by Celia Imrie
‘Max!’ she said brightly. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Suzy, darling, how are the gnomes of Zurich?’
Suzy looked around her. She wasn’t sure whether this kind of phrase was in the lexicon of language you were currently permitted to use.
‘Can you say that?’
‘Say what?’
‘That word starting with a G?’
‘I haven’t said a word which starts with G. Have I?’
Suzy cupped her hands around the phone before whispering ‘Gnome!’
Max laughed. ‘I was only tricking you into saying it aloud, Suze. But according to many of my clients, who had starring roles in The Lord of the Rings and all those sub-Terry Pratchett TV series, I’m pretty sure the word “gnome” is currently not only permissible but all the rage, along with goblins, dwarves, orcs and elves. But to business … How’s it all going?’
‘Who knows? I’ve only just arrived. The company are meeting tonight for a drink, then tomorrow we have the tech-dress, and open.’
‘Well, good luck, darling, and keep in touch.’ Max paused then said, ‘Just one little thing …’
Suzy knew that this was a phrase to be feared. Something bad would inevitably follow:
‘… Have they given you your per diems in cash?’
‘Not yet. I imagined we’d get them tomorrow at the theatre.’
Max left another heavy pause before asking, ‘They haven’t paid you your rehearsal wages direct, have they? I know we had to give your bank details and I wasn’t quite sure why.’
‘No. They haven’t paid us anything.’ Suzy felt a flutter of fear. ‘Why? Is there a problem?’
‘And you’ve received no hard cash in hand?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ said Max. Suzy couldn’t help but worry that Max sounded slightly cagey. ‘We haven’t had anything in, either. Just so you don’t think that we’re holding on to the money.’
‘Oh God,’ sighed Suzy. She had dipped into her savings account over the last weeks, certain that she would get it all back soon enough.
‘Don’t worry, darling.’ Max turned on his best breezy agent voice. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be fine. These things happen. Good luck tomorrow. Call me if you get any money.’
During the conversation, the waiter had placed a coffee and the bill on Suzy’s table.
She raised the cup to her lips and took a sip.
‘Can I join you?’ Emily’s neat figure stood before her. ‘Us oldies are always the first to arrive. Over-keen really, aren’t we? Seize the day and all that!’
Suzy wasn’t sure whether to tell Emily about the call from her agent concerning pay. Talking about money with the other actors was just not done. But once Emily’s order of hot chocolate arrived Suzy couldn’t stop herself.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it, darling.’ Emily fanned the frothy cup and tried to take a sip. ‘These tin-pot outfits don’t behave the same way as the RSC, you know. We’ll be OK. Just you see.’
The rest of the cast soon rolled in and they all spent a few hours comparing notes on their digs and journeys, their prospects and some moments in the show which were on their minds. The girls tried a bottle of local wine, while Jason and the boys sampled the fancy Swiss beers. Splitting the bill, they moved off to share a fondue at a famous Swiss restaurant up the road.
Suzy was about to pull out of going, worrying about cash, but Jason pointed out that, while they were here in Zurich, none of them would get another chance to visit the hallowed home of the fondue, as the place was closed on Sundays – the company’s only night off. So, if she wanted to try a genuine version of the famous local delicacy, it was now or never.
Suzy noticed that when Stan took his leave from the Café Odeon, no one attempted to persuade him to join them for supper.
‘I have a prior engagement of a sensual nature,’ he said in a lascivious voice. ‘Just call me Mr Good Time.’ His top lip was greased in sweat.
When Stan had gone, as she reached for her coat, hat and scarf, Suzy turned to Emily.
‘Doesn’t Stan like being part of a company?’
‘Don’t ask. I dread to think where he’s off to. Cottaging or something, I expect.’ Emily wound her scarf round her neck. ‘No doubt tomorrow I’ll have to endure a lot of wink, wink, nudge, nudge while he hints at having been up to unspeakable things all night.’
Suzy tried to get the image of a sexual Stan out of her mind.
The dinner was not only delicious but everyone was charming and brimming with enthusiasm about their six weeks in Switzerland. She listened to the younger members of the company planning Sunday skiing trips, while she and Barbara talked about taking a boat trip on the lake, and visiting the famous Zurich Kunsthalle.
‘Is it good?’ asked Suzy.
‘They’ve got Fuseli’s Bottom,’ said Barbara.
‘You might need to rephrase that one,’ said Suzy.
The company agreed to order a large communal fondue and again share the bill. Happy to be with such a cheery ensemble, Suzy dug in with gusto to the delicious pot of steaming hot cheese.
Towards the end of the meal, she noticed Jason go outside to take a call. He came back inside, bent down and, in a low voice, spoke into Suzy’s ear.
‘That was Reg. The producer bloke wants me to go up to his hotel suite tonight.’
‘A kind of money-pleasing mingle?’ asked Suzy. ‘Bit late in the evening for that kind of thing, isn’t it? Do you want to go?’
‘Not at all.’ Jason grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘But Reg made it quite clear that it would be “better for us all” if I did go.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’
‘You tell me. It seems that something has upset Mr Moneybags and that he needs charming.’
‘Will Reg be there?’ Suzy thought of the phone call she had part-heard that afternoon.
‘He’s on his way there. So’s Stan, apparently.’
‘Some charm offensive that’ll be,’ joked Suzy. ‘An all-male affair then?’
‘A private invitation from the producer bloke. To be frank, I didn’t like him when he came to the rehearsal, I have to say. Slimy type.’
‘If you don’t want to go, just don’t. It’s not a pimping shop, Jason. It’s a theatre company. Surely people know this. If I were you I’d cry off and go back to your digs.’
‘It’ll just be drinks and chat, I imagine. And Reg has been on my back all day, phoning me. Nag, nag, nag.’ Jason shrugged. Nonetheless, he looked very concerned. ‘If I don’t go now, no doubt the barrage will continue until I do go. Best get it over with.’
‘So why not pop in for one drink, just for a few minutes, Jason, then make your getaway? You have a perfectly good excuse: we open tomorrow night!’
‘That’s it.’ Jason swigged back the dregs of his espresso. ‘That’s what I’ll do. Ta-ra. See you in the morning.’ He looked across at Barbara, the stage manager. ‘What time do you want us?’
‘Everyone in full costume and make-up, ready to go at 8 a.m.’ Barbara drank the remnants of her wine. ‘I reckon that really means the tech-dress starts on the dot of eight thirty, after a costume and make-up line-up, and maybe going through a few odd technical bits. I leave it to you to decide how long you need to get made up and ready.’
India laughed. ‘It’s getting nearer to a nine o’clock start with every phrase you utter, Barbara!’
‘It better not be,’ she replied.
‘What time will the theatre be open?’ asked Emily. ‘I need at least an hour; better still, longer.’
‘According to my information, everything opens up at seven,’ said Barbara. ‘Reg and I will be there then, as we’ll be doing the lighting while you make up.’
‘Bon soir à tous!’ Jason pulled his hat down. ‘À demain!’ He gave everyone a wave and left the restaurant.
Suzy decided to get there for seven too. It was always important to leave extra time in a new venue to find you
r bearings. It was also important to allow for potential make-up disasters. There was always something time-consuming to sort out – like there being no plug sockets or adapters in the dressing room for the hair curlers, or the wardrobe department forgetting to buy spare tights.
Soon after the end of dinner, Suzy returned to her digs, had a quick go-through her lines, and then went to bed, and dreamed of bearded gnomes in boaters serenading her in the barbershop style.
4
That evening Amanda was given short shrift by Patricia. But Amanda understood why.
She tried to make things better. ‘Obviously, you’ll be up to your neck for the next few weeks, darling, so why don’t I look after the kids for you?’
‘No, Mum. Do you not listen? I have a new au pair, Sofian, just arrived from France.’
‘Is she nice, this Sophie Anne?’
‘He, Mother. HE. Sofian is a man.’
‘Why’s he got a woman’s name? Is he cross-gender, or whatever it’s called?’
‘It’s a French thing. And right now Sofian’s upstairs, unpacking. So, I am up to my eyeballs. I need to show him around the house, detail the children’s schedule, explain where everything is and how it all works. It’s incredibly difficult here tonight. So why don’t you just sit quietly in the corner and watch telly or something.’
Amanda felt completely embarrassed, and now wished she had moved into the hotel right there and then, instead of taking up Patricia’s offer of one extra night, this time on the sofa.
It didn’t take a genius to see that, to her daughter, Amanda was nothing but an annoying inconvenience. She would be better out of the way.
So, next morning, Amanda got up early, tidied up the sofa, and was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for everyone, when Patricia came in.
‘Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Mum! Please don’t interfere. I need to show Sofian what to do in here, so that tomorrow morning he can do it all alone. Now go and wait in the living room.’
Feeling like a naughty child, being told off by her headmistress daughter, Amanda made her way back to the sofa where she sat, hands in her lap, contrite, waiting for instructions. She wouldn’t have been in the slightest bit surprised if Patricia set her a detention or made her write out one hundred times ‘I must not interfere in my daughter’s well-regulated life’.
If everything had gone to plan this would not have happened. Bloody vacillating banker. She cursed the wretched man who had withdrawn his flat from sale, the swine who had effectively put her in this awkward position.
She glanced at her watch. It was still before 7 a.m. She could not move in to her hotel room until this afternoon at three.
She used her phone – now luckily rejuiced overnight on one of her daughter’s spare chargers – to check out a few more estate agents and left messages to see if she could spend the day doing viewings.
After breakfast was over, Amanda thanked her daughter for the use of her sofa and slipped out quietly, gripping her overnight wheelie case.
She caught a bus across the river and walked the streets, noting down the addresses on ‘For Sale’ notices.
As soon as offices started opening, she called on the first estate agent she came upon, which was in a bright glass-fronted office.
She took a seat at a desk and started setting out her requirements.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the blonde girl behind the desk. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake.’
‘Don’t you do apartments?’
‘Sort of,’ said the girl in a breezy way. ‘But not the kind of apartments you are looking for. This is a travel agent. We do holiday lets.’
Amanda looked around again.
How had she been so stupid?
There were certainly apartment signs around the shop, but they all had ravishing sea views or swimming pools.
She stood up. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said to the girl. ‘It’s just one of those weeks.’
‘You look as though you need a break,’ the girl replied.
Amanda wished she had a mirror.
Did she look so bad? She pushed her hair out of her eyes, reminding her that her last attempt at a stylish cut had long since grown out. And although she hadn’t had to regularly dye her chestnut-brown hair, she felt at that moment many more specks of grey must be showing.
So that she wouldn’t look as though she had made such a stupid mistake, as she left Amanda grabbed a few random brochures, and crammed them in the side pocket of her overnight case.
After she walked out of the shop Amanda realised that the girl was probably only saying that she needed a break to try and lure her into buying a holiday.
Amanda spent the rest of the morning visiting dreary flat after dreary flat. They were all roughly the same price as the one she thought up till yesterday that she had bought. She couldn’t picture herself living in any of them with their low ceilings, stale smell, vertiginous staircases and lack of light. She went on doing viewings through lunch until it was after three. Then, with a handful of new details from other estate agents, she went to find her hotel room and have some time to herself.
The pub door was open, and the sun had come out, and crowds of cheery young people huddled around the tables on the pavement. Amanda decided to have lunch here too. She checked in, leaving her case by the desk, then went out and ordered herself a bowl of soup and a large glass of red wine.
As she put the spoon to her mouth her phone rang.
Her solicitor.
‘He really will sign, he says. As soon as you like.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Amanda. ‘You mean my banker friend?’
‘That’s right. He now wants rid of the London flat, asap, but if you agree, you need to sign today, and so will he. Then you can move in in two to three weeks.’
‘Two to three weeks!’ said Amanda.
‘Those are the terms he’s offering. If you want that flat, I suggest you get here today, then, hopefully, by tomorrow the place will almost be yours.’
‘Could he pull out again?’
‘Who knows with such a loose cannon? But we will move in tandem with his people, who say they plan to hold on to the signed documents.’
Amanda looked at her watch. It was coming up to four.
‘What time do you close?’
‘Five.’
‘I’ll be there.’
Amanda, relieved, practically drank the soup from the bowl, then threw the wine down after it, before hailing a cab over to the City where her solicitors had their office.
Phone calls went back and forth between her solicitors and the vendor’s agents, until it was finally agreed that the owner had in fact signed and that the flat would really be hers in around a fortnight. No more changes.
The solicitor opened a bottle and offered her another glass of wine, which she happily accepted before leaving in a taxi and heading back to the hotel.
It was too early for bed when she got there, so she settled down for supper in the main part of the pub.
The place seemed to be such a buzzy hub for young people. Amanda could hear Australian and American accents, as well as some young adults talking French, Italian and German. She loved central London and its wonderful cosmopolitan air. She ordered an omelette and chips, along with another glass of wine, and watched a documentary on the television hung in the corner of the room.
It was about ten o’clock when Amanda decided to turn in. It had been such a strangely tiring day, considering she had done nothing much.
She went to the desk and asked for her key and suitcase.
‘Dropping off one of the kids, eh?’ said the young concierge.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s for me.’
He pulled an inexplicable face and said, ‘OMG. LMFAO,’ followed by Amanda’s room number – 6. ‘Top of the stairs, turn right. First door on the left. Bathroom at the end of the corridor. Two bed.’
‘I’ll never remember all that,’ said Amanda. ‘OMGLM what?’
‘You only have to rememb
er six, two.’ The concierge smirked and gave Amanda a thumbs-up before exploding with laughter.
As Amanda hauled her case up the rickety stairs she felt bewildered that, for this price, the bathroom was not en suite, but decided against saying anything as the young, hip staff were already looking at her as though she was something of a joke.
She dragged her bag to the end of the hall and opened the door to Room 6.
Four girls were sitting on the floor, playing cards.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Amanda. ‘I thought this was Room 6.’
‘It is,’ said one of the girls. ‘You must be Bed 2. Like a beer?’
Amanda looked around. She could see four pairs of bunk beds, every bed but one stacked with rucksacks and bedrolls.
Panic was setting in. An eight-bed room sharing with seven strangers!
And Amanda had reserved for the whole week.
She was too old for this, and too exhausted.
Not to mention all that money …
‘You pay £120 a night for this?’ Amanda said before she could filter her thoughts into two departments: those in her head and those which came out of her mouth.
The girls laughed, rocking back and forth from their cross-legged yoga positions on the floor.
‘No!’ said one girl. ‘Not for a night! It’s £120 a week, silly!’
Torn somewhere between laughing and crying, Amanda rolled her case into the room and tried to lift it on to her upper bunk, which was clearly marked Bed 2.
‘Let me help!’ Another of the girls leaped up. ‘Look, lady, I’m going to swap your bed with one of the boys. They can climb the damned ladder. You’re way too old for it.’ The girl took Amanda’s suitcase and flung it on to the bottom bunk, while grabbing the rucksack which was already there and hauling it on to the bunk above. ‘Now, if I were you, lady, I’d get into bed now. Then, when the blokes come back, you pretend to be asleep. Leave me to tell them.’
‘Blokes!’ said Amanda. ‘You mean we share with men too?’
The girls looked at her with varying degrees of pity.
‘Of course,’ said one. ‘You’re from that old generation which was all prim about sex, aren’t you?’
Amanda wanted to reply that no, she was in fact a child of the ‘swinging sixties and the sexy seventies’ but, as the evidence was against her, decided to keep quiet.