by Jane Fallon
‘She has the kind of looks that only work when you’re young,’ she would say, if anyone paid another woman a compliment in her hearing, pointing out how her chin was weak, her forehead too big or that her stunning figure meant she was destined to be apple-shaped in middle age. ‘I just look at people and I can see how they’re going to look in twenty years’ time. It’s very levelling,’ she would boast. ‘There are very, very few true beauties out there.’
Of course, this was usually followed by whatever sycophant she was with (often me, I’m ashamed to say) pointing out how her symmetrical features and slender build were almost certainly going to stand the test of time, while she lapped up the attention like a shelter dog on adoption day.
My friendship with Pia was uncomplicated and easy. She had no side, no sensitive blind spots that needed to be negotiated with the precision of someone crossing a minefield. She was fun, self-deprecating and sweet. Always supportive, encouraging my ambitions alongside her own. Confident enough in herself and her own abilities not to feel threatened by anyone else. Half the male population of our uni would practically swoon whenever she entered a room, but she never even seemed to notice. Compliments went over her head, except when she was giving them out, which was often.
She and Mel were never going to be a good fit. Mel was preprogrammed to dislike all my ‘London friends’, as she called them. In retrospect, of course, I realized she was threatened by them. Pride was making her make a hash of her own life while I was thriving. She must have worried that the more I pursued my newfound ambitions (not that she had any idea I was hoping to make a career of it. At least, I still hadn’t told her. I think she just picked up bits and pieces on the rare occasions she came and stayed at the house. Pia and I, on the other hand, often talked into the night about how we were going to achieve our dreams. She had total faith in all five of us – me, especially, it seemed), the more I would come to realize that what she was doing was a bit sad. She still spoke about Centre Stage as if it were the most prestigious establishment in the world (not in front of the others, though, I’d noticed), but I could tell she didn’t really believe it.
And it didn’t help that, on one of her visits, Pia picked up on a passing reference to Centre Stage and, having no idea that this was where Mel now attended, let rip with:
‘Oh my God! That place. The one in Maidenhead? I used to go there when I was a kid. You know they have that Saturday College thing? For the kids who can’t afford to go full time, or whose parents have more sense than to send them to a stage school …’
We were all sitting around the grubby little kitchen table, the only communal room in the house. The breakfast things were still piled up on the side. I could totally see where this was going. Tried to signal to Pia to abandon ship, but to no avail. I looked across at Mel. Her face, always pale, was whiter than ever. And then a little pool of red flared up in each cheek.
‘That’s where Mel …’ I tried to interrupt to let her know that this was the ‘top drama school’ Mel was always boasting about. Mel shot me a look. Pia carried on, oblivious.
‘… They charged the parents an absolute fortune and, basically, you just hopped about to Bananarama for three hours and put on a production of something like Annie once a year …’
Even Tom had realized what was going on and tried to step in. ‘I used to go to a Saturday College in Guildford! I used to think it sounded so grown up …’
‘This one was a particular horror, though,’ Pia continued, unabated. ‘All the girls ended up like Bonnie Langford and all the boys like Lionel Blair. They used to bang on about being an “all-round entertainer”, like that’s a thing any more? I remember there was one teacher who literally – and I mean, literally – used to stand in front of the class shouting, “Eyes and teeth, boys and girls! Eyes and teeth.” ’
I could see the red spots on Mel’s cheeks had spread. She flared her nostrils, a sure sign that she was furious. Pia was oblivious.
‘Honestly, it was like something out of another era. And it’s still going! They even do a three-year diploma now, can you imagine? It’s just a complete rip-off … oh …’
Finally, she’d noticed that, behind Mel’s back, Tom was pointing to her, trying to make her understand.
She tailed off. ‘Shit … you go there, don’t you?’
Mel pursed her lips, took a deep breath in. ‘It’s obviously very different now from when you knew it. It has a really good reputation for drama, actually. You should check your facts are up to date before you rubbish something.’
She stood up and glided imperiously out of the room. I knew it was taking all her courage not to stomp off, throwing things.
‘God. I’m so sorry,’ Pia said to me after Mel left. ‘I really had no idea.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ I said. I knew she would never have said anything to deliberately demean Mel, she was way too nice a girl. Kieron and Tom, on the other hand, finally gave in to the laughter they had been suppressing once Mel had safely left the room. To give them credit, they did so quietly, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to join in. It wasn’t mean-spirited, it was just the awkwardness of the situation.
‘Sorry,’ Tom stage-whispered, his shoulders still shaking. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. She’s just a bit sensitive. I’ll go and see if she’s okay.’
By the time the holidays came that year, Pia and Alistair were a couple. At least, they were admitting they were a couple. I had suspected something was going on for some time before that, from the way Pia used to blush every time he walked into the room. I couldn’t imagine two more suited people getting together, and when they told me they were thinking they might like to share a room I practically cried with happiness. Alistair was as sweet as she was, but more naïve, having never really had a girlfriend before college, something the rest of us used to tease him about mercilessly. Being Pia and Alistair, they had no intention of turfing me out of the attic, Pia told me.
‘It wouldn’t be fair. Especially as you’ve already had to share for a year.’
I tried to argue that it was the much bigger room and so made more sense for two people. I really didn’t mind. They were adamant, though. Pia bundled up her stuff and moved down to Alistair’s tiny back bedroom and his single bed. At my insistence, she left most of her clothes up in our giant wardrobe. And she kept her little desk in the corner, piled high with her coursework. Her sleeping somewhere else was the only thing that changed. The dynamics of all our friendships remained the same. We just got used to their open displays of affection and carried on as we were.
They were the first couple any of us had known to get serious. Behind their backs, we started to call them Mum and Dad.
I had been nursing a secret crush on Tom for a while by this point. His puppyish enthusiasm for pretty much everything was infectious, but it also masked a wicked sense of humour. His gangly proportions made him a natural at physical comedy and he was a born mimic who loved to entertain us all with anecdotes about the people on his course or our mutual friends. He and I shared an encyclopaedia of in-jokes and running gags that often left the others baffled. But I’d also come to learn that he was way more kind and thoughtful than he would ever give himself credit for. I kept my feelings to myself. I was too afraid of unravelling our friendship by trying to push for something more. If it was meant to be, I decided, it would happen in time.
I got a job in a local health-food shop, stacking shelves and serving behind the till. It paid a pittance but it covered the rent and I got a huge discount on their stock, so the five of us lived on brown rice and hard chickpeas with the occasional past-its-sell-by-date head of broccoli. I remember it as always being hot and sunny, sitting up late with the kitchen door open on to the tiny backyard, drinking cheap beer and talking into the night.
Mel, stung by what she perceived as Pia making fun of her, refused to visit after that, guilt-tripping me into going home every couple of weekends to save her from bor
edom. I was glad that the excuse of my job made going any more frequently impossible. Relieved when she announced she was going on holiday to Portugal with her parents for three weeks. In previous summers, I would have moped like a dog waiting by its owner’s grave until she came back. This year, it felt like a reprieve.
27
I’m about to have a heart attack.
I have an audition at twelve fifteen for a job I really want and it’s now eleven minutes past and I can’t find the place where I’m meant to be seeing them. I check the email from Sara for the fourth time: 291A Camden High Street. ‘It’s a little hard to find, apparently,’ it says. ‘They said to tell you it’s right in the market, behind number 291. It’s a separate entrance.’
I retrace my steps back over the canal, avoiding the hordes of shoppers and tourists in search of weed. The last number I can find is 285. There’s a row of derelict houses on the right-hand side and then I’m in Chalk Farm Road and the numbers make no sense. My only option is to go into the market on my left, which is what the email says to do, but I’ve been round there three times already and there’s nothing that even resembles the number 291, let alone 291A.
I’m dripping with sweat and my carefully applied make-up is sliding down my face, mingled with the tears of frustration that have decided to make an appearance. People are looking at me.
‘Two nine one?’ I say hopefully to a stall holder, but he just looks at me as if I’m asking him to give me his profits. I tell myself to calm down, breathe. This must be happening to other people. I can’t be the only one who’s late.
I dial Sara’s number, gabble at Alexis when she answers.
‘It’s Amy. Forrester. I’m supposed to be at an audition in less than two minutes and I can’t find the building. Sara said they said it’s hard to find, but this is fucking ridiculous. Sorry, I’m not swearing at you, I’m just swearing …’
‘Hold on, Amy,’ she says, as soon as she can get a word in. ‘Let me talk to Sara.’
‘Quickly, though,’ I say, before I can stop myself, as though I think she might stop off for a loo break first. ‘I’m about to be late.’
It’s absolutely fucking typical that this happens the first time anything that sounds properly interesting comes up. This character has a name! Susie. I’m not sure I’ve ever imagined myself as a Susie, but there’s a first time for everything. And it’s a proper part. Not the lead, but one of the second tier, by the sound of it. A new series for the BBC called Blood Ties, which, apparently, is a big family saga with a murder at its centre. The blurb they sent read, ‘They’re a wealthy clan of feuding siblings who own a struggling country-house hotel. Susie is the family solicitor, who gets embroiled in their dirty dealings and cover-ups.’ It sounds like a rip off of Bloodlines, which was one of my all-time favourite shows. Or maybe it’s a legitimate remake, tweaked for the UK market. Either way, I want this job.
Susie is apparently in every episode of this first series of ten. And she even merits a description in the breakdown other than ‘Woman’. In fact, it doesn’t say the word ‘woman’ at all, which made me very happy. What it says is ‘Susie: late thirties, trustworthy and straightforward. Takes no nonsense. Can be feisty when she needs to be. Has worked for the family for ten years. Attractive.’ Trustworthy and straightforward I can do. Attractive, I’ll leave up to them, but I’ve made an effort to look my best this morning. And I’d gone for smart. Knee-length skirt and a cap-sleeved pussy-bow shirt. Not too corporate. Not as if I was going to a fancy-dress party as a lawyer. But just enough so I looked like a professional. Obviously, that’s all going to shit now.
It all happened so fast. The first episode of Murder in Manhattan finally went out the night before last. Greg and Kat came over and we all watched it together, even though I’ve already seen the finished result, obviously. Some of the cast used to get together every Thursday night, have drinks and pizza and watch the episodes air. They cheered every time they saw my face (Greg and Kat, that is, not the rest of the cast). I had a couple of really good scenes, setting up the character of my sister as a bit of a lost soul with no husband and kids of her own because she’s so dedicated to the job, so she keeps turning up at my noisy family home in Queens, much to the irritation of my husband.
‘I want to watch the next one,’ Kat had said, once she had paused and rewound the credits three times.
‘And you know she hates everything,’ Greg had said. ‘I mean, really.’
As soon as it ended, I got a text from Simon (looking after his daughter tonight) that basically said he fancied the pants off the lead character’s sister and could she get her own spin-off series because he would definitely watch. Both Jack and Mel tried to FaceTime me, so they had obviously seen it – whether separately or together, who knew? Although the idea of them settling down to watch me together was a bit too weird a concept for me to grasp. I ignored both their calls, figuring they would just think I was filming if they compared notes.
Then Chris and Lew phoned, full of how much they’d loved it and how brilliant they thought I was (obviously, I know that this means nothing objectively, they’re hardly going to call and tell me I was shit), and I filled them in on everything that had been going on since I spoke to them last, including – with loud prompting from Kat – Simon.
‘Oh my God, you’re a bigamist!’ Lew shouted, laughing. ‘Poor Jack. I almost feel sorry for him.’
‘You don’t,’ I said indignantly.
‘Of course I don’t. It couldn’t be happening to a nicer man.’
The next morning, my mum called to say they had watched it with their breakfast and wasn’t it fantastic, particularly me, although they had no idea what was going on and they couldn’t tell anyone else apart.
All the way to the call centre on the Tube, I kept looking at people, wondering whether they’d seen it. Whether, if they looked at me, there’d be a glimmer of recognition. My experience in the US was that I suddenly started being recognized after episode three went out, following a particularly well-written argument between me and my fictional husband about the fact that my sister used our house as a hotel.
And then Sara called to say someone from Sunflower Productions had got in touch to say they were in the middle of casting Blood Ties and they’d seen me last night and realized I’d be perfect for Susie. It was everything I’d hoped would happen (well, not everything. Everything would include me actually getting the job and kick-starting my career. But you know what I mean). And now I was about to fuck it up.
Eventually, Alexis comes back on. ‘She’s just on the other line to Sunflower Productions. Don’t worry, Amy, we’ll get it sorted out. Just hold on.’
I lean back against a wall. Now I know Sara is talking to them, I feel much calmer. They’ll know I was here on time, know it wasn’t my fault.
‘Amy?’ Sara is on the line. ‘I just spoke to Carrie at Sunflower. She says go into Stables Market, walk to the back and you’ll see a gate that leads round to the back of one of the buildings …’
I start walking. ‘How can that be 291 Camden High Street?’
‘She says it’s an anomaly. She said no one’s been able to find it.’
‘And they’re okay about it, right? They know I’ve been wandering around for ages?’
I reach the back of the market, looking around. I can feel my anxiety cranking up a notch again.
‘They are and they do. The only thing is, Amy, they have to wrap up at half twelve …’
‘What? It’s twenty past now.’
‘I know. She said the space is booked out after that. She’s checked.’
‘But if everyone’s been turning up late, then surely they need to find a way to extend?’
‘I think they’re a new company. And none of them has ever done anything this big. Carrie said it had been quite a steep learning curve.’
‘Can’t they just move to a café or something? Or their offices? Where are they based?’
‘I’m not sure. Out in Acton
, I think. But she said the director has to rush off somewhere else anyway. Hopefully, you’ll make it in time. Any sign?’
I scour the back wall. ‘Nothing. No gates. Nothing that even looks like it would have an address of its own. Oh my God, this is ridiculous. Are you sure she said Stables Market? Inside?’
‘That’s what she said. Is there anyone you can ask?’
‘No. I mean, yes, but why would they know? There’s literally nothing there it could be.’
‘Did you put it into Google Maps?’
‘Of course. There was just a big marker over the canal, and it’s definitely not in there. Anyway, you said she said it was in here.’
‘Don’t panic. I’m going to call her back on the other line.’
I’m all-out crying now. This is crazy. I know we can reschedule, I know they’ll still see me another day, but I feel so stupid. What kind of an impression does this make? And what if, between now and then, they stumble across someone who would make a perfect Susie and don’t bother auditioning me at all?
I wander up and down the back of the market space, saying, ‘Two nine one?’ to anyone who’ll listen, which is basically nobody. There are food stalls lining the wall and I peer behind each of them, my phone still at my ear. One disgruntled falafel seller waves me away.
I head into one of the cavernous second-hand furniture spaces, although I’m sure Carrie would have mentioned if I had to go through a shop to find them. I look at my phone. Twelve twenty-six. This is hopeless.
‘Sorry, Amy, it took me ages to get hold of her.’ Sara is back. I sniff loudly, wipe my eyes. ‘She says it’s got so late they couldn’t see you now even if you found them.’
‘Oh my God, what? This is a nightmare.’
‘She was very apologetic,’ Sara says quickly. ‘Really, this doesn’t reflect on you at all. She says they’re going to set up some more times next week and they’ll book a different space. Somewhere easy to find.’