Girls on Tour

by Nicola Doherty

  I look at him in consternation, thinking: that’s exactly who it’s for. I haven’t lost that many IQ points. My vision of this trip involves the John Paul Getty Museum and as many vintage fashion fairs as I can find. Have I just made a gigantic mistake?

  Maybe I’ve rushed things – including telling my mum about him. She was pleased for about five minutes, before she started badgering me about when I was going to bring him down to Brighton to meet her. She wants to check out his posture and see how firm his handshake is, and quiz him on his views on private education and the gender pay gap. If I tell her he wants to go to Disneyland, she’ll think he’s an irresponsible, overpaid man-child. And who knows? Maybe she’s right!

  Charlie’s still having trouble scooping up his hazelnut with his fork. So he picks it up with his fingers, and tosses it into the air, catching it in his mouth like a performing seal. I’ve seen him do this before, but I sort of … blocked it out.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll ask the boss if I can have the time off – and then we can hatch more plans, look into flights and so on. Sound like a plan?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, trying not to sound as worried as I feel. ‘Sounds perfect.’

  The following night, I meet Alice and Lily at one of the bars on the South Bank for an engagement-drink-slash-bridesmaid-summit. Ruth, our third musketeer, can’t make it for some reason. Her loss: it’s a hazy, golden evening, perfect for sitting outside and watching the world go by. Alice and I have already had a glass of Prosecco, gazed at her ring (massive but conflict-free diamond – Sam did well) and started discussing her wedding dress, when Lily comes flying along to meet us.

  ‘Sorry I’m late!’ she says breathlessly. ‘Couldn’t get away in time.’

  ‘Rehearsals?’ I ask, then kick myself, remembering Alice saying she was mainly aspiring.

  ‘Sort of. You could say I’m rehearsing for my real life.’ She looks mysterious, then explains, ‘Temp job.’

  We pour Lily a drink and start talking bridesmaids’ dresses; Alice is super-organised and has even brought along some pictures.

  ‘I do quite like this one, but it’s strapless …’ Alice looks at me questioningly; I shake my head apologetically. On the rare occasions when I go jogging, I have to wear two sports bras, one over the other.

  Lily, though, doesn’t seem too bothered either way.

  ‘I’m sure whatever you guys pick will be fine,’ she says, shrugging.

  Lily certainly couldn’t be called a clothes horse. Her outfit is a bit of a scroll-down disaster: it starts out fine, with a fitted black T-shirt, but then she’s got denim shorts that she obviously created herself by taking scissors to a pair of jeans, and one-strap green Birkenstocks that have seen better days. But she’s stunning: even prettier than Alice, with the same long blond hair and gorgeous wide-set green eyes. The two men beside us keep sneaking looks at her, proving my theory that men do not care about fashion. They use X-ray vision instead. But when Alice asks Lily if she wants to bring someone to the wedding, she shakes her head.

  ‘No thanks. I don’t have to, do I?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course not! I just didn’t know … Are you still seeing that guy Calvin?’

  ‘God, no!’ she says. ‘He was such an airhead. Spent all day updating his Wikipedia page.’ She breaks off, hearing her phone. ‘I think this is about an acting job! Excuse me a sec.’ And she dashes off towards the edge of the terrace.

  ‘How about you, Poppy?’ Alice asks me. ‘Any more thoughts about bringing Charlie?’

  ‘I did ask him, but now I’m not so sure,’ I confess.

  ‘Why? Didn’t he want to come?’

  ‘No, quite the reverse. He started planning an entire trip around it, involving Las Vegas. And Disneyland. I don’t want to go to Disneyland! I’m worried now that we’ve rushed into all this. What if we have a screaming fight in Sleeping Beauty’s Castle – or end things in the middle of a desert in Nevada? It could be like the finale of Breaking Bad. Without the guns.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I think you’re worrying over nothing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes! Look. You like him, don’t you?’

  ‘I do like him,’ I admit. ‘A lot. So much.’ I break off, picturing Charlie’s eyes and the way they crease up when he smiles. And the way he kisses me, and the way his shoulders look from behind when I see him at his desk, looking all manly and hard at work … Also, even if we do break up mid-trip, I trust him not to be a dick about it. It’s like Nora Ephron said: make sure you marry someone you wouldn’t mind being divorced from.

  ‘So just tell him you don’t want to go to Disneyland. Or go! You might like it. If we went out with people who liked the exact same things as us, we’d be dating ourselves. Quite honestly, I would worry if your new boyfriend just wanted to go to vintage fashion fairs and museums with you. That sounds more like your friend Anthony. Your gay friend Anthony,’ she adds unnecessarily.

  ‘Don’t stereotype! Anthony hates shopping, and he would love Disneyland. Maybe I should send him away with Charlie.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Poppy, I haven’t seen you this happy in ages. Don’t do what I used to do.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘I remember you telling me that whenever a nice guy showed an interest in me, I would run a mile. Could that be what’s happening with Charlie? Now that he’s getting serious, you’re starting to question things?’

  ‘You could be right,’ I admit. ‘Oh God, you’re completely right. I’m turning into one of those men we hate. How did that happen?’

  Lily reappears. ‘What did I miss?’

  ‘Just firming up the guest list,’ Alice says, raising her eyebrow at me. I taught her that trick! ‘Was that good news, on the phone?’

  ‘Didn’t get it.’ She tries to sound nonchalant, but she’s obviously gutted.

  ‘Oh dear. Did your agent give you any feedback?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I don’t have an agent,’ she says, sounding even more nonchalant, as I kick myself again. ‘That was just the producer returning my call … my calls. Anyway. Alice, we haven’t discussed the most important thing. Your hen party! If you want strippers, I know some very good ones. Reliable, too.’

  While Alice tries to explain to Lily that she doesn’t have enough time for a hen party, and definitely doesn’t want strippers, no matter how reliable, I think about Charlie. It doesn’t matter how different we are, or what my mum might think about him: I’m crazy about him. I would love to go on holiday with him. And I’ll admit, it would be nice to have a date for Alice’s wedding, instead of being seated beside the bride’s twelve-year-old nephew, like at the last wedding I went to. I can cope with a day or two in the Magic Kingdom.

  A few days later, I’m peacefully eating lunch at my desk, watching a video of a kitten riding on the back of a tortoise, when Claudine, my most annoying colleague, rocks up to ask me if I’ve written my blog post yet for our website. I’m like a wildebeest: I don’t like to be disturbed during feeding time. So I answer as briefly as possible.

  ‘Yep – almost.’

  She frowns. ‘It’s really important we post them at the same time every week, Poppy.’

  This is typical Claudine. She herself does nothing all day but phone estate agents and look at pictures of horses online, but she also loves to crack the whip.

  ‘Sure. I’ll finish it right after I’ve eaten this,’ I say politely, and turn back to my tortoise video.

  But Claudine doesn’t seem to get my hint; she’s obviously in the mood for a chat and hangs around irritatingly. She’s looking pristine, with a crisp white sleeveless shirt, a knee-length navy jacquard skirt, and smudge-proof red lipstick. How does she do that? These days, my make-up has all vanished by 10 a.m. I don’t know where it goes, but it must go somewhere.

  ‘So is Alice Roberts really getting married to some Hollywood hotshot in LA?’ she says, picking up my stapler. ‘I can’t quite picture it.’

 
‘Why can’t you picture it?’ I ask, smiling through gritted teeth.

  Claudine shrugs. ‘Just, you know Alice. Always getting dumped. Permanently single. You know what that’s like.’

  I fight the urge to grab my stapler from her and hit her around the head with it.

  ‘When is it exactly, the wedding?’ she asks.

  ‘October the tenth. I’m going, so I can take pictures if you’d like proof.’ I smile even more widely so she can’t say I’m being rude. I don’t know why she’s so obsessed with Alice’s wedding. Well, maybe I do. She’s very insecure about her own boyfriend; in her Facebook profile picture, she practically has him in a headlock.

  ‘October the tenth? That’s funny – everyone seems to be away then.’ She pauses. ‘Charlie’s going on holiday then as well.’

  ‘Is he?’ I ask indifferently, forking up my quiche. But I know I’m blushing. Damn! If anyone is going to be nosy enough to rumble us, it’s Claudine.

  ‘That quiche looks good. Actually …’ Narrowing her eyes, she leans in, and I find my hands closing around my lunch protectively. What a psycho! How do I get rid of her?

  ‘Sorry, Claudine, I’ve just remembered I need to make a call …’ I reach for the phone. But she’s already scuttled off.

  A little worried, I send Charlie an instant message.

  Can you chat?

  Sure. What’s up?

  I think the C-dawg is on to us.

  There’s a pause, then he writes, Maybe we should put her out of her misery so she can get back to work. Those pictures of horses won’t look at themselves, you know.

  This makes me laugh out loud. Though I’m one to talk, with my kittens riding on tortoises.

  He types, Hang on a sec. I’m coming round.

  Minutes later, I hear footsteps approach, and turn around in happy anticipation. But it’s not Charlie. It’s Claudine.

  ‘I knew it!’ she says triumphantly. ‘I just walked by Charlie’s desk and he is eating the exact same quiche as you. And it’s clearly home-made!’

  ‘Oh Claudine,’ says Charlie, walking in behind her. ‘You are wasted in publishing. You should have been a forensic detective. CSI: Bloomsbury.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says. ‘So it’s true! This is so weird. I would never have pictured you two together.’ She stares at us in turn as if we’re a monkey and a Labrador or some other bizarre combination.

  ‘Well now you can,’ says Charlie. ‘Feel free. Let your imagination run wild.’

  ‘Ew! Gross,’ says Claudine, and flounces out. Charlie and I look at each other, and start laughing.

  ‘Well, I suppose we’ve told the whole office now.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Now we can start planning for California.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, reaching for my little Moleskine notebook where I’ve scribbled down some ideas. ‘About that …’

  Fifteen minutes later, we’ve worked out a rough itinerary we’re both happy with. We’re going to need ten days rather than a week, but that’s fine. I’m looking forward to it. In fact, I can’t wait.

  Charlie goes back to his desk and I turn back to my email, to find a message from Lily.

  Hi Poppy. Great to see you again the other night! I was thinking: even if Alice doesn’t want a hen party, why don’t we organise a little afternoon tea, just us bridesmaids and her? Do you think she would like that? Though if she changes her mind and does wants strippers, I know some out-of-work actors who would be totally up for it … Let me know! Lx

  Laughing, I start typing back to say that afternoon tea sounds perfect. I’ve realised that Alice’s departure is going to leave a really big friend-shaped hole in my life. I’m looking forward to spending more time with Lily.

  LILY DOES LA

  This is going to be an exciting phone call, I can tell. It could be J. J. Abrams asking me to audition for his new thriller. Or even Jake Gyllenhaal. He’s single now, and he did take my number at that party last week. I allow a slow smile to spread across my face.

  ‘Good afternoon, my name’s Lily,’ I say warmly into my headset. ‘Have you got a minute to take a quick survey about your leisure activities?’

  ‘I’ve had enough of these fucking calls! Stop calling me!’ the voice snaps, and the phone is slammed down.

  ‘Certainly, sir, I’ll take you off our list at once. Have a lovely day,’ I tell the ringtone.

  Obviously I knew it wasn’t going to be anyone thrilling, let alone a Hollywood director. But sometimes the only way I can make myself start a new call is by pretending it’s going to be something good – or by practising an accent. After all, you never know when you might need it for an audition.

  I’m sitting in a little grey cell with a computer screen in front of me. There are about 150 of us in the windowless room, which has a low ceiling, fluorescent lighting and stained grey carpets. All around me I can hear people saying: ‘No, we won’t sell your details’, ‘It can be as quick as ten minutes but it can take up to twenty’, ‘Can I ask your age? Are you: twenty to thirty, thirty to forty …’ The irony of it: we’ve all got a script. It’s just the wrong script.

  I’ve just finished my sixth successful survey of the day (while taking the opportunity to practise my Scottish accent) when I get a tap on the shoulder. It’s our supervisor, Gary. He has a horrible habit of creeping up on you and standing way too close so you have to breathe in his Lynx deodorant, and is generally a nasty little man, with over-gelled hair and a permanent frown.

  ‘Lily,’ he says. ‘What have I told you before about those accents you put on?’

  ‘I don’t remember you saying anything,’ I lie, with a confused look.

  ‘Yes, I did. Twice. No more accents.’

  He wags his finger at me and stands breathing down my neck while I make the next call. Bad idea, Gary. If you test me, I will test you right back.

  ‘G’day, my name’s Lily,’ I say, in my best Australian accent. ‘Have you got a minute to take a quick survey about your leisure activities?’

  Gary squeaks and makes throat-cutting signs at me. I give him a friendly little wave back while the voice asks me how long it will take.

  ‘It can be as quick as ten minutes but it can take up to twenty,’ I parrot, still in Australian. Gary is going bright red in the face and waving his arms madly from side to side. I give him an innocent ‘What?’ look. Fire me, I think. If you’re man enough.

  ‘Twenty minutes! I don’t have twenty minutes to spare. And what’s it for?’ the caller continues suspiciously. ‘Are you going to sell my details to someone?’ Great: a time-waster. He’s going to spend ten minutes trying to catch me out and then refuse to do the survey.

  ‘Hey, mate, relax,’ I say. ‘It’s just some bullshit survey. Not worth bothering with.’ I press the button to end the call and rip off my horrible headset, which I know is crawling with germs despite all the sanitising wipes I use.

  ‘You’re fired,’ Gary splutters.

  ‘No, I quit,’ I tell him, pushing my chair under my desk. ‘This is the worst job I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some shitty jobs. Nobody should have to do this.’ I look around to see if I’m going to lead a walkout, Jerry Maguire-style. But everyone’s still plugging away at their calls, oblivious. I stumble out, thinking: I can’t believe I stayed three weeks in Gary’s little battery farm. Now I just need to make sure I get paid.

  As I trudge along through the rainy streets of Slough, I’m trying not to think about how many awful jobs I’ve had in the past three years. Meanwhile I’m desperate to get cast in something, anything. But you need experience to get work, and you can’t get work without experience.

  On the train back to Paddington, I pull out my phone and check for shout-outs on Spotlight.com, which is my main source of acting jobs. Today’s new listings include a Global Circus Show – acrobatic skills essential – and a James Bond Murder Mystery Night in Cheltenham. Eighty-five pounds, no expenses paid. Also a Theatre in Education play about Hitler that’s going to tour the
West Midlands. They all look awful, but I’ll try for them anyway.

  I click on to my own profile, trying to see myself through a director’s eyes. Age: 24. Hair: blond. Eyes: green. Height: 5'8". Weight: 9 st. That’s all fine. But then my eyes move down to my embarrassingly scanty CV. Three years out of Central Drama School and all I’ve got to show for it is a tiny part in a community theatre production and two seconds on a Sofa Warehouse TV ad. I missed the end-of-year showcase, where most people get their agents, and I’ve never caught up.

  Leaving the station, I head to Whiteley’s shopping centre with the intention of looking for job signs in the shops. I trail around half-heartedly for a while, and then find myself on the escalator going towards the top floor, where the cinema is. I can’t really justify the price of a ticket, but I need two hours’ escape from my life. I hide behind a sign and jog on the spot for a minute, and then rush up to the guy at the entrance to the cinema.

  ‘Hi, I left my scarf inside!’ I say breathlessly, practically throwing myself on his little podium. ‘Can I go in and get it, please?’

  He stops chewing his gum and looks me up and down, smiling as if he knows I’m bullshitting him and is quite up for the challenge.

  ‘Have you got your ticket?’

  ‘No, I lost it! Please, I’ll only be a minute.’

  ‘What film was you watching?’

  ‘Spider Man,’ I say promptly.

  He’s obviously enjoying being counsel for the prosecution, because he continues, ‘That ended ages ago. Did you only just remember your scarf?’

  ‘No, I was on the bus, and I had to come all the way back. Please? It’ll just take a second …’

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, his eyes twinkling. ‘I don’t think you was in the cinema today. I woulda remembered you.’