by A J Waines
9
Beth
August – seven months earlier
I’m not sure when that enchanted moment was, but at some point during that first night together in June, I was smitten. Instantly, my life was split into two: the period before being with Peter when I was a frivolous, naïve non-entity, and this new existence where I had suddenly blossomed into a diva. Simply with his eyes, Peter had turned me into a sophisticated and elegant prima donna worthy of the limelight.
He treated me like I’d already proved myself, already made my mark and was his equal. In one night I had taken that imperceptible step across an invisible threshold into a life that was bubbling with possibilities.
Now we’re a couple. I can’t believe his ardour is aimed at me; a lowly wannabe like thousands of others who thought she’d be forever stuck at the lowest rung of the ladder. Not that being with Peter is all about success and status. It’s so much more than that. Every time I think of him, I feel uplifted. I breathe and move like the world is spinning faster.
There’s something enthralling about him; his cornflower-blue irises that seem to have a light shining behind them, his soulful refined voice. He stands like a Greek marble statue, the prominent curves of his muscles still taut from years of dancing, giving him the torso of a man easily ten years younger.
He’s not all dignified and proper, either. When he’s had a bit to drink he can be fiercely irreverent about people, a wicked mimicker. We laugh all the time.
On our third date we went to see ‘Twelfth Night’ at The Globe. I wore a simple red silk dress. He complained in the interval that he hadn’t taken in one word of the play.
‘I’m too distracted,’ he said, ‘I’ve got this incredible vision of beauty sitting next to me and my hands are tied. I can feel the heat from her thigh radiating against mine and if I touch her, I won’t be able to stop. I’m in torment.’
Once we were alone, I slowly peeled away the straps of my dress and let it fall for him. I’ll never forget the way his lips slowly parted in wonder. It was like Howard Carter coming across the tomb of Tutankhamun. I loved the way his eyes licked ardently across my naked curves at first, then his fingers joined in and finally his tongue.
I Googled him after that date, curious to see how he was depicted in the media, but mainly to see who his previous girlfriends had been. Under ‘personal life’ in his Wikipedia entry, only two women were mentioned. A well-known Italian film star, Aurora Belluci, and a dancer from the English National Ballet – both of whom looked impossibly glamorous.
The search told me two things; Peter didn’t appear to have casual flings, preferring instead long-term relationships, and the last liaison, with the dancer, had ended over a year ago.
Another section, on his career, described how he’d been lined up for various starring roles, only to have other dancers step in at the last minute. Poor Peter – he’d had a tough time.
My short-term contract as a runner came to an end and I cleared all my gear out of the flat in Chiswick. Chelsea was easy enough to get to, so I found the temporary quiz job I could do from home and stayed in Peter’s flat when I had auditions.
During those first few months, I couldn’t get enough of him. I craved our next meeting as soon as the last one had come to an end, hanging on his every text and phone call. He was important, in demand, on tour with dance groups and the kingpin in various dance-film deals – and I had to wait my turn.
‘I’ve never felt like this before,’ he said, during one of his video calls from New York. For someone who must have had girls falling over themselves to be on his arm, I took that as a massive compliment. Old-fashioned love-letters started landing on the doormat from Chicago, Paris, Rome, then double bouquets of roses. Everything about him was bold and unfettered.
Fearing that Mum would think I’d stooped to sexual favours with an ‘older man’ in return for promises of fame, I hadn’t mentioned him straightaway, but with so many items arriving at the door, I gave in. I told her everything – well, not quite, but I gave her the general gist. She scooped me up in her arms.
‘How wonderful, I’m so delighted for you. Peter sounds amazing.’ It was the first time since Russell had died that I’d seen tears form in her eyes that weren’t from grief.
She asked how we’d met and as my words tumbled out, a look of concern progressively pulled her smile out of shape. I pre-empted her warnings before she could spoil my news.
‘Peter has influence in the film business and might be able to nudge me in the right direction,’ I pointed out, ‘but I’m the one who’s going to have to do all the work. I know that. I’m under no illusions that suddenly I’m going to be swept off to Hollywood just because I’m with him.’
I remember the look in her eye then. A sense of victory, like Peter was the answer to everything.
On the odd occasion when he was back in London, I arranged get-togethers so that everyone I knew could meet him. My friends adored him. They thought he was engaging and generous and, the best bit, they were unanimous in exclaiming how obvious it was that he was in love with me.
The speed and intensity of my own feelings towards Peter left me in no doubt that he was ‘Mr Right’. I’d had crushes and fancied boys before, but the relationships were exploratory and tentative – like pale rehearsals for the real thing. What I had with Peter was big, special.
When we got engaged, I was the happiest I’d ever been in my life and Mum was ecstatic. We knew everything was about to change forever.
10
Rachel
Saturday evening, March 11
I drag Beth to the sofa and make her sit. She drops the clothes, but is still holding the hairbrush microphone.
‘Who did you speak to?’ I snap, my eyes scrutinising her face, ‘on the way to meet Carl?’
‘I gave money to a homeless guy lying in a doorway on Melcham Street.’
Beth is a sucker for lost causes. Her tender spirit is one of the things I love most about her, but I worry that people will take advantage of it. ‘Had you seen him before? Does he know who you are?’
‘I’ve done it before. And yes, he…kind of recognised me.’
‘Does he know your name?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Well…I don’t think that will be an issue.’ I feel the tension slip away from my shoulders.
She nips a strand of hair between her lips and stares at her feet. I know that look.
‘That’s not all, though, is it?’ I say, the anxiety creeping back.
She reaches for a magazine and starts doodling with a biro on the cover. ‘No. I forgot. I bumped into Angie.’
My heart is thudding. ‘Where?’
‘In Henshaw Street – she was wheeling her bike.’
‘What did you say to her?’
‘I asked about her new job, that’s all. I didn’t say where I was going.’
I stop and mull over whether this is likely to be a problem. ‘Is that everything?’
She nods, then wrinkles her nose and looks down.
‘What?’ I say, gripping her shoulders.
There’s more?
She chews the end of the pen. She’s done this ever since she was little and it drives me mad. I’m forever pulling a biro out of my bag and finding the end has been mauled into two distinct rings of teeth marks. That’s another thing she’s going to have to put a stop to when she marries Peter.
‘Angie asked about my jacket. She kind of implied I was dolled up.’
I realise our original plan to claim that Beth went for a walk that evening will need revising. ‘And what did—?’
At that moment, the doorbell breaks through with a loud jangle, making us both jump.
We freeze and stare at each other. I can see her chest rise and fall rapidly as if she’s been running for a bus.
This is how it’s going to be from now on.
I swallow. ‘Just be normal,’ I whisper.
‘Who is it?’
; ‘How do I know?’
I open the door to find Angie, the old school friend Beth has just mentioned, on the doorstep.
‘Hi,’ I say, oozing fake delight before I can stop myself.
‘Is it a bad time?’ she asks, her eyebrows raised.
‘No…’ I say quickly. We mustn’t give away any signs that anything’s wrong. I glance behind me. ‘Beth isn’t properly dressed, that’s all.’
I swing the door wide to let her in and turn to Beth, who is peering over my shoulder.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Beth says, anxiously tapping her chin with her fingers.
Come on girl, get a grip.
‘I said I’d pop in…remember?’ says Angie. She looks at the two of us in turn cautiously, in the way people do when they think they’ve interrupted an argument.
‘Oh yes, when we…’ Beth halts, presumably not wishing to mention the evening when our world turned upside down.
Beth catches my eye anxiously as if begging me to say something. A scorching smell is heading our way from the kitchen and my gaze drifts to the carriage clock Russell bought me a couple of years ago. I need to get the pie out of the oven, but I don’t want to leave Beth to stumble her way through this encounter on her own.
‘Beth said she met you the other day, when she was on her way to see her grandad,’ I say breezily, nodding at my daughter. ‘Fancy a tea or some juice?’ I add, as I push Beth’s CDs to the edge of the sofa to give Angie room to sit down.
‘No, thanks, I can’t stop.’ She turns to Beth. ‘I just wanted to wish you luck for your audition. Monday, isn’t it?’
Beth is looking nervously at Angie, nervously at everything, I realise.
‘Yeah. Thanks,’ she says, barely more than a whisper.
With the upheaval of the last few days neither of us has mentioned the part she’s going for at Elstree – the role of a pregnant woman in Holby City.
‘Will you get to meet the cast?’ Angie asks, her eyes wide. I now recall Beth once saying that Angie’s favourite subject at school was ‘celebrity gossip’.
Beth’s cheeks are red, her forehead clammy, even though she’s wearing virtually nothing. ‘I doubt it. It’ll just be a couple of people I’ve never heard of behind a desk in a tiny room.’
A pang of sympathy goes out to my daughter, having to gear herself up for a sparkling performance at a time like this. Her auditions have been gruelling at the best of times.
‘Anyway, look, I’m really sorry,’ Beth says, ‘but I need to go through my lines again.’
Angie shuffles towards the porch. ‘Oh, yeah, of course. I hope you get it.’
Only when Beth shuts the front door do I breathe again.
‘Shit…’ she says, aiming the magazine she’s still holding at a cushion and knocking over an empty mug on a side table, instead. ‘Hell, it’s so cramped in here.’
‘You did really well,’ I say.
It’s not exactly true, but I want to give her encouragement. I leave her, not wanting our supper to be shrivelled to a crisp.
‘So, I caught the bus over to Grandad’s on Wednesday evening, is that the story, now?’ She’s leaning against the doorframe, one foot on top of the other, still in her underwear and totally unselfconscious about her body. She looks like a water-nymph, poised and delicate.
‘It helps explain why you were wearing decent clothes.’
‘But why would I be going over there so late?’
‘That’s easy. Put it down to his dementia.’ I open the oven door and waft away the smoke, then stand still, thinking. ‘Let’s say he lost something and you went over to find it for him.’
‘Lost what?’
She opens the back door to get a flow of fresh air.
‘I don’t know…er…how about the key to the greenhouse?’
‘At nine o’clock at night?’
I burn my finger through the hole I keep forgetting about in the oven-gloves. ‘Well, you think of something, then…’ I say sharper than I mean to.
The scorched pie splits as I get it out of the dish. It looks like it’s exploded.
‘I don’t want any,’ she tells me. ‘I’m not hungry.’
I want to yell: YOU were the one who got us into this mess! But I manage to hurry outside, feigning a coughing fit from the smoke, to smother my words.
I need to remember I’ve had more practice at covering up a devastating secret than she has.
11
Rachel
January, two months earlier
I warm to Peter the moment he walks into the green room.
‘Rachel…what an absolute pleasure, at last.’
He clasps both his hands around mine and looks deeply into my eyes, as though he’s been waiting for this moment for weeks.
It sends my rehearsed phrases: So delighted to meet you…Beth has told me so much about you – clean out of my head.
I grin like a Cheshire cat, instead.
‘I can’t believe Beth has kept me from you for so long,’ he adds.
There’s a large crowd backstage after the performance; family and friends of the principal dancers and conductor, as well as other well-wishers flitting about. Peter ignores them all to focus on the two of us.
‘So, what did you think?’ he asks, looking from me to Beth and back again. ‘Be honest, I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.’
We’ve just witnessed a collection of new ballet commissions, ending with an established classic, The Rite of Spring – seen from the best seats in the house, thanks to Peter.
Beth reaches out to kiss his cheek and he pulls her close with an impassioned embrace.
‘I loved it,’ she says. She’s wearing a knee-length sky blue dress with matching longline jacket that she found in a second-hand shop. It’s probably more suitable for a wedding, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind. He’s looking at her like he’s never seen anyone so dazzling before. ‘The Stravinsky was incredible,’ she concludes, making angles with her hands, ‘so raw and primitive.’
‘And you, Rachel?’ He keeps his arm around Beth, but waits for my response.
‘Bewitching…it’s so brutal…very dynamic.’ I give a light-hearted laugh.
‘Oh, you can come more often,’ he says, with a chuckle, extending his other arm to include me.
‘Beth said you helped with the choreography…’
‘Yeah…’ he says, with no shred of arrogance. ‘Fabulous job when you’re working with such amazing talent.’
Peter is as delightful and affable as Beth said he was.
He apologises as he’s tugged away by a man hovering with a clipboard. Beth hands me a glass of champagne from the tray that is doing the rounds.
Peter used to be a dancer with the Imperial Dance Group, a spin-off from the Rambert Dance Company and he has an unusual grace, holding his chin high and his shoulders back when he moves, totally at ease with himself.
I watch him as he greets the people who have funded the project, giving each his full attention, pressing his hand against his chest and giving a half bow, accepting praise in a dignified, humble way.
He’s twelve years older than Beth and shows no sign of gathering any weight around his waist. Beth says he does yoga and takes great care of his health. One thing, at least, that they have in common.
The door opens and Peter throws his arms around the conductor. ‘Craig, I was blown away. Congratulations!’
He gets swept up into a group and I take a sip of my drink.
‘They’re bonding,’ laughs Beth, knowingly. ‘I’m glad it was such a good audience. Sold out apparently.’
Later, once the accolades have died down, Peter leads us out of the stage door and along to a small restaurant behind the opera house.
He’s booked a table for three and there’s already another bottle of champagne on ice standing in the centre. Peter draws back my chair first, a nice touch, then Beth’s. He’s the consummate host, explaining the Indonesian dishes on the menu and pouring water for us, once the wa
iter has gone.
It occurs to me that this is nothing extraordinary in his routine. Everything about him; his accent, etiquette, his small classic cufflinks and pristine knot in his tie betray a lifetime of privilege. Nevertheless, Beth says he’s careful to be understated about his wealth. She had to look up his family on Google to discover that his parents own a country estate in Kent. When she asked more about them, he reluctantly told her they spend most of their time at a villa in the mountains of Vermont.
I can’t believe Beth’s actually going to marry him!
I’m too excited to eat and I pick at the starter, a small beetroot salad, when it arrives. It’s the first time I’ve seen the two of them together and I’m curious about the dynamic between them. Beth told me she loves the way Peter isn’t ego driven and takes a genuine interest in her. It seems he remembers exactly what she’s involved with, recalls the full details of an audition or the part she’s learning – a great listener.
She leans over and whispers something in his ear, then turns away and laughs. Lust saturates the aura around her – everything about her is sensual. Her alluring green eyes seem to draw Peter into a place of serenity and composure.
I feel a bittersweet stab in my stomach – the pride of knowing she’s my own flesh and blood, mixed with, I have to admit it, jealousy. Beth’s skin is soft, plump and tight at the same time. Mine will never be like that again, the juice has been sucked dry over time, it already has the look of a lizard about it.
She’s coy with him, casting cute, teasing comments over her shoulder and he seems bowled over by her. Perhaps Peter has waited years for someone like Beth to come along. In turn, nothing about Peter is trying to impress her or demonstrate superiority. He doesn’t name drop or seem to have anything to prove.
As we wait for the main course, I’m keen to know what, exactly, it is in Beth that has put a spell on him. She gets up to go to the bathroom and his eyes follow her every move, like he’s watching a rare butterfly. Beth is the only person I know who glides across a room, rather than walks, adding a little hip-swing. How she manages it in those ridiculous shoes, I have no idea. I tried them on this afternoon while she was out and they’re like sky-scrapers. I couldn’t stand up in them, never mind sashay sexily across a crowded restaurant.