The Start of Something Wonderful

by Jane Lambert

With the temperature dropping as we move into winter, I’m grateful for the switch to playing Mummy Bear in a honey promotion for the final two weeks. The faux fur costume keeps me cosy and warm on that freezing cold concourse, although the papier-mâché head has brought me out in spots.

  * * *

  I try with all my might to visualise a packed restaurant, a standing ovation, agents vying for my business, but with just one acceptance so far (from Portia, my old drama teacher), my old friend self-doubt has made an unwelcome return. Has all this effort been for nothing? Is it too late to cancel? What if Lionel finds out what I’ve been up to? I could end up with no agent at all.

  I ration myself to just two e-mail checks an hour and try to focus on more rehearsal and Christmas.

  Mum wasn’t too happy when I told her I can no longer spend New Year in Spain.

  ‘You haven’t been home for ages, and now you’re only staying two nights? Did you hear that, Brian?’ she shouted to Dad, tearfully.

  To appease her, I found myself saying I’d been cast in the lead role in a London play – actually, I think the words West End popped out unintentionally. It then took three more phone calls to dissuade her from flying over for my opening night. Aargh. I’ve definitely jinxed the evening now. That’s karma for you.

  Luigi and I have worked out the seating arrangements and the set menu for my guest/s. Wendy, Faye, and Céline have volunteered to be front of house (Rachel will be in Stockport with the in-laws); Luke has offered to play interlude music; and lighting is courtesy of Francesco, who has given me an early Christmas present of fifty Momenti di Firenze candles. Lighting rigs are too expensive to hire, and I want to keep it simple and intimate, like in Shakespeare’s day.

  I promise myself that if only Portia turns up, we’ll all still have a great night and I won’t let it ruin the start of a new year.

  * * *

  Don’t get me wrong. I like Christmas, but being bombarded with cheesy holiday hits in the run-up to the big day, sometimes makes me want to knock over the nearest Christmas tree and head for the emergency exit, screaming.

  So how come, when these same songs are sung in Italian, I feel all cosy and Christmassy inside?

  Il Mulino’s secret is in the simplicity: the natural cone wreath hanging on the door; the candles, the boxes of panettone, and woven willow stars dangling from the ceiling; the traditional, hand-made presepe (nativity scene) made by Sergio’s children; the warm atmosphere, made warmer by merry people enjoying good food and wine – no crass commercialism here, no office party drunks letting off poppers while singing along to Slade’s ‘It’s Chriiiiiistmas’ and exchanging tacky gifts from Secret Santa, like Grow Your Own Boyfriend or Penis Pasta.

  Francesco and Nonna Maria have prepared a typical Christmas Eve meal for us to celebrate our last shift before the New Year. Traditionally Christmas Eve is a giorno di magro when you eat light food (normally fish) to give your stomach a rest before the pranzo di Natale the next day.

  I don’t see anything magro about the huge platter of calamari, swordfish, tuna, salmon, and eel before me. I won’t be trying the capitone (eel) again though, particularly after Francesco tells me it was alive and kicking just one hour ago.

  It’s gone two by the time we’ve cleared up and high time I was on my way if I’m to make my early flight in five hours’ time.

  I bid everyone a Buon Natale, my stomach diving into free fall as I realise the next time we meet will be the night of Teatro a Cena.

  ‘I walk with you,’ says Francesco, holding the door open.

  He tells me he too is flying in a few hours’ time to spend Christmas with la famiglia. Family? Does he mean parents, or wife and children? I’m reminded yet again of how little I know about him.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he says, producing a beautifully wrapped gift.

  ‘Francesco, that’s so kind. I feel awful. With the play and everything I didn’t buy …’

  ‘Silenzio,’ he says, pressing his fingers against my mouth, one eyebrow raised sexily. He removes my cycle helmet, smooths back a few stray strands of my hair, and plants a long, gentle kiss on my lips. I close my eyes, head swimming, heart pounding.

  ‘Buon natale, amore,’ he says plonking my cycle helmet back on my head.

  Unable to contain my excitement, I stop on Richmond Bridge and rip open his gift: The Lonely Planet Guide to Florence. There’s a message inside:

  Un invito/an invitation … F x

  Love to, Francesco, but who is Isabella – and will you be spending Christmas with her?

  CHAPTER TEN

  Winging It

  COOEE, POPPET! OVER HERE!

  I trawl the sea of expectant faces and drivers’ meet-and-greet boards. There, in the midst of them all, are Mum and Dad – Mum waving excitedly, Dad towering over her, subdued as always. They look older, more frail, and I swear Mum has shrunk.

  They had often talked of retiring early to the sun, and when Dad suffered a heart attack due to the stresses and strains of running a road haulage business, they were spurred into action before it was too late.

  Nowadays Dad spends most of his time on the golf course, while Mum fills her days with yoga, Spanish language, and cookery classes.

  ‘Oh, I have good news for you, darling,’ chirrups Mum, turning to me as we pootle along the coastal road towards Denia. ‘According to Lydia, Giles has found himself a lady friend at last, so should be on his best behaviour at the Christmas party. She’s called Crystal – or is it Charity, Brian?’

  Dad shrugs his shoulders. ‘Anyway, it’s one of those footballers’-wives type names. We’ve not met her yet. I can’t imagine what she’ll be like.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ I smile, relief washing over me. I’d already decided that were Giles to pinch my bottom or make his usual quips about mile-high club membership this year, he would soon discover the sweet, self-conscious Emily he once knew has changed, and is not to be messed with.

  ‘He’s harmless. Don’t be so melodramatic,’ Nigel used to say.

  Hah. You wouldn’t find Tom Hardy allowing another man to disrespect his woman – nor Francesco Rossi, I’m sure.

  ‘And while we’re on the subject of relationships,’ continues Mum cagily, ‘any word from Nigel?’

  ‘No, Mum.’ I let out a heavy sigh, eyes boring into the back of Dad’s seat.

  ‘Such a shame. I really liked Nigel. We both did, didn’t we, Brian?’

  I meet Dad’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. He shakes his head wearily, runs his hand through his non-existent hair, and winks at me.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with men these days,’ she ploughs on. ‘But, darling, you know, you’ve got to make the best of yourself. When you were flying you never went out without make-up and you wore such pretty, feminine things. Now you’re always in jeans and your hair makes you look like a man. I used to love it when you swept it up in a chignon: very Grace Kelly. Now, well now, you look like – Joan of Arc’s mother.’

  ‘I’ve changed, Mum. Designer labels, high heels, and manicures aren’t me any more. I don’t need those things to make me feel good.’

  ‘I know, poppet, but without a proper job, you need to set about finding a man to look after you. Your father and I won’t be around for ever, and you’re not getting any younger,’ she says in an anguished tone.

  ‘I don’t need a man to look after me,’ I say through gritted teeth, staring out of the window. What is it about being single at Christmas? Everything seems heightened. Here am I sitting in the back of my mum and dad’s car behaving like a sulky teenager, reminded that most people my age are defrosting the family-sized turkey, baking mince pies, icing the fruit cake, and welcoming the kids back from uni.

  And as a further reminder, tucked in my rucksack is my seasonal round-robin letter from my smug American school friend, proudly telling me that she and her husband have just celebrated their twenty-first wedding anniversary with a romantic trip to Cape Cod and are still very much in love, that Brad
and Candy got top grades in their exams, Brad has already been offered a job at Citibank, whilst Candy’s taking a year off to do voluntary work in Honduras. Stapled to it is a photo of the family around the Christmas tree, wearing identical smiles and festive jumpers.

  I’m happy for them, truly I am. But that is no longer the life I want. I like being single, so why do I feel the need to justify my choice of lifestyle?

  Oh dear, things are not getting off to a very good start.

  * * *

  The Christmas Party:

  ‘I’ve put you in charge of canapés, poppet,’ says Mum, hastily removing her apron, then thrusting two oval, silver platters at me as she trots over to the door. ‘And, Brian, I’m relying on you to keep people’s drinks topped up, and oh, put some party music on – no brass bands or country and western though – some Julio Iglesias would be perfect.’

  Before long the champagne corks are popping, crackers are being snapped, and guests are grooving in paper hats to Elvis’s version of ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’.

  Back in cabin crew mode, I glide in between the guests.

  ‘Vol au vent, Lydia?’ I say, tapping Mum’s posh yoga teacher on the shoulder.

  ‘Emily! So lovely you made it home this year. Your mother told me about Nigel. Men, eh? Always on the lookout for a younger model. But we middle-aged girls must never give up hope, must we?’ She winks, her overly tanned face stretching into a sympathetic smile. ‘Aah, you must be Chantelle,’ she says, making a beeline for the bleached blonde sporting a cropped top and skirt the size of a Kleenex tissue.

  We middle-aged girls? Excuse me! Lydia has to be sixty-five if she’s a day.

  My nostrils quiver as the unmistakable whiff of Brut drifts disconcertingly by, evoking memories of Christmases past.

  ‘Well, hello!’ says Giles in his customary, Leslie Phillips-ding-dong way, waving his beer glass unsteadily with one hand, whilst trying unsuccessfully to pinch my bottom with the other. ‘Great to see you, old girl! Been on the telly yet? One of these days, eh? Better get your autograph now before you’re rich and famous, what?’ He guffaws, spraying my face with San Miguel. ‘Well, go on, what do you think of my gorgeous lady? Isn’t she something?’

  ‘Yes, she’s quite …’

  He leans towards me, voice lowering to a confiding whisper. ‘And you won’t mind me telling you that the sex is …’

  ‘Breaded sprout anyone?’ I say, beating a hasty retreat with the veggie platter.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Chantelle, attempting to scoop up a sprout between her bejewelled, acrylic talons.

  ‘Here, let me help you.’ I smile, passing her one in a napkin. ‘I’m Emily, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Giles told me about you,’ she says, ejecting bits of almond through her Botoxed lips. ‘You’re trying to be an actress, right?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Emily’s got a leading role in a West End show, haven’t you, poppet?’ says Mum in a loud voice, butting in. ‘That’s why she has to fly off so soon.’

  ‘Really? How exciting,’ says Lydia. ‘Congratulations. We should organise a London Theatre Break, shouldn’t we, Brenda?’ Lydia turns to look at Mum.

  ‘Oh, it’s a very short run,’ I say, swallowing hard.

  ‘We’d better get booked then. Do you hear that girls? We’re organising a weekend in London in the New Year to see Emily in her West End show. I’ll collect names later.’

  ‘Excuse me, I just need to pop upstairs,’ I say, breaking into a cold sweat.

  ‘Get yourself out of this one,’ I say to my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I splash my face with cold water, sit on the laundry basket, shut my eyes, and take a few deep breaths. My mind wanders across the Mediterranean Sea to Naples, to Francesco, sitting around the family table. Who is his family?

  There’s a knock at the door. ‘Just coming!’ I say and head back down.

  ‘Chantelle was just telling me Giles bought her two Christmas presents, the lucky girl,’ shouts Lydia tipsily as I descend the stairs. ‘But she hasn’t told me yet what they are.’

  ‘Well … you’re lookin’ at ’em,’ says Chantelle, proudly sticking out her DDs. ‘I’d wanted a boob job for ages but couldn’t afford it, and Giles said he’d be happy to pay for the op.’ (I bet he was, love. Ding-dong!) ‘He’s a real diamond.’

  ‘How very … sweet,’ guffaws Lydia, pulling at her string of pearls, which snaps and sends the beads scattering all over the floor. ‘Oops! I adore Julio Iglesias, don’t you?’

  * * *

  ‘Come on, you two,’ I say, collecting the last of the glasses. ‘It’s gone midnight and you both look exhausted. Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll finish clearing up?’

  My parents exchange a knowing glance.

  ‘Sit down, love,’ says Dad tentatively. ‘We need to have a little chat.’

  ‘What is it?’ I say, panic rising. ‘You’re not ill again, are you?’

  ‘No, no, love. Nothing like that. It’s just …’ He shuffles awkwardly in his chair.

  ‘Your father and I are worried about your future,’ interjects Mum.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Because you may be over forty, but you’re still our little girl, our one and only, and we want you to be happy.’

  ‘But I am happy.’

  ‘You can’t live like this at your age. I mean, I know you’ve got this job to go back to, but what happens after that? It’s all right when you’re young, living from hand to mouth, but not now … especially now that …’

  ‘What? Now that I’m on the shelf, you mean?’ I say in a half-jokey way.

  ‘Why you gave up flying and your lovely little flat, I’ll never know.’

  ‘Because life’s short, because I wanted new experiences and don’t want to look back when I’m old and think I wish I’d tried that, because … because …’

  ‘Look, if you got a steady job you could do amateur dramatics in your spare time,’ she continues. ‘Then you’d have the best of both worlds, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ I groan.

  ‘You’re capable of so much more. With your degree you could have worked for the Foreign Office or the United Nations even. Couldn’t she, Brian?’

  ‘Come on, Brenda,’ says Dad, getting up and gently guiding her to the door. ‘That’s enough. Let’s go to bed. You’ve said your piece. It’s Christmas. Don’t spoil it.’

  ‘We just want you to be happy, love,’ says Dad, lightly kissing my forehead.

  ‘I know.’ I nod.

  I get why they’re saying these things – because they love me and are trying to help – but I don’t need rescuing. I’m leading the life I want, and if they can’t accept that, then there’s nothing I can do to change it.

  I pour myself the last of the port, snuggle up on the sofa in the soft glow of the Christmas tree lights, and put on my favourite Christmas movie, It’s A Wonderful Life with James Stewart. Its powerful messages about love, family, and friends, about putting your heart and soul into what you believe in despite not getting instant results, hold even deeper meaning for me now.

  * * *

  5th January, Richmond

  This is it. No backing out now.

  I park my bike in the usual spot. It takes several attempts to secure it as I keep dropping the key. I remind myself that if I can survive weekly rep without only a few hours’ rehearsal, then this should be a breeze. But who am I kidding? If it all goes wrong, I can’t blame the material, because I wrote it, nor can I blame the actors, because the actor is me.

  Will I be able to show my face at Il Mulino again after tonight? There are people, loyal, valued customers, who are paying good money for this. And what about my friends and Luke, giving up their precious time, just so I can indulge myself in some self-promotion?

  I feel sick. I’ve had three acceptances only to my invitations, and there was I hoping sixteen at least would turn up. What was I thinking of? Tension tightens its grip further as I come face to face with
the sandwich board outside the door:

  TEATRO A CENA!

  Questa sera:

  Winging It

  by

  Emily Forsyth

  A comedy

  Una commedia

  19.30

  I tap on the window and Luigi appears, dressed in a navy blue suit.

  ‘Buonasera!’ he says, kissing me on each cheek, his aftershave burning my nostrils.

  He never wears a suit.

  ‘Luigi! How handsome you look! Che bello!’

  ‘Tonight is a very important night,’ he replies, waggling his fist.

  Luke nods from the piano in the corner, practising his repertoire.

  I change into my costume (Rachel’s airline uniform) and study my reflection. Suddenly I’m back on board, pushing my trolley down the aisle.

  ‘Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard? Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard?’

  I enter the kitchen where Francesco and the agency sous chef are busy preparing the starters, while listening to the football on the radio.

  ‘Ciao, bella!’ says Francesco, turning down the volume. ‘Come stai?’

  ‘Nervosa,’ I reply, rolling my eyes and patting my stomach.

  ‘Don’t worry. ‘Enjoy! Tutto bene!’ he says, shrugging his shoulders. ‘You look beautiful, by the way.’

  ‘Grazie.’

  It’s high time I took a leaf out of the Italians’ book; they have such a relaxed and positive outlook on life. La vita bella – nothing to do with Armani or Gucci; they simply know how to enjoy life in the slow lane. Mindfulness seems to come to them more naturally, without thinking about it. I doubt very much their shelves are full of self-help books.

  I glance at the clock. My tummy flips over. Just forty-five minutes until curtain up.

  ‘Emily!’ calls Luigi from the dining room.

  ‘Girls! Am I pleased to see you!’ I say, rushing over to the gang – and we all huddle together.

  ‘Look at us,’ says Wendy. ‘Back in uniform, just like the old days. Tea, coffee?’

  ‘You f’coffee, sir?’ we screech simultaneously.

  I can feel the knot in the pit of my stomach start to loosen already.