Chapter 7
7
For the hugely coveted chorus role in Dance On I was up against twenty-five other girls, all determined to make the gift on offer that morning theirs.
‘You’re as good as the rest, better than most, Robyn,’ Jayden had scolded me over the phone as we’d chatted while I made my way through an already busy Leicester Square and into East Street. ‘Just give it all you’ve got. And don’t forget to drop into the conversation that you’re Jayden Allen’s daughter.’
‘As if.’ I’d snorted, ringing off before entering the theatre through the back door.
I’d handed in the two hard copies of my CV and the required headshot – needed so the casting and musical directors could put a name to a face – and we then proceeded to warm up, most of us sipping compulsively from bottles of water, too nervous to chat; I could see there was stiff competition and my confidence wavered. I noticed a tall, lithe redhead who’d been with me the two months I’d spent in the line-up in Big but, as I waved tentatively in her direction, pleased to see at least one friendly face, we were called forward.
Once we’d assembled on the stage, we were given the low-down by Carl Farmer, the musical director, of what was expected of us, and then the choreographer, a tiny girl with a swishy blonde ponytail, took us through a short dance routine. She then left us to join the director in the front seats, and they both watched, making notes as we performed what she’d instructed. This was good, I could do this, and my confidence grew as a couple of the girls missed steps, leaping in the wrong direction as nerves got the better of them.
We then came back on singly, had a thirty-second chat as to our career so far before being instructed to perform our own practised routine, the one big chance to showcase one’s skill and talent as a dancer.
I let myself go, not thinking of anything but the music I’d chosen and my routine, giving it all I’d got and dancing to the very best of my ability.
My two-minute dance routine came to an end, I thanked the judges and retreated offstage to await my next instructions. It was unusual at this stage in the proceedings for cuts to be made but after we’d all done our auditions just fifteen out of the original twenty-five were called back on stage, while the others were released.
We were taken through another, much more taxing dance routine and then split into three groups, so that just five at any one time were performing on stage.
I couldn’t believe we’d got through all this in under ninety minutes – the producer was clearly determined to whittle the options down quickly. At 11a.m., we were told we could leave but were requested to remain nearby, our phones switched on, as some of us would be called back that very afternoon to sing.
I went for a coffee in Pret on Coventry Street, sitting at a table by the window while phoning Jess, Mum and finally Jayden, biting my nails when not one of them answered. Knowing Mum, she’d have seen a bit of sunshine and be out weeding and planting and doing far too much, with little regard for her condition. I drank my coffee, playing down any hope that I might have a recall later that day by planning what to do with the rest of my life once I was given the big ‘thanks, but no thanks’.
As I sat at the window, looking out over the street, my thoughts came back again and again to Fabian.
After leaving Xander’s the previous evening, Fabian had walked me back to the flat, wished me luck for the audition before bending to kiss my cheek. He’d turned, as if to walk away, but then retraced his steps. ‘Will you come out with me?’
‘Out with you?’ I smiled at that – it reminded me of being back at Beddingfield Comp when one of the red-faced, cheese-and-onion-breathing Year 9 lads finally got up the courage to ask you to meet him outside the Co-op, where, with safety in numbers and bottles of cheap cider, we kids used to hang out.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he replied and, this time, turned and actually walked away.
Now, unable to sit a minute longer, I left my window seat in Pret, my Fitbit clocking up the steps as I walked the length and breadth of the West End, from Shaftesbury Avenue and down James Street to Covent Garden before heading down The Strand to Charing Cross. I was passing in front of the National Gallery, considering taking myself in there to kill some time, when my phone rang.
‘Ms Allen? Could you make your way back to The Mercury? We’d like you to come back in, if you’re happy to do that?’
‘Oh, Robyn, you got it?’ Jess was almost as ecstatic as I was, and I loved her all the more for it. Some sisters, some mates (I was thinking here of Tanya back at the flat) are not averse to finding little ways to burst one’s bubble of success in order to bolster their own sense of importance: Is that all they’re paying you? That producer is the absolute devil to work for. My cousin’s best friend’s sister couldn’t stand the other members of the cast – totally bullied, she was – left with a nervous breakdown… But not Jess. Her excitement down the phone was palpable, and I knew she was already mentally scanning her kitchen calendar, as well as her credit-card statement, to see when she could bring Lola down to see her Aunty Robyn on stage.
Jayden, characteristically, sent an over-the-top bouquet of flowers and a bottle of champagne: it was all or nothing with my father – boom or bust – but apparently my successful audition coincided with a new record release, which, for once, was not only selling well but was even being played on the radio.
A couple of hours after Dorcas, my agent, rang with the wonderful news that I was successful, a text came through from Fabian:
Come and celebrate.
How on earth do you know whether I’m celebrating or not?
Aren’t you?
Yes.
There you go, then. I’ll pick you up at 7.30, if you’re free.
Was I really going to waste time and energy playing games by replying that I already had plans or by not responding for an hour or so? Of course not: I was far too old for such juvenile nonsense, and I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather be celebrating with.
Thank you, I’d like that.
I’ll cook dinner. Don’t go eating sweets and spoiling your appetite
That made me laugh.
Don’t pick me up. I’ll get the bus. Where are you?
Westminster
Bloody hell, posh or what?
88 bus. No problem. Text me your address. I’ll find you.
It was another beautiful evening and, after showering, I found my trusty trainers and set off, eschewing any transport except my own two feet. The great thing about living in central London was that, by walking everywhere in order to save money, it had become something of a challenge – like doing The Knowledge , so loved by the city’s black cab drivers. London had become a village for me and not a huge metropolis. Now that the alleged Soho Slasher – Rupert Henderson-Smith, I saw from the free newspaper reports – was in police custody, I was even up for walking the streets after dark.
I walked a route taking me along Wardour Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Drury Lane relishing as I always did, the buzz of London’s theatreland and, although I sometimes longed for the green fields and unspoiled woods surrounding Mum’s place, I’d lived so long away from the countryside that I was beginning to consider myself a city girl. I knew, as I made my way past myriad theatres and then on towards Fabian’s apartment, I was right where I wanted to be.
It took me twenty minutes of brisk walking, using my phone to navigate to Fabian’s place. I’d assumed it would be a bit more upmarket than the dive I was renting in Soho, but even this assumption didn’t prepare me for the actual reality of his apartment in St James’s Place between Mayfair and Westminster.
‘You found me?’ Fabian said as he let me in.
‘You were hiding?’ I quipped, immediately wishing I didn’t turn every question into another. An old boyfriend had once said this habit of mine used to infuriate him. Why couldn’t I just float in serenely and say ‘hi’ before arranging myself seductively on the leather sofa to await being served a cocktail?
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’ Fabian smiled, taking the bottle of champagne from me.
‘I didn’t really. My father was exceptionally quick off the mark and sent over the bottle, together with some flowers. Don’t know if it’s any good… Not sure how he managed it within a couple of hours of me knowing I’d got the part…’ I was gabbling now.
‘Sounds an interesting bloke. I’d like to meet him.’
‘I don’t think you would… Oh, wow—’ I broke off, moving over to the huge picture window through which, from four floors up, a huge expanse of Green Park was on view.
‘Forty acres of greenery down there apparently.’ Fabian smiled, coming to stand behind me and handing me a glass of champagne, which, being deliciously ice cold, couldn’t have come from the bottle I’d carted in my hot sweaty mitts all the way from Soho. ‘It’s one of eight Royal Parks in London, the royal being Charles II who decided to build a wall around an area of the Poultenay estate, a former lepers’ ground on the city outskirts, before renaming it Upper St James’s Park.’
‘So originally a leper colony?’ I gazed down at the park, now awash with evening joggers, dog walkers and those late leaving work from the many surrounding offices.
‘Congratulations, Robyn,’ Fabian said, clinking my glass with his own. ‘You must be very happy?’
‘Ecstatic.’ I smiled. ‘I really, really am.’
‘Does that mean you can give up your job at Graphite?’
I nodded. ‘Thank goodness. Don’t really think I’m cut out to serve the public – the posh public at that…’ I trailed off, looking round at the beautiful apartment, taking in the understated décor, the obviously expensive fabric at the window and the white baby grand piano in the corner, before bringing my gaze back to Fabian himself.
He was wearing jeans and an immaculate white T-shirt: apart from a narrow tan leather belt that accentuated not only his slim waist but also his broad chest, that was it. Nothing on his feet and the plain gold watch on his left wrist. I took a long gulp from my glass, suddenly feeling shy, vulnerable even. Here I was, in the ultra-chic fourth-floor apartment of a man I knew very little about, drinking champagne while wondering what was going to happen next. What I was supposed to say next.
‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked, sounding like a hairdresser. ‘It must be well placed, central for your work?’
‘It is.’
‘Right.’
Fabian smiled, relenting a little. ‘The apartment was originally my great-grandfather’s. My grandfather, my mother and then, until recently, my brother Julius have all lived here for a while before moving out to the sticks.’
‘You’re very lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘To have things handed to you on a plate.’
Fabian pulled a face. ‘Bit unfair, that. I’ve worked many years and long hours to get where I am with my work. I don’t just swan in at 10a.m. and say a few words to persuade the judge and jury of my client’s innocence, you know.’
‘But you have somewhere very lovely to come back to, once you’ve done that.’
‘You disapprove?’
‘I approve very much of the apartment – although, to be honest, I think I’d miss a front door and a garden. And some countryside.’
‘Which is why my family moved out and I moved in. I guess Julius’s and Jemima’s kids will have the apartment next…’
‘And your own?’ I had a sudden thought. ‘Hang on, are you married? Your wife and 2.4 children farmed out in deepest darkest Bucks while you continue to frolic and live the sybaritic single life during the week, before heading back to them at the weekend?’
Fabian laughed at that. ‘Sybaritic?’ He held up his own glass of champagne. ‘I can assure you, Robyn, this is as self-indulgent as it gets on a Friday evening. And you were with me at the weekend. Did you see any evidence of a wife and children?’
‘What about Fish Face?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The girl you were with at Graphite who has an allergy to all finned fish.’
Fabian pulled a face. ‘Does she? Don’t all fish have fins?’ He considered for a few seconds. ‘Well, not prawns and oysters et al , but are they fish?’
‘She’s very beautiful.’
‘She is.’
There was polite reservation in Fabian Carrington that I’d never come across in the men I usually hung out with, and I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. I drank more of my champagne, but saw that Fabian took only a few sips of his own.
It was clear he wasn’t about to divulge any possible relationships he was in. And why should he? Dating rules, especially in big cities like London, had evolved into something quite different from those extravagant little scenarios I’d acted out with my Barbie and Ken as a kid. One Barbie – and definitely one Ken – living happily ever after as Barbie donned her wedding finery and walked up the aisle. Maybe I’d overindulged myself in such idealistic yet unrealistic scenes to compensate for the reality of Mum and Jayden’s relationship. And why I loved the romance of musical theatre so much. A psychoanalyst would have a field day with me, I reckoned.
‘You live here alone?’ I finally asked.
‘I do. I like the solitude.’
‘And your brother? Julius?’ I thought I’d better wave hello to the elephant in the room. After all, it was his fault I’d jumped out of Fabian’s car the other night.
‘He got married last year and moved out to Surrey.’
‘Goodness, he actually found someone to marry him?’ Instantly I could have bitten my tongue. Slating a man’s relatives when you hardly know the man himself is not exactly conducive to a harmonious evening ahead. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘That was very rude of me.’
‘But understandable.’ Fabian smiled. ‘I can only apologise again for his words and that you overheard them. OK, are you hungry?’
I realised I was famished. Apart from the bowl of porridge and banana I’d forced down before the audition – knowing I needed the energy to leap around on stage – and the coffee in Pret, I’d been far too nervous and excited to think about food. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I am.’
Fabian moved to the open-plan kitchen area, bending to retrieve dishes from the fridge. ‘Is it usual for you to be told that you’ve got the part on the same day of audition?’ he asked, removing cling film from a bowl and adding a salad dressing to its contents, tossing the whole thing as he spoke.
‘It hardly ever happens.’ I shook my head. ‘Usually takes a good week before they let your agent know. But this one was a bit different – the girl was pregnant and throwing up everywhere. For her own sake, as well as the rest of the cast, she had to give up the part. Lucky for me, of course.’
‘Come and sit down,’ Fabian directed, moving to the far end of the room where a table was set meticulously with silver and linen for two.
‘You are very precise.’ I smiled, sitting down and loving the fact that Fabian had pulled out the chair for me.
‘Is that a bad thing?’ he asked, looking slightly worried.
‘Just not what I’m used to. Having dinner with someone usually means a takeaway curry or a spag bol on my knee in front of the TV… Oh, goodness, this looks wonderful.’
Fabian set down two plates of something I couldn’t quite identify.
‘ Palourdes au gratin .’ He smiled. ‘Baked clams with garlic butter.’
They were utterly delicious and as the alcohol went down and I dipped focaccia (apparently home-made, although when Fabian had had time to bash the dough and stud with rosemary, salt and tiny little tomato halves was anyone’s guess) into the garlicky butter, I found myself beginning to relax.
‘Where did you learn to cook?’ I asked. His eyes lingered on me longer than they should and I felt myself grow pink.
‘I studied languages at Oxford,’ he replied. ‘Had a year out in Germany and then France…’
‘Ah, that’s why you were able to converse with Wallbanger so well the other night.’
‘Wallbanger?’ Fabian raised an eyebrow. God, did he realise just how effortlessly sexy he was when he did that?
‘Miss Muffler, my boss at Graphite. You were chatting to her before you left on Friday evening.’
‘Oh, right, yes. And she’s actually called Wallbanger ?’ Fabian started to laugh.
‘Long story.’ I smiled. ‘So, what were you saying to her?’
‘I was simply telling her that the evening had been totally enhanced by the beautiful, quite intoxicating waitress at our table who had not only captured my every sense, but who I simply had to get to know because?—’
‘You didn’t!’
‘No, you’re right, I didn’t. I simply asked her to compliment the chef on his confit de canard … I’ve never quite managed to get the right balance of thyme and bay leaf when I’ve attempted to make it myself.’
I put down my fork and stared. ‘And I guess that’s what you do all day? Spin a story of what could have happened, rather than what, in reality, you know to be the truth?’
‘You’ll never know, unless you ask Miss Muffler herself, just which is the true version.’ He smiled as he removed plates. ‘So, where did I learn to cook? I spent almost eight months at the University of Burgundy in Dijon.’
‘Where the mustard comes from?’
‘And the most sublime food. There’s a great mix of fine dining and relaxed restaurants in the region. My favourite – and an absolutely incredible one – is Au Fil du Zinc, but there’s also a cookery school called The Cook’s Atelier in the heart of Beaune where they only use ingredients from local artisan producers. I was supposed to be helping students converse in English at the university, but no one seemed bothered if I went AWOL.’
‘You miss it?’
‘It’s a long time ago now.’ Fabian’s brown eyes were sad. ‘I longed to stay there. I would have stayed there if I could.’
‘And why couldn’t you?’
‘What, not finish Oxford? And not go into law as the Carringtons have done since time immemorial? Not quite the done thing, Your Honour.’ He stroked my arm fleetingly as he took the plates into the kitchen area. As he stood at the worktop, his back to me, I sat and marvelled at his physique. He must have been six foot two and everything was in proportion, from the muscles working beneath the white T-shirt as he squeezed lime, tapering to the slim waist and taut buttocks clad in denim.
‘You fell in love?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In France, when you were there in your early twenties, you met someone…?’
Fabian smiled, but there was the same sadness, regret almost, on his face as he placed Caesar salad in front of me. ‘Parmesan?’ he asked. ‘Black pepper?’