The Wedding Pact

by Isla Gordon

  It felt weird to her that she hadn’t known about Poppy, which was completely understandable and none of her business, but … Poppy had been in her home, with her Flynn. Not that he was actually her Flynn, but it all just felt … weird.

  ‘Thank you,’ she told him sincerely, trying to push these thoughts out of her mind, at least for today, as she sat at their table in front of her food, while he grabbed his coat and bag.

  ‘Break a leg,’ Flynn said, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. He hovered for a moment and she instinctively put her hand up to hold him against her. How easy it would have been for them to move their lips two inches to the side and kiss, but the moment passed and Flynn pulled away, as if he’d made a pact with himself now that he was seeing Poppy – no more flirting with August.

  After he left, August watched the door through eyes with a million thoughts behind them and tucked into her breakfast, managing all but the last bit before the nervous butterflies awoke and filled the rest of her tummy. She knew they wouldn’t rest until the day was over.

  ‘Good morning,’ August said. On stepping out of the house, she had been surprised to see a certain someone sitting on the wall, cup of tea in hand.

  Abe jumped a little, having been lost in his thoughts when she approached, and then laughed at himself. ‘Good morning,’ he said, smiling the same relaxed, soft smile he’d offered just to her during the house inspection. It was so different from the straight-lipped, brow-creased one from when they’d first met at the open house. He took in her outfit. ‘You look like you’re heading somewhere interesting.’

  ‘Big audition today,’ she explained. ‘What are you doing here? We usually only see you at weekends; don’t you work in London on Fridays?’

  ‘Yeah. Mum was feeling a bit under the weather again – I think it’s the cold spell – so I came down last night on the late train.’ Abe stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, anything I can do?’

  He smiled. ‘No, thanks though. I just never sleep well on Mum’s spare bed; it’s got this huge dip in the middle. I actually – oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well … ’ he looked bashful for a moment. ‘When Mum was having your place refurnished a little and she got that great bed for you and, um, Flynn, I tried to get her to put that in her spare room instead.’

  ‘And give us the big dipper bed?’ August chuckled. ‘How kind.’

  ‘She gave me a telling off for that,’ he admitted.

  August liked this easy-going Abe; he was showing more and more of his human side to her and she warmed to what she saw. It wasn’t just his manner. Here in his PJ bottoms and a thick wool sweatshirt, morning stubble and scruffy hair, he actually looked quite delicious.

  Abe shifted over all of a sudden. ‘Do you want to join me? I don’t have a spare tea out here but you can have a sip of mine if you like?’

  Something made her want to sit down with him. Perhaps it was knowing that she was heading out to her audition far too early anyway. Perhaps it was because she now knew that Flynn was most definitely not thinking about their kiss in the way she had been. In fact, kissing him again was off the table. And not that kissing Abe was on the table, but at this point all she knew is that she wanted to sit with him.

  ‘I will join you for a minute if that’s okay; I can never say no to this view. But I won’t have any tea, I just filled myself full of coffee and might wet myself.’

  WHAT, why did I say that? August thought.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Abe replied, and the two of them sat side by side and looked out for a moment, while August tried to recover from her mortification. She felt his presence close to her, could hear his breathing, smell his aftershave, which was different from Flynn’s. He turned to look at her, and when she met his eye it was as if they were connecting, properly, for the first time.

  After a moment, Abe drained the remainder of his tea and stood up, stretching his shoulders and revealing a sliver of skin above his PJ bottoms. ‘I’d better get back in,’ he said, ending the moment between them. ‘I promised Mum I’d cook her a slap-up breakfast this morning before I head back to London.’

  ‘You’re going back today?’ August asked, standing also, and admonishing herself silently for allowing the touch of sorrow to inject itself into her voice.

  ‘Yeah, but … ’ he chewed his lip for a moment, looking up at the top floor flat. He then turned his gaze onto her. ‘I’ll be back next weekend, I think.’

  ‘Oh, give me a text if you want to grab a coffee or anything? Your mum has my number,’ she replied before she had a chance to think about whether that was a good idea or not.

  He nodded, and then reached an arm as if to touch her shoulder, but pulled it back at the last minute, placing an invisible boundary between them. ‘Good luck with the audition, I look forward to hearing all about your new starring role.’

  Abe turned and went inside with no more than a small wave, and August stayed rooted to the spot for a minute. There was something undeniable that moved under the surface when they talked, sunlight caught under a wave that grabbed her attention. She wanted to move on, but Abe? Her landlady’s son? She realised she could hardly have picked a more complicated person to do it with.

  I am Catherine Morland, I am Catherine Morland, August chanted to herself with her eyes closed. She struggled to keep her breathing centred as she sat outside the audition room within the Old Theatre Royal. She’d arrived early. Her audition slot wasn’t until close to 1 p.m. but she’d arrived shortly after eleven, as soon as they opened their doors, just in case the casting team were running ahead of schedule.

  A middle-aged woman had opened the door, letting in August and only two others, and she’d given August a once over, her eyebrows raised. August had taken this as a good sign – there seemed to be very little competition and she’d clearly made an impression. But as she heard the door opening again and saw more hopefuls walking in, the reality of the situation caused a heavy stone of worry to form inside her.

  There were a lot of people here.

  And August was the only one in costume.

  Perhaps that was a good thing – she’d stand out, right? Show she was serious about getting the role? But all the other actresses were dressed casually, comfortably, but somehow still managing to look like delicate Georgian-era teens ready to come of age. A twist of a curl falling over a forehead here, a puff-sleeved shirt there, a floor-length skirt – but made from light cotton, not layers of stiff fabrics. It all caused August’s heart to thud faster. She’d really assumed dressing the part would have been the done thing.

  ‘August Anderson?’ the woman who’d opened the doors earlier now poked her head out from the audition room.

  August stood up, feeling all eyes on her as she shuffled her way towards the room, her taffeta dress making the most godawful rustling noise that cut right through the quiet murmur of people running lines under their breaths.

  Come on, August, this isn’t you, she scolded herself during the ten seconds it took to walk through the door and into the audition room, and in those ten seconds, she snapped herself out of her worry. August was confident, outgoing, she was great at improv and she was likeable. Sure, she felt like an egotistical twat thinking about herself like this, but nobody else in that room was going to think it if she didn’t.

  ‘Hello,’ she smiled, and then, in a louder voice, boomed, ‘Hi, my name is August Anderson and I’m here to read for the role of Matherine Corland!’ She fixed on a pageant-worthy grin and surveyed her audience of three seated at a trestle table on one side of the room: the woman who’d let her in, the one with the raised eyebrows, another woman in glasses, and a gentleman who looked ready to fall asleep at any moment.

  They blinked at her and Eyebrows raised them again.

  ‘Catherine Morland,’ August corrected herself with a jolt and then laughed loudly.

  ‘Hello, August,’ said Eyebrows. ‘I’m Jan, the producer, t
his is Elaine, the director, and Bill, our prompter. He’ll read with you today for your scene.’

  ‘Fantastic, great to meet you all, I’m August Anderson, I’m here to read the role of Catherine Morland.’

  Jan, Elaine and Bill all glanced at each other.

  ‘I like your dress,’ Elaine commented. ‘Very … in character.’

  ‘Thank you, I like what you’re wearing too,’ August enthused, admiring Elaine’s plain T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘When you’re ready, August,’ Jan said, her eyebrows remaining steadfastly in the air.

  August exhaled slowly. This was it; this was her moment to shine. She channelled Hilary Swank. She channelled Lea Michele in Glee. She swallowed, and said, in her clearest, loudest, most audience-grabbing voice, ‘I have been to see your mother’s room!’

  August recited the lines with gusto, hoping her personality and her preparedness were shining through. This would be a bigger production than any of the amateur dramatics performances she’d done in the past, she knew she’d need a bigger voice to be heard right at the back. She’d need more stage presence than was required of her at the Roman Baths, and though she used a lot of facial expressions during her voice work, perhaps she’d better make even more use of them here, in the flesh. She only faltered when she glanced down from the imaginary upper circle she was directing her whole performance to, to see the faces of the three behind the table.

  They were wincing; all of them.

  August ran out of fuel. She forgot the next word, and fumbled the next line, and skipped the line after that.

  ‘Would you like to check your script?’ Jan prompted. ‘It is allowed.’

  ‘Um, no, I’ve memorised all of it,’ August said, feeling the bile rising.

  ‘I think we’ve got a good sense from there actually,’ Elaine cut in.

  ‘Really, I do know the rest.’ She couldn’t end on a wince, she just couldn’t, she was supposed to end in applause.

  ‘That’s okay. Thank you for coming in, August.’

  ‘Please. I can do it differently if you want.’

  Elaine rested her elbows on the table, a move which caused both Jan and Bill to sit back in their chairs. A move which had to mean business. ‘May I be honest, August? Because I can’t always give feedback, but I can tell how much you must have wanted this.’

  Must have … No, please no.

  But out loud August said, ‘Yes, please do.’

  ‘While we appreciate the effort with the costume, and you clearly spent a lot of time learning the script, I just can’t see you as our Catherine.’

  ‘But, I am Catherine. I mean, not literally, but … ’ August lost her words, yet again.

  ‘What we saw today felt like watching you – August Anderson – playing Catherine Morland. What we wanted to see was simply “Catherine Morland”.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Although it’s nice to see your personality, once you begin reading you need to know how to leave that at the door. Catherine is young and naïve and almost timid, in a way, despite her love of gothic novels. You played a totally different person to that. You practically played Isabella Thorpe.’

  The penny dropped. Isabella was confident, high-spirited, flirty. August had known Catherine wasn’t those things, she knew who she was, but she’d still barrelled on with a performance that was more focussed on showing off herself than showing off her acting. She felt stupid, like a rookie. Like an amateur. ‘Can I try again, delivering the piece in a different way?’

  She saw Jan glance at Elaine and for a second she thought she might get another shot. ‘I’m sorry, we’re on a tight schedule and we’ve already seen other actresses who got it from the off.’

  ‘Could I audition for Isabella?’ August asked, clinging onto one last hope.

  ‘We cast her this morning,’ Jan said, her eyebrows lowering, pity in her voice.

  ‘I see.’

  Elaine sat back and shuffled her papers; the universal sign for ‘meeting adjourned’. ‘Thank you for coming, August, pleasure to meet you.’

  August managed to whisper a thank you before racing out of there, afraid that if she allowed herself to say another word she might throw up all over the floor. And the worst part was, she didn’t know if things had gone badly because of nerves – because she’d put so much importance on this audition, on this play – or whether it was simply that she really was an awful actress. Oh God, it was way too big a question.

  It was over. It was over before it had even started.

  Chapter 47

  Flynn

  Flynn heard a noise in the corridor and hesitated, wondering if it was August home already. He put the bottle of Prosecco and box of Jaffa Cakes he’d bought for her as a celebration out on the side, and then changed his mind, stuffing them in a cupboard in case it was bad news. He then took them out again – if it was bad news, maybe she’d want to guzzle some fizz and eat chocolate.

  He went to listen at the door, and when he realised what he could hear, he swung it open and burst out.

  August was on their landing, sitting on the top stair with her face in her hands, soft sobs coming from her. Her handbag lay beside her, and appeared to have been thrown down, with items spilling out of it including the script pages, a water bottle, a lipstick and the copy of Romeo and Juliet they’d read from together.

  ‘August?’ he said, sitting down beside her, and she responded with an almighty sniff.

  She said nothing, but turned and let him pull her into his chest, where she stayed, crying, for a while, and Flynn’s heart sunk to the bottom of the ocean for her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘I shouldn’t be crying on you, that’s not your job.’

  ‘It’s kind of my job as your husband,’ he teased, quietly. ‘Do you want to come inside?’

  August shook her head.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’

  ‘I was … awful,’ she choked.

  While she’d mulled on this for a moment, Flynn had extracted himself and gone back into the flat to retrieve and open the bottle of Prosecco. He handed it to her now, and she took a swig from the bottle, scrunching her nose as the cold bubbles fizzed about in her mouth. ‘Thank you.’

  Flynn didn’t push her for details. He knew August well enough now to know that if she wanted to talk she would talk for England. She’d open up about this too eventually, probably later this evening when the shock of whatever had happened had died down.

  She took another swig and Flynn asked, ‘How come you took Romeo and Juliet with you? Did you show them your Tybalt?’

  ‘I don’t know, it just made me feel brave.’

  ‘It did?’

  August nodded. ‘I liked doing that scene with you, it made me overcome that weird acting cowardice I had. So it was with me for, I don’t know, good luck or a motivational boost or something.’

  ‘Did it help?’

  ‘I don’t know, kind of.’ A big sigh escaped her. ‘I was a bit nervous to be honest, and anxious, but I still went into it with this feeling of I’ve got this. Like I had the part already, I just had to not fuck it up for thirty minutes. But then … Oh, I don’t want to talk about it. I was awful.’ She sunk her head back into her hands.

  ‘Hey, everyone has bad days but that doesn’t mean you were awful. Sometimes when you’re acting you just feel off. And it sucks. But it’s just today.’

  ‘I don’t think you understand—’ August started but Flynn stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘Come on, I’m going to show you something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on. You have to come inside.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Would you just come in?’

  August lifted herself and her bottle of Prosecco off the ground while Flynn gathered up her spilled handbag, and she trailed inside after him, looking sorry for herself.

  Flynn directed her to the sofa and went off to get his laptop, pausing at his d
oor for a moment.

  Do I really want to do this? Ah, what do I have to lose?

  ‘What is this?’ she asked, as he placed the laptop in front of her, and navigated to YouTube.

  ‘This is an answer to your question. To the question you asked me weeks ago, when you asked me how I know a little about acting.’

  ‘What?’ she said. She was smiling, and his heart jumped a level just seeing that.

  ‘Fair warning, there’s no message here, no words of wisdom in what I’m about to show you. It’s not meant as a success story or some kind of motivational speech. It’s just, really, because I think you could use a laugh.’

  He found the video he was looking for and sat back, watching her reaction more than the screen, because he knew what was about to be shown very well indeed.

  As a muted-toned 4:3 video started playing, showing a montage of run-of-the-mill school kids in Britain in the late nineties, supplemented with swirling lettering, August recognised the theme music before the title even slid into fruition. ‘Grange Hill?’ she said, glancing up at him, behind her. ‘Why are we watching Grange Hill?!’

  ‘You’ll find out in about six seconds … ’ Flynn said, and smiled as she turned back to the screen, tears dried up, leaning forward with interest.

  ‘NO FUCKING WAY!’ she screeched. There on screen, buck-toothed in an ill-fitting blazer and a dodgy-looking fringe pasted across his forehead, was Flynn. Unmistakeably, adorably dorkily, Flynn. August paused the action and leaned in, staring at his little face. ‘You were in Grange Hill?!’

  ‘For all of five minutes, and definitely no more than five lines,’ he laughed.

  August spun around to him. ‘But you were actually in Grange Hill? This is really you?’

  ‘It’s really me.’

  ‘You were a child star!’

  ‘I absolutely was not. You’ll see why if you keep watching.’

  August was practically bouncing in her seat now, and Flynn knew he would do anything to make her happy; a thought which surprised him, though he pushed it from his mind immediately.