Maria spits, shoving his hand away. ‘Not in a million years am I doing it. The agency scouts will laugh at us.’

  ‘Director’s vote still rankling?’ says Warren.

  For the first time, as Maria blasts him with a look of withering fire, I see a glimmer of likeability about Warren.

  ‘Leave if you want to, Maria.’ Patricia has come to stand beside me at the bar, wine glass in hand. ‘We’ll pop Tabitha in as Beatrice instead, find someone to sing Hero. Shouldn’t be too tricky. God knows, you’re flat half the time.’

  I almost feel sorry for Maria, who sits down again.

  Patricia has slid so naturally into the role of director that I wonder why she hasn’t been directing things from the start. ‘I think Delilah deserves a round of applause for getting us here,’ she goes on, looking round the room. ‘She’s not even in the show, but she’s stepped into the breach like General Gordon. Bravo.’