Chapter 6
6
And that, I decided, was that.
Never mind falling in love at first sight with a man who was not only way out of my league but had a horrible racist brother to boot. I had other things to concentrate on, namely getting back into the West End. While I’d loved every single second I’d spent with Fabian Mansfield Carrington on the riverbank, and couldn’t stop reliving the ice-cream kiss, it was a fairy tale. I intended putting him and his repugnant brother where they belonged – in Marlow – and out of my head and dreams.
‘You OK?’ Jess answered my call on its first ring. ‘How’s the big city?’
‘Big. You?’
‘Oh, you know.’
‘Tell me.’ I took my mug of liquorice tea and settled back on the bed. Our chats could go on for hours.
‘The usual.’ I heard Jess sigh. ‘I’m having to spend a lot of time trying to sort Sorrel. Mum just can’t handle her.’
‘Has Mum been called into school again?’
‘Worse. Sorrel’s been excluded once more.’
‘How long for this time?’
‘A week. And after that it’s half-term, so she’s going to be driving Mum to distraction not knowing where she is, what she’s up to. Apparently, she totally disrupts every class – apart from dance and drama, which she loves – and the new head at the comp is on a mission: zero tolerance. You know the sort of thing – the kids having to ask if they want to take off their school jumper; no trainers, no phones…’
‘I should think not. In class? Take her phone off her. That’ll stop her.’
‘I doubt it. Knowing Sorrel, she might go and nick one. I don’t suppose you could have her down to stay with you for a few days? Give Mum a break?’
‘Not really, Jess. I’ve a single bed in a tiny room and I’m out working all the time. I can’t leave a fifteen-year-old girl to her own devices in the middle of Soho.’
‘No, I get that.’ Silence for a while. ‘Mind you, I bet you’re relieved the Soho Slasher’s been caught. It’s in all the papers.’
‘Look, I’ll try and get up for a few days… How is Mum?’
‘Not wonderful. Jayden’s not been in touch for a while now. She tries to get on with her life, but she’s low.’
‘Is she taking her medication? Seeing the doctor?’
‘Robyn, you know what it’s like. Someone like Mum, living with long-term physical health problems, doesn’t always get the proper help or treatment they need. I just have to do what I can for her on a daily basis.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jess. I know you’re having to shoulder it all. How’s Dean?’
‘Oh, you know,’ she said once more, obviously not wanting to go into details.
‘Jess, tell me.’
‘He’s got another woman.’
‘Again?’ Jess’s husband and father of Lola, my gorgeous ten-year-old niece, was a waste of space. In my eyes, anyway. ‘Get rid of him, Jess. You’re a strong, independent woman with a career.’
Jess laughed out loud at that. ‘You call working shifts in a care home a career?’
‘What about the outside catering job you had? Working for Home Dining? You loved that, cooking all day.’
‘Robyn,’ she said crossly, ‘the place folded during lockdown.’
‘Yes, I know, I do know that, but what’s happened to your dream of running your own catering company? Weddings and christenings and such? You’ve got all your health and food hygiene certificates.’
‘D’you know how much it is to even rent a place to do that? And all the catering equipment I’d need? It’s just a dream, Robyn.’
‘Get yourself on MasterChef . You’d win, hands down, and then everyone would pay you lots to cook their dinner for them.’
A snort of derision came down the phone.
‘Or you could at least get a job with another outside caterer. They must be crying out for people like you who love and are brilliant at cooking.’ My heart gave a little lurch as I recalled Fabian’s expertise with his quiche and ice cream, not to mention his kissing.
‘I know, I know, and I will, but at the moment I need the job I have to pay the rent and feed and clothe Lola. And I’ve enough on, keeping an eye on Mum – and now Sorrel – without taking on catering jobs when I might not actually get there to cook and serve the stuff.’ She laughed. ‘The bloody van’s got something wrong with it again.’
‘Dean’s a mechanic, for heaven’s sake. Get him to fix it.’
‘He’s too busy fixing himself up with the new barmaid at The Green Dragon.’
‘Jess, throw him out. You don’t need him. He’s a bunion.’
‘A bunion?’ She actually chortled at that.
‘A useless lump of flesh,’ I snapped. ‘Cut him out.’
‘I will, I will. One of these days. Right, enough about me,’ she finally said, and I could almost hear her smiling. Jess just got on with what life threw at her, as did Mum on the whole. My mother had been utterly stunning in her time, apparently catching the eye of every red-blooded male in the area. Now she was in her early fifties, a rare and possibly inherited complaint called acute porphyria – as well as Jayden – appeared to have got the better of her. I really should ring her more, visit her more. ‘What are you up to?’ Jess was saying. ‘How did the audition for the female barrister go?’
‘It didn’t.’ (At the mention of barrister my heart did a little lurch.) ‘And, to be honest, I just want to sing and dance and have a steady job in musicals. I’m hoping Dorcas, my agent, will be in touch this week with something.’
‘How on earth are you living? Paying the rent? In the middle of London?’
‘Oh,’ I said, more cheerfully than I felt, ‘the shifts at Graphite keep my head above water. Just. And Jayden, when he’s in the money, always hands over a wad. I’m assuming he does the same with you and Mum?’
‘Very erratic, very sporadic, but yes, every now and again – when he remembers he has three daughters and a wife in Yorkshire.’
‘Jess, Jayden never married Mum.’
‘She likes to think he did: wears a wedding ring and calls herself Mrs Allen. Sorrel won’t have anything to do with him at the moment.’
‘Can’t say I blame her… Oh, Jess… Jess…’ I just had to talk to her about Fabian.
‘What? What is it? Robyn?’ There was concern in Jess’s voice and I felt immediately sorry I’d said anything.
‘I’ve fallen in love.’
‘Oh, thank God for that. I thought you’d murdered someone.’
I closed my eyes, wincing at her choice of words, and knew, on the other end of the phone, sitting at the kitchen table in her little terraced cottage in Beddingfield, Jess would be doing the same.
‘And?’ she probed. ‘Is that a bad thing? He’s not married, is he?’
‘No.’
‘Gay and unavailable?’
‘No.’
‘ Famous and unavailable? Is it James Norton?’
‘What?’
‘He was brilliant in Happy Valley . You know they filmed it just down the road from here?’
‘I do know. He’s in A Little Life at the Harold Pinter Theatre,’ I said vaguely, not overly interested in any production that didn’t involve singing and dancing. ‘He’s a barrister.’
‘No, no, he plays the part of a New York lawyer, I think, not a barrister.’
I tutted, dying to get back to Fabian Mansfield Carrington. ‘No, Jess, I’ve fallen in love – in lust, if you like – with a barrister at the Old Bailey.’
‘Well,’ she finally said, after a long silence, ‘there’s a novelty.’
‘Yep.’
‘And with our family history?’
‘Yep.’
‘And has he, you know, fallen in love with you as well? Or is he someone you’ve just seen from afar?’
‘He came looking for me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He knew I worked at Graphite.’
‘Right?’
‘And he fed me little ice-cream kisses on the riverbank in some place called Marlow.’
‘Have you been drinking, Robyn?’
I smiled, even though remembering those kisses made me want to cry, knowing I’d never have them again.
‘Ice-cream kisses?’ she asked. ‘Are they like those little Iced Gems biscuits? Those little midget things? They’ve got BOGOF on them at the Co-op at the moment. Lola loves them, although,’ she added, ‘I do have to think about her teeth. Pure sugar.’
‘Don’t think you can say midget any more.’ I laughed.
‘We do up here in Yorkshire,’ she said dryly. ‘Remember your roots, Robyn.’
‘He’s a top London barrister, his brother is in the legal profession, his mother was a top London judge. Oh, and, er, his father is the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales.’
‘Fuck!’ Followed by silence. ‘Hang on…’ I could sense her googling Roland Carrington as the expletive hung, accusingly, in the two hundred miles of air separating us. ‘And yet,’ she eventually said, ‘all he feeds you is cheap little biscuits?’
‘Oh, and his brother is unpleasant. Misogynist from what I saw… and heard… of him.’ I hesitated. ‘And racist.’
‘Ditch him,’ Jess snapped. ‘A barrister is bad enough. A racist barrister is just not on.’
‘I didn’t say Fabian was racist,’ I protested.
‘A barrister? Called Fabian? And from Buckinghamshire, for heaven’s sake? I bet he went to Eton, or one of those other top-knob public schools for the privileged rich. Don’t go there, Robyn.’
‘Do you not think you’re being slightly prejudiced, Jess? You know…’
‘Robyn,’ she said, but more gently now, ‘don’t talk to me about prejudice. I’ve lived with prejudice of different kinds all my life. Only last week a new inmate… guest,’ she corrected herself ‘…at Hudson House said she didn’t want “a darkie” serving her food.’ I could almost see Jess air-quoting the words.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Surely not? I thought we’d moved on from all that?’
‘You’re setting yourself up for heartache, Robyn,’ Jess warned.
‘No, I’m not,’ I said sadly. ‘Because I won’t be seeing him again.’
‘Ah, Robyn, caught you.’
I was very tempted to reply to my agent, Dorcas, that I wasn’t actually running away from her, but I swallowed the words wholesale and, instead, said, ‘Hello, Dorcas, how are you?’
‘Well, very well, as will you be when I tell you.’
My pulse raced and I put down the kettle I was just about to fill at the kitchen sink. ‘Tell me what? You have something for me?’
‘Sounds promising, Robyn, but, as always, don’t get your hopes up too high.’
‘OK. What?’
‘Now, as you know, the casting process is different for every show…’
Just cut to the quick without the homilies, I urged her silently. ‘What is it, Dorcas?’
‘A speaking chorus part.’
‘Right.’ I held my breath. Don’t get too excited, Robyn.
‘You’re up for the part of Arabella Plumpton-Jones.’
‘In Dance On ? At The Mercury?’ I closed my eyes, my fingernails stabbing into the closed fist of my hand not holding my phone. ‘I only went to see a performance of it a couple of weeks ago. I absolutely adored it.’
‘That’s right. Anyway, auditions at the end of the week.’
‘Can you be more specific?’ It wasn’t easy trying to remain calm when, if Dorcas had actually been in front of me, I feared I’d have her up against the wall by the scruff of her neck to get the information from her more speedily.
‘Right, OK, today’s Monday – erm, Friday, 9.30a.m. at The Mercury on East Street. It’s a dance group audition with both the director and choreographer. The girl who’s had the part of Arabella P-J is pregnant apparently. Didn’t tell anyone she was up the duff and is now throwing up at every turn and they need someone PDQ. Lots of girls up for it, of course, so…’
‘Don’t get my hopes up. I know, I know.’ If there’d been a chandelier in the kitchen of the Soho flat, I’d have been swinging from it.
‘But do give it your best, Robyn. Dance audition, so turn up in your gear ready to go on. Oh, and they want two songs.’
‘From the show?’
‘Not necessarily. Two songs of your choice, so choose two that you know well and which showcase your voice to its best advantage. Text me later when you’ve decided and I’ll see if I agree with you and then let them know.’
I already knew the songs I’d be singing: ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ from Funny Girl , a notoriously difficult number to carry off, and ‘He’s My Boy’ from Everybody’s Talking About Jamie , which was enough to have me in genuine floods of tears, no acting required.
I looked at my watch. I was working the eleven-to-five lunchtime shift at Graphite but, scanning the studio timetable at Xander’s gym, saw I could squeeze in three quarters of an hour between Bums and Tums with Tony and a hatha yoga class, with the gym’s rather good sound system. I needed the acoustics of the large studio to belt out my audition pieces, taping and playing back the singing until I’d got it just right.
Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday passed in a flurry of practising, and performing dance routines, teaching two Zumba classes, as well as the repeated recording and playing back of my audition songs, interspersed with a couple more shifts at Graphite. All this meant I had no time whatsoever (I think the lady doth protest too much, Your Honour) to let my mind wander anywhere near the enticing but dangerous subject of Fabian Mansfield Carrington. I tried hard not to glance hopefully at the restaurant door every time it swung open, and left my phone safely in my locker. Apart from Tuesday evening, when I was working the late shift at Graphite once more, I managed a couple of early nights, despite suffering the hyperbolic cries of ecstasy (if she was putting it on then she was a better actor than I’d ever given her credit for) coming through the thin walls of Tanya’s room as she gave some new man a good seeing-to.
By 9p.m. on the Thursday, I felt I couldn’t do one more thing to ensure the best possible performance the following morning and, after a shower and light meal, decided on another early night. Then I remembered: I’d left my music at Xander’s. How could I have been so stupid? I quickly dressed in the gym gear I’d just pulled off, grabbed my trainers and ran through the still light and busy Soho streets to Xander’s. The last session of the evening – a Pilates class – was coming to an end and once the participants had been taken through their final cool downs, I made my way in.
‘Yours?’ the instructor, a middle-aged woman with a long greying plait and sporting a pair of garish lemon tights, held up my USB stick.
‘Gosh, yes, thank you,’ I breathed, utterly relieved.
‘Xander said you’d an important audition in the morning.’ She picked up her things and went to follow the last people out of the studio. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thank you.’ I suddenly knew I just had to go through the dance routine once more and, plugging the stick back in, gestured to Xander – who was at the studio door indicating with his watch – that I’d lock up once I’d finished. He was obviously off on some hot date because, showered and dressed to kill, he didn’t demur as he normally would at my offer.
The routine had just one tricky tour jeté – a jump in which one foot steps out to the side, and the other foot kicks around in a leap to meet the other, the dancer then landing on the kicking foot. I shucked off my trainers, steadied myself, took a deep breath and took off, arms outstretched over my head during the leap, before bringing them down once more. Perfect. Pleased, I went for it again and then again and again. Jennifer Beals, eat your heart out.
Heart racing with the effort, it suddenly went into overdrive as I realised I was no longer alone in the studio. Oh God, that was all I needed – some weirdo who’d come in off the street and was now standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching my every move. (If he hadn’t been caught, it could have been the Soho Slasher, for heaven’s sake.)
‘You’re good,’ Fabian said.
‘Jesus, do you make a habit of creeping up on women when they’re practising?’ My heart didn’t calm down once I’d realised just who that man was.
‘I wasn’t creeping up on you. The guy – the owner? – was on his way out and let me in when I asked if you were here.’
‘You were lucky – he doesn’t usually let anyone in who’s not a member. And he’s very protective of me…’ I broke off, staring. ‘How on earth did you know I’d be here? Are you stalking me again?’
‘You told me you were always here when you weren’t at the restaurant.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ I frowned. ‘I’m not always here . Very often on a Sunday, yes, but apart from that I have to grab the time when I possibly can, usually early mornings or late in the evening.’
‘You said.’
‘Right.’
‘You’re good,’ Fabian said again. ‘Very good.’
‘Thank you.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I picked up my trainers and unplugged the precious USB stick from the sound system. ‘I need to go,’ I said, walking towards the door where Fabian still stood. Dressed in a beautifully cut black suit, crisp white shirt and maroon silk tie, he’d obviously come straight from chambers. He pulled a hand through his hair, looking across at me with those deep brown eyes of his until I had to look away.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ I was standing in front of him now, but, unless I bobbed round him, or physically pushed him to one side, unable to exit the studio.
‘For startling you.’
‘You did.’
‘Don’t go.’ His voice was still low as he put out a hand to my arm, but then moved it to my face where he took an escaped tendril of hair, twisting it almost thoughtfully around his finger before replacing it neatly behind my ear. ‘I needed to see you again.’
‘Needed to? Or wanted to?’
‘Is there a difference? Yes, I suppose there is,’ he added, almost to himself. ‘Needed to,’ he went on. ‘I needed to apologise for my brother’s behaviour.’
‘You already did. It’s fine. I’ve heard worse.’
‘And, if I’m to focus on my work, and get defendants off who’re paying me a hell of a lot of money to do just that, then I need to concentrate on the job in hand.’
‘Oh?’
‘But, Robyn, the thing is, knowing until I saw you again, I’ve not been able to do just that. Concentrate on my work, I mean.’
‘So, are you saying that I’m the cause of some poor bloke looking at twenty years’ hard labour because you can’t defend him properly?’
‘Something like that.’ He nodded, his voice softly caressing, his beautiful face impassive, but his eyes full of humour. ‘You see, all I can think of, when I’m putting questions to a witness, is not their answer, but the need to kiss you again.’ His hand came up once more and this time I found myself leaning into it as he moved his thumb slowly across my bottom lip. He bent his face down to mine, a faint citrus aftershave flooding my senses as he did so, kissing my mouth, which had slightly, and almost involuntarily, opened in response. And I was lost. Utterly lost.