Anna waited as Miles clasped hands with the drummer, pulling him to his chest in a weird sort of macho hug. ‘Great playing with you, man. We’ll be in touch real soon. Stop by Bill, our manager, on your way out, he wants to check your availability, other commitments.’
Miles leaped off the stage with ease and grace, and spent several minutes bent over an iPad, as he talked to a huge man with long hair that flowed down his back. It was a hairstyle at odds with his expensive-looking, tailored suit. The other candidate had left without stopping to talk to anyone, so this had to be a good sign, Anna decided, discovering she was just as anxious that Miles did well as he was. Finally, after some more handshaking, Miles bounded up the aisle towards her. Anna hoped that her newfound attraction to him didn’t somehow show on her face.
‘How’d I do?’ he asked her, his face flushed and his voice a little breathless.
‘Really good,’ she said, grinning. ‘Really amazing!’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Miles said. ‘Thanks, Anna. Thanks for coming, for making me see sense and letting you come. It meant a lot to me that you were out there. I think I played better because I knew you were.’
‘Oh well,’ Anna said, feeling like giggling and blushing but telling herself at the same time not to be so ridiculous. After all she was not some thirteen-year-old groupie. ‘That’s what friends are for.’
‘I know,’ Miles said. ‘And you are a good friend. The best impromptu New York Christmas friend I’ve ever had. And even if our lives take us in opposite directions after this, I’ll think about this time. Always.’
‘So do you think you’ve got it then?’ Anna asked as they walked back to the subway, the snow crunching under their feet, the cold making their cheeks ruddy and fingers numb.
‘I don’t know,’ Miles said. ‘But you know what, in some ways, Annie, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Really?’ Anna asked him. ‘Why not? What about the equipment you sold to get here?’
‘Well, when I was up there playing today and last night in that little bar, singing, if that is what you can call it, with you, I realised, I love doing this, I love it. And as long as I am doing it, one way or another, in a stadium or a pub, it doesn’t matter. Music was what I was meant to do, and I get to do it every day, sometimes even for money. That makes me very lucky.’ He stopped for a second in the middle of the pavement. ‘Yes, right now I feel like a very lucky man. Now, how about something to eat, and then we can go and hunt down that bitch that married your fiancé.’
Anna found herself grinning happily as she followed Miles down the steps to the subway, thinking how very wonderful it must be to be so certain about something without the need for lists, and counter-lists and footnotes and contingency plans and colour-coded high-lighters, and how amazing it must be to just know something, know it with all your heart, with absolute certainty and never ever doubt or second guess yourself. Just once, just once in her life, Anna would like that moment of certainty to belong to her.
The Long Dark Night of the Soul was not exactly easy viewing, a fact that became apparent about ten minutes into the production when one of the nuns hanged herself from a scaffolding pole, the dramatic impetus of the moment being somewhat reduced by the deceased nun continuing to cough for several minutes after she was pronounced tragically dead. Anna would have laughed if she wasn’t so compulsively polite, and Miles did laugh, sniggering into the back of his hand like an unruly little boy, which earned him a furious glare from a very pious Mother Superior onstage.
It was a small auditorium, one of several in the theatre complex, and much less glamorous than the one that Miles had rocked out in just a few hours earlier, for all its similar brand of vintage decay. There was no stage to speak of, and no set beyond what was already there. The seats were built on scaffolding that surrounded the performance area, rising in a steep pitch that looked like they could accommodate maybe four hundred people. Anna only realised as they arrived that she had bought front row tickets, and that apart from perhaps twenty other people, the theatre was empty, which perhaps wasn’t surprising as suicidal and sexually confused nuns were rarely traditional Christmas viewing. (It was clearly not The Sound of Music.) Still, Anna was full of anticipation and a sense of dread: at any moment she knew she would be inches away from Charisma Jones, almost within touching distance of her husband-to-be’s current wife.
Miles had been on an incredible high after the audition. His usual funny and charming self but pumped full of extra energy, he’d taken Anna for some Greek food in a place that Cheri from the record label had recommended to him on the way out, and Anna had spent pretty much all of the meal in happy silence, laughing as he told her a series of anecdotes from his life as a musician on the road, trying not to notice how his blue eyes sparkled or how much she wanted to run her fingertips over the smile lines in his stubble.
It’s fine, Anna had told herself, leaning her chin into her hands as Miles re-enacted the time he and his bandmates had to go on stage soaking wet because of a dare involving a lamppost and a fountain and how he’d almost killed himself and shorted out all the electricity onstage in the process. All she was experiencing was a teenage crush, and teenage crushes were perfectly normal. OK, perfectly normal in teenagers, usually, but, as Anna reminded herself, she had not been a normal teenager. Whilst Liv had been mooning with obsessive dedication over an assortment of moody-looking pop boys, who’d lined the walls of their bedroom from around the age of twelve, Anna had not had time for crushes. She was intent on getting perfect grades in her GCSEs. Which meant that her and Liv’s school lives complemented each other quite well, the pair of them always opting to stand with their backs against the wall at school discos: Liv was a wallflower because the idea of talking to boys she liked made her want to kill herself and the boys she didn’t fancy only ever wanted to play football with her anyway. Anna had been regularly asked to dance to the slow ones by the same opportunistic ranks of boys who were hopeful of getting their hand up her top. But, soon after the Regina Clarkson incident, her English teacher had told her that to get distracted by boys now would be the ruin of her academic career, one that she had to work hard to keep up, because brains didn’t come naturally to her. And so Anna, being Anna, had all but stifled every single hormonal impulse that her body threw at her, with the one notable exception that led to the Regina Clarkson incident, and she preferred never ever to think about that.
All that was happening now, with these unplanned urges towards a man that in any other situation she would find positively irritating, was that her hormones were finally catching up with her and she was having her first ever teenage crush. It didn’t mean she didn’t love Tom, that she didn’t still want to marry him and live the rest of her life with him, it was just her body having one last – or to be fair, first – fling with fantasy, before she settled down to married life. And somehow, New York City at Christmas, thousands of miles away from home, made it seem all the more reasonable. It wasn’t as if anything was going to happen between them. After all, the very reason Anna was sitting here, enduring nun angst by the poorly scripted bucketload, was to make the wedding – her perfect winter wedding – happen, not to ruin it with a rash sordid fling. And yes, as the lights came up on act two, she realised that not only had she still not spoken to Tom since she’d left England but she hadn’t even noticed that she’d left her phone in the hotel room until just before the play was due to start and she was about to turn it off. For a few hours she’d completely forgotten about the wedding, her list, her life plan and her husband-to-be. But now that exhilarating, temporary sense of freedom was about to come to an end, as Charisma Jones took to the stage and Anna found out what she was really up against.
It would be fair to say that the atmosphere in the small auditorium, which until that point had been flat and bored, changed the moment that Charisma/Erica walked onstage. There was something about her, even in her nun’s outfit (which featured a rather tight black poloneck sweater, an A-line calf-le
ngth skirt, some sensible shoes and the traditionally unflattering headgear) that simply outshone everyone around her. She had chosen her first stage name all too well – she clearly had charisma by the bucketload, enough charm to overcome even the clunky script and the awful acting of her colleagues. Glancing at Miles, Anna noticed that his eyes were riveted to Charisma every single second she was onstage, whether she had any lines or not. And it wasn’t just him. The men in the audience seemed to be following her every move, including one gentleman Anna noticed whose hands were suspiciously active underneath the raincoat that was neatly folded on his lap.
If she wasn’t exactly Dame Judi Dench, Charisma was still the best actor on the stage and evidently her costume and apparent lack of make-up couldn’t hide her beauty. Anna found herself dwelling on the other woman’s chocolate-brown eyes and her coppery-hued skin. In the world of show business, Charisma was no spring chicken – she had to be around Anna’s age – but her skin was flawless and glowing with a sort of internal heat. It was as if she’d just absorbed a whole lot of tropical sun, even in this snowbound city, and was returning it to the world through every pore. Anna tried to imagine her as the glamorous showgirl that Tom had met and fallen for, and was dismayed to discover it was all too easy to do. But that was years ago, Anna reminded herself unhappily, and Charisma had left Tom, and he had left Vegas. He’d forgotten her, so completely in fact that he’d all but forgotten he’d even married her, so really and truly there was nothing for Anna to worry about, not rationally. Except she couldn’t help but be relieved that it was she who was in New York, about to ask Charisma to sign the annulment papers, and not Tom. Who knew what feelings a glamorous actress in a nun’s habit might stir up in her fiancé, if the two were to ever meet in person again.
‘What do you think of her?’ Anna asked Miles, as the players took their final bow to a room of half-hearted applause.
‘She’s got something about her,’ Miles said, thoughtfully, turning to look at Anna. ‘Yes, she’s got something.’
The actors walked off stage, the house lights came up and the scant audience began to file out.
‘Right, this is my chance,’ Anna said, her eyes on the wings.
‘Let’s go for it,’ Miles said, half rising from his seat, but Anna put her hand on his shoulder.
‘This is something I need to do alone,’ she said, partly because that was how she really felt and partly because it felt like Charisma might be some kind of sultry Medusa, turning all men she met rock hard with one devastating look, and Anna found she wasn’t willing to see Miles be impressed in person by Charisma. Miles paused and nodded. ‘I’ll wait in the lobby.’
Taking a deep breath, Anna crossed the stage at a trot, conscious of her heels clicking on the black and white floor.
‘Excuse me, miss?’ A rather uncertain-looking young man, dressed all in black and wearing a set of headphones, stopped her. ‘Are you looking for the restroom?’
‘Anna Carter,’ Anna said, holding her hand out, with more confidence than she felt.‘Theatrical correspondent, The Times of London.’ She was surprised how easy the bluff came to her. ‘I’m doing a piece on rising stars of fringe theatre and I would very much like a few words with Char–Erica Barnes. I thought her performance was outstanding.’
‘Really?’ The young man took her hand and shook it warmly. ‘The Times of London, you say? And what about the writing? The script? Did you enjoy that?’
Sensing that this young man was more than just the lighting engineer, Anna nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, fluttering her lashes. ‘It put me in mind of early Pinter.’
‘Really?’ He beamed at her, as he showed her backstage. ‘I’m Christopher Underwood, the writer, director, jack of all trades.’
‘How lovely to meet you, Christopher.’ Anna beamed at him. ‘Do you have a card? I’d love to talk to you before I file my article.’ Happily, Christopher handed her what looked like it might be his one and only card, and rather guiltily Anna tucked it into her bag. ‘And where might I find Miss Barnes?’
‘First on your left. We’re a collective so there are only two dressing rooms, one for guys and one for girls, although they don’t always stay that segregated. Nice to meet you Miss Carter of The Times.’
Much to Anna’s surprise, Christopher did an awkward little curtsy, and then his face flushed beetroot, as he turned on his Cuban heels and raced away at speed. Opening her bag, Anna took out the envelope with the papers in it and brandished them aloft like Van Helsing might wield a crucifix against a vampire. She knocked once on the dressing-room door before opening it. Fortunately, there were only two women in the dressing room. There was the sour-looking Mother Superior, now lounging in a bright yellow kaftan, smoking with industrious intent just underneath the no smoking sign, and Charisma, now dressed in a pair of low-rise jeans and a waisted pale-blue shirt over a white vest trimmed with lace. And now that her mane of glossy chestnut-brown hair had been freed from its wimple she looked even more beautiful, if positively demure compared to the first picture Anna had seen of her.
‘Hello,’ Anna said pleasantly. ‘Erica? My name’s Anna Carter, Christopher Underwood showed me back here. I wonder if I could have a word with you.’
‘There’s an accent,’ Charisma said pleasantly. ‘I love the English accent. How can I help you, Anna?’
Anna glanced at the other nun, who was sitting with one bare foot propped up on a stool, puffing away with relish, as she sipped what smelled like cheap brandy from a mug.
‘Do you think we could talk alone?’ Anna asked her, winsomely apologetic as if she was ever so sorry for the inconvenience.
‘Depends,’ Charisma said, suddenly guarded. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Tom Collins,’ Anna said, watching Charisma’s face closely, as her expression flared with … what? It was impossible to tell exactly how she’d reacted to the mention of her husband’s name, because she’d composed herself again within a fraction of a second, smiling blandly at Anna, as if she had never heard the name before in her life.
‘Fine, yes, of course. Leila, would you mind giving us a minute?’ Charisma asked the older woman who sighed, stubbed the butt of her cigarette out on the Formica tabletop and gave a very brandyish burp.
‘See you in the bar?’ she growled, her poor Irish accent replaced by a deep gravelly tone that John Wayne would have been proud of.
‘Sure, see you there,’ Charisma said, shutting the door on her colleague and turning the lock. ‘When hell freezes over.’
‘Who are you?’ she asked Anna, taking a couple of steps towards her, the intent in her eyes so fierce that Anna wondered if she wouldn’t have been safer with Leila.
‘Anna Carter,’ she repeated, holding out her hand as if it might somehow ward off Evil-Showgirls-cum-Actresses. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
Charisma looked at her hand, but didn’t take it. ‘What do you want to know about Tom for?’
‘I don’t,’ Anna said. ‘I already know Tom, very well. I’m engaged to be married to him.’
Charisma sat down suddenly on the ripped stool in front of the mirror. ‘Tom’s getting married?’ she said at last over her shoulder, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, her pretty brown eyes widening as they took in the news.
‘Yes,’ Anna said. ‘Christmas Eve, in fact. Or at least, I hope we will be. There is one little technical hitch, however.’
‘Me,’ Charisma said simply, unzipping a bag of make-up and beginning to apply a little foundation to her already flawless complexion, perhaps because she’d been planning to, but more likely, Anna decided, because she was a warrior princess and this was her warpaint.
‘Yes,’ Anna said, unsure if Charisma really understood. ‘Because …’
‘Because we’re technically still married,’ Charisma said. Strangely, given her vivacity and the energy that had seemed to emit from her while she was onstage, she was suddenly flat and two-dimensional, her voice monotone, almost uninterest
ed, as she began carefully to blend a palette of bronze and gold eye shadows on to her lids. ‘You know, I always hoped I’d hear from Tom again one day. I didn’t think he’d send his latest girlfriend to do his dirty work.’
‘Not his latest,’ Anna said quite firmly. ‘His last girlfriend, his current fiancée and the woman that he will marry in a church whilst sober in a few days’ time.’
Charisma sucked the air in through her teeth, turning on her stool to look at Anna, one eye heavily lined with liquid eyeliner drawn along the upper lid, finished with a catlike flourish.
‘You may speak like the Queen but you fight like a bitch, I like that about you,’ she said, before turning back to the mirror.
‘Look,’ Anna said carefully, drawing herself up to her full height, pushing her shoulders back, doing her best to be as beautiful as the original Charisma Vegas showgirl, who was gradually appearing in the mirror before her. ‘I haven’t come here to fight you over Tom. There is no fight to be had. You and he had a fling, years ago. Long before we ever met. You both made a foolish mistake. One, from what I can gather, that you both soon regretted.’
‘He said that?’ Charisma asked her, as she carefully inserted false lashes into her own, already fairly luscious set. ‘That we both regretted it?’
‘He said you went to look for your dream, and he wasn’t part of it,’ Anna said.
‘Interesting,’ Charisma said, fluttering her newly thickened lashes at her own reflection.
‘And he said that he was relieved you’d gone. That once you left him he got back to the life he was meant to have.’ It was, perhaps, a harsh way of putting things, but Anna was in no mood to be tactful with this strange, mercurial creature who had been Erica Barnes when she walked in, but who was fast transforming herself into exactly the exotic blast from the past that Anna had hoped to avoid.
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