by Isla Gordon
‘What did you think?’ Callie sorted herself, her voice hopeful.
‘Really lovely,’ August answered, truthfully, and the two women started to walk back up the hill. It would be a shame to find somewhere new …
Callie exhaled, sounding genuinely relieved. ‘I’m so chuffed you liked it. I don’t mean to sound all needy-new-friend, especially after you already had to deal with my waterworks today, but it’s really nice to have somebody to talk to besides Mum around, you know? Nothing against Mum, she’s great, but you and I, well, I don’t know, I’m just glad you moved in, that’s all.’ Callie blushed, and then laughed. ‘Sorry, you must think I’m intensely pathetic!’
‘Of course I don’t!’ August cried. Actually, it was rather nice to hear about people who had good relationships with their mums – she and her own mother always seemed wary of each other, always at arm’s length. ‘I’m glad we’ve moved in too. And the yoga was lovely, I’ll definitely go again.’
True to her word … at least, some of her words, August became a regular at the yoga studio near her new home, lying beside Callie and having pleasant chats to and from practice. August had to get a little creative whenever the conversation steered to her and Flynn’s relationship, which it often did, but at least during yoga she could switch off from any distractions and allow her mind to run free.
*
Over the weeks, which rolled into a month, Flynn and August lived side by side, getting to know each other when they crossed paths at the start and end of their workdays and at weekends.
While Flynn worked late into some evenings, August came home from her day job and began to turn the little closet into a recording booth, tinkering nightly with some of her old, and some new, equipment until she thought the sound was just right, her voice crystal clear, the background noise non-existent, and calming. She’d hung spare blankets as soundproofing, and spent as much money as she could afford on a decent microphone and a popshield, plus an interface to connect the mic to her laptop. After much deliberation, she’d signed up to an annual subscription of the audio editing software Adobe Audition, but in monthly instalments, as it was a little more cost effective.
She put out small feelers to previous voice acting companies she’d worked with, and to authors she’d got to know, and added herself to freelance lists. It was exciting, and nerve-wracking, but moving into Elizabeth Street had started the ball rolling, and she was moving towards her dreams. It was like one win gave her the nudge to try and achieve the next one. And taking charge of her voice acting career again fuelled her motivation.
August reached out to her mum, inviting her to come over for a cup of tea at Elizabeth Street ‘sometime’, despite her mum always having something to complain about when it came to August’s life or her decisions. But as expected, the visit hadn’t materialised. Mrs Anderson had never visited August in her previous flat either, and certainly wasn’t the type to pop by unexpected, so August was just fine to keep to their usual arrangement whereby she visited her mum’s home, an hour’s drive away, once a month instead. Mrs Anderson had, however, ‘met’ Flynn. It had happened during an impromptu FaceTime call that August had arranged when she was feeling uncharacteristically sentimental towards her mum (Callie’s influence, no doubt). He’d walked past the screen without a shirt on, not realising she was on a call, until August’s mum shrieked out, ‘Who is that man?’
‘That’s Flynn, Mum, my flatmate.’
‘Why’s he naked?’
‘Hello, Mrs Anderson,’ Flynn waved, covering himself up. ‘Sorry, I was just coming back from the bathroom.’
‘August,’ her mum leant closer to the screen. ‘Is something going on between the two of you? That’s a very bad idea, you know.’
‘No, he’s my flatmate, we literally met a few weeks ago.’ August angled the laptop away from Flynn, who caught her eye as he went into his bedroom, and grinned. Her mum knew nothing of their ‘arrangement’, and August would keep it that way, thanks very much. Her mum just wouldn’t understand.
Over time, Flynn and August met their neighbours properly – Callie, of course, and her mum in the flat above, Maud and Allen, who lived in the flat below. And the basement flat seemed to be some kind of holiday let but mainly for the use of Mrs Haverley’s family, or if anybody else in the building had family to stay and needed some extra space.
Talking of Mrs Haverley’s family, August had noticed that Abe Haverley seemed to be visiting his mum often. Sometimes he’d appear and disappear like he’d just travelled over from London for the day, sometimes she’d see him heading into the building late on a Friday evening, and run into him in the hallways over the course of the whole weekend, as he brought up shopping, or helped his mother down the stairs. He was increasingly polite, like a layer of his initial gruffness peeled away with every meeting. It had come to the point that August felt a smile washing over her when he was near, and she had begun to hope they might become friends.
August and Flynn held hands when walking in and out of the building, and made a small show of standing with an arm around each other or glancing at one another with affection when they spoke to neighbours. The few times they’d been asked about their history or their wedding they smoothed over it with some loose details; white lies that drifted away on the breeze.
They were good flatmates to each other. A good team. Everything had worked out perfectly; everything about living together was easy. It was all fairly uncomplicated.
At least it was at first …
Chapter 29
August
‘Callie,’ August cried, answering the door. ‘What a nice surprise.’
‘Hi, love, just wanted to pop down and give you a tub of these brownies my mum’s been making upstairs. I always meant to give you a welcome-to-the-building pressie, so here it is.’
‘A welcome pressie? You didn’t need to do that!’ They’d lived there a month already, but those brownies looked damned good, so August accepted the box. ‘Thank you so much. These look like they’d go well with tea!’
‘They sure would!’ Callie replied.
Keeping her eyes on the brownies, and Callie, August gestured to Flynn to run and close the bedroom doors.
‘Would you like to come in?’ August asked, loud enough for Flynn to hear. ‘I’m sure you could manage one too?’
Flynn had leapt up from his seat on the sofa where he’d been doing a little evening work wearing his new PJ trousers and his work shirt. In his glasses and with a pen jammed behind his ear, he hot-footed from August’s room, to his, and into the kitchen like a parkour expert. When Callie entered the flat, she wasn’t faced with very obvious his and hers separate bedrooms, but instead with a serene scene of wedded bliss, topped off with Flynn, in the kitchen, holding the kettle, looking every bit the perfect husband.
‘Hi, Callie,’ he said smoothly. ‘I hear you brought some treats over; thank you. Can I make you a tea? Coffee?’
‘I’d love a tea. Love one.’ She went to the sofa and pushed his paperwork to the side. ‘I like your glasses, Flynn, they suit you.’
‘Thanks. I like your … scrunchie.’
August gave him a look that said, nice try, Casanova and joined him in the kitchen to get some plates. ‘I like your scrunchie,’ she whispered to him.
‘What?’ he whispered back, trying not to laugh. ‘I was just trying to be nice.’
‘You are nice, you don’t need to try so hard.’
‘Right,’ said Callie when they joined her in the living room. ‘These are just normal brownies, I’m afraid, not funny ones with cannabis in. Sorry about that.’
‘Normal brownies are actually my favourite kind,’ answered August, helping herself to a big one.
‘I wasn’t implying anything, just letting you know. It would be fun if they were though, wouldn’t it?’
They all tucked in to the delicious, and thankfully quite normal, brownies, when Callie suddenly looked around and said, ‘Where are all your pictures?’
/>
August froze mid-bite. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t have any holiday snaps in frames, or any wedding photos up. Didn’t you have a lovely beach wedding?’
August and Flynn locked eyes, excuses twirling in their heads and trying to form into sentences, when Callie continued, ‘I suppose we just keep it all on our phones these days, don’t we – I must have been living with Mum for too long.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ August said, relaxing, while Flynn stuffed a brownie in his mouth.
‘Let’s see them, then,’ Callie said.
‘Let’s see what?’
‘Let me see your wedding photos, I want to see your dress.’
August felt sick, the brownie having turned dry in her mouth. She looked at Flynn who said, ‘I don’t think we have the wedding photos on our phones.’
Callie turned from one to the other. ‘You must have something, everyone has something. I even have my wedding photos still and I had a better time at my divorce party than my wedding day!’
‘Water damage!’ August cried, her improv training kicking in. ‘We had water damage in our last place and the box with all our printed wedding photos got ruined.’
‘Oh no,’ said Callie. ‘Thank God everybody uses digital now so you must have backup.’
‘Yep,’ August shook her head. ‘Yep, we have them on … CD. We just need to get them reprinted.’
‘That’ll be nice,’ Callie nodded. ‘This place will feel really lovely and romantic once you’ve got a bit more of yourselves here in your space.’
With that, she finished her brownie and her cuppa and pattered back off up to her own apartment.
August felt bad lying to Callie, especially over the subject of weddings and marriage, something Callie was so open with her about. Should she just come clean? Maybe sooner would be better than later. Yes. She’d have a good think about that … maybe she’d do it tomorrow … or the next day. Anyway, she’d do it soon.
Flynn, meanwhile, pushed his glasses up onto his head and rubbed his eyes. ‘So where’s the nearest beach?’
The beach, however, would have to wait, as would the whole should-I-confess-to-Callie thing, because during ten days of every September, Bath transformed into a Regency paradise with the Jane Austen Festival. Dance workshops, readings, balls, bonnet-making classes, street performances, it was, quite frankly, how August imagined heaven might be, as long as she could bring a few mod cons along with her. And some Pop Tarts. Oh, and her phone.
Bel cursed, shoving her parasol under August’s arm and retying the ribbon that looped her body underneath her bust, converting her maxi dress to a high-waisted Regency-style frock. ‘This damned thing keeps falling down. How did I think making my own dress was a good idea?’
‘The same way you do every year, my darling,’ August replied with a smile, fluttering at her face with her paper fan.
‘Next year, please remind me to take you up on your offer of helping me. I don’t know why I think I can do it myself every time.’
The two of them were strolling slowly through the centre of Bath, dressed to the nines, as part of the festival’s Regency Costumed Promenade, along with about five hundred other people, all bedecked in Austen-like finery. August had, as usual, needed no cajoling to get Bel to take part, her friend being just as into all the pomp and circumstance as she was. Now here they were, in long dresses with temporarily stitched-on puffball cap sleeves, hair curled and piled on their heads, and an air of two sisters on the lookout for mischief.
‘Guess what?’ Bel said. ‘My practice is finally getting the big renovation we’ve been waiting for.’
‘That’s amazing!’ August said, knowing how long her friend had wanted, and campaigned, for this. ‘When?’
‘Next summer.’
‘Next summer? A whole year away!’
‘But,’ Bel added, a smile on her face. ‘Next summer it’ll be closed for a whole month while the renovations happen, so Steve and I have decided … ’
August gasped, stopping in her stride and causing a small pile-up behind her. ‘Is this it?’
Bel dragged her forward. ‘This is it. Next summer, after all these years of being engaged, we’ve decided to get married. And take a nice long honeymoon.’
‘Bel, that’s brilliant news!’ said August, so happy for her friend. ‘And I’m not just saying that because I’m an expert at weddings and marriages now. I am genuinely over the moon for you both.’
The promenade led them down Great Pulteney Street, August’s favourite road in Bath (aside from her own) due to the charming horse-and-carriage look it had about it. After that, they’d stroll across the bridge, through a small portion of the town, skirt around the abbey and end in the Parade Gardens beside the river. It was a nice walk on any day, but dressed up like a couple of Austeneers it was all the more special.
Around them, gentlemen tipped their hats, ladies linked arms, the odd dancer twirled past and the town crier bellowed to keep everyone in order. Spectators gathered, including some of Bath’s new fresh-faced university freshers watching in mild bewilderment. When they reached the gardens, August and Bel lay in happy contemplation upon the grass, letting the warm autumn air sink over them, and chatting about potential wedding ideas. The Jane Austen festival would have made August happy enough, but an excuse to spend some time with her favourite Bel-lisima too made the day perfection.
However, after passing time for a long while, Bel sat up. ‘Right,’ she said, getting off the grass, wiping herself down, and untying the ribbon from her underboob. ‘I’m going to love you and leave you, Aug, because this September sun is begging for me to lie in the garden in my knickknacks with a good book.’
‘Sounds like a good plan,’ August replied, and hauled herself up. Her own dress wasn’t so easily converted, so she’d have to totter all the way back up the hill under a sweat-inducing swathe of taffeta.
August took her time crossing the Parade Gardens, staying under the shade of the trees and smiling to other festival-goers like she thought she was Lizzie Bennet herself. She stopped in front of a wooden noticeboard, where flyers for festival happenings and other ‘of interest’ advertisements were displayed.
Something caught her eye. The word Audition.
Hey eyes flew over the poster, a simple informational sheet printed on white paper, detailing auditions being held the following month. An in-house production of Northanger Abbey at the Old Theatre Royal. Full wage, two-month run, starting next spring.
August blinked at the words in front of her. This was it: this could be her big break. An Austen play, a proper production, in her town? This was her next goal, her grand masterplan! She longed to move forward from her fears and become a full-time actress, working both in studios and on the stage, and here was the perfect opportunity to go after her dream of bringing down the house. Surely her previous amateur dramatics work, and her voice acting, would put her in a good position?
Wouldn’t it? No, maybe it wouldn’t. She couldn’t go for this; it was too big a step up. No, of course she couldn’t.
But she overcame the obstacles to getting her dream home. Maybe it was time to move forward with her dream career.
Chapter 30
August
August ran all the way home. Not literally. She actually shuffled at a fast pace, as fast as her heavy, noisy skirt would allow her, the parasol she’d lent Bel banging against her legs all the way. Even though the whole end section was uphill, she never slowed.
She sped up the Elizabeth Street hill feeling like Rocky. She was pumped, full of adrenaline, and by the time she crashed through the door of her flat, pink and sweating, August, in her mind, had already landed the role, been spotted by a casting director, given the leading part in a BBC Austen adaptation, made her London stage debut and won that Tony award.
Flynn looked up from where he was chucking what seemed to be a whole bunch of bananas into a blender. He took in her panting, her face the colour of a strawberry, the
way she gripped the stitch in her side and asked, ‘Did you run instead of walk the promenade?’
She gave him a thumbs up and scrabbled for her phone.
‘Banana smoothie?’ he asked.
August double-thumbs-ed-up him this time, and he poured in a load of milk and half a tub of yogurt, and started whirring the blender just as August rasped, ‘Audition!’
Flynn turned the blender off again. ‘What?’
She waved him away for a moment, still trying to catch her breath, and then said ‘There’s an audition,’ just as he turned the blender on again.
He switched it off. ‘Pardon?’
‘You go,’ she panted.
‘No, you go,’ Flynn said.
‘I’ll just show you. Carry on.’
And so Flynn powered up the blender again, and by the time the contents were a pale yellow, frothy liquid, August had her phone thrust in his face. ‘Look, an audition, for a Jane Austen play down at the theatre.’
He squinted at the phone, trying to read the print on the poster she’d taken a photo of. ‘The Old Theatre Royal.’
‘Right.’
‘Is that different from the Theatre Royal?’
‘Yes, it’s the old one, but they still have performances there sometimes, including this one. They’re putting on Northanger Abbey, which was actually set there, or at least some of it was, next May. And they’re holding auditions.’
Flynn poured the smoothies into two tall glasses and handed one to August, who gulped it down in one and tried to disguise a burp. ‘You’re going to go for this, right?’
‘I don’t know,’ August replied, surprising herself with the answer as much as Flynn. Isn’t this why she’d run all the way home? Now she struggled to put it into words. ‘I don’t think I’m good enough for this.’ Flynn opened his mouth to protest but August held her hand up. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m just … no … I can’t audition for this. But maybe I could see if I could volunteer with the production or something.’