Beth
Beth
Nick had asked her to call him and she hadn’t. Not because she wanted to ignore his instructions, but because… it was complicated.
Because she was humiliated after last night.
Because she hated the thought of phoning him at work because he had a real job and she was terrified she might interrupt him.
And because… because… she was ashamed that she had to rely on him.
‘Sorry about that,’ she says to Vaughan as she takes her seat again opposite him.
They are in Ping Pong, a dim sum restaurant just off Dean Street. She has never been here before. She was always too skint to go out with Paulo. They never went anywhere.
She feels the weight of Nick’s ￡50 notes in her purse.
‘It’s fine,’ Vaughan says, topping up her wine. She shouldn’t be drinking at lunchtime, but sod it. It’s been a horrible week, and she’s feeling positive about the audition. It’s such a relief to be feeling positive again. ‘Boyfriend?’
Her cheek twitches. ‘Oh no, no, my…’ What can she call him? ‘Flatmate. Well, he’s not exactly… I’m between places at the moment so I’m just crashing with him. He’s an old university friend. But he dropped out during our first term and I haven’t seen him for a while…’
She trails off. Now is not the time for that story.
Vaughan nods. He has silvery eyes that catch the light as he looks at her. She can’t work out how old he is. Mid 30s? Early 40s? He makes her nervous. He did when he was directing her in the small Shakespeare company she joined right after she graduated, and he still does now.
He is more handsome that she remembers. Or perhaps her tastes have matured.
‘I just broke up with someone actually,’ she says.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thanks, he…’ She pauses, considers it. Should she tell him this? ‘It didn’t work out.’
He gives a sympathetic nod.
‘Never mind,’ she says, feeling stupid for bringing it up. ‘How are things with you? Are you seeing anyone?’
It feels a bit inappropriate to ask, and she regrets it the second she’s said it. But then again, he’s not her director any longer. They are two peers, working in the same industry, having lunch. He shakes his head.
‘Not right now,’ he says, but he doesn’t volunteer any more information.
She’s sure he was married when they did A Midsummer Night’s Dream together. She thinks he might even have had a child – or multiple children? She can’t remember. He’s not wearing a ring.
They move on to safer topics over dumplings and sticky rice: she tells him about her job working as a singing waitress, even though she’s not the greatest singer – a friend got me the job and it’s honestly really good money and the nice thing is that, all the events we do, people are happy so it kind of, well, it makes me happy – and he tells her that he’s started to write, that he’s working on a TV show that’s been commissioned by Channel 4.
‘That’s amazing,’ she says, impressed.
‘It’s pretty exciting. We’ve got a decent budget and I’m working with some really talented people. I mean, it’s scary as fuck to be putting out my own writing but you have to challenge yourself in this business, right? No one is going to hand you work on a plate. You really have to get out there and fight for it.’
He’s right. She likes his energy, his positivity. She thinks of how different he is from Paulo, who did sit around expecting someone to recognise his genius and hand him work on a plate.
Paulo had one significant television role in his early 20s that should have been his launchpad, but for some reason wasn’t. There is rarely any rhyme or reason to these things, and since then it’s as though he believes the world owes him a career.
She remembers what they used to say at drama school, the way they prepared you for failure. ‘It’s an impossible industry,’ her tutors would say. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of you will never earn a living from it. Prepare to fail. Be pleasantly surprised if you manage to get any paid work at all.’
They were right, of course. But sitting here, with Vaughan and his positivity, she feels the exact opposite. She feels as though the possibilities are limitless. She can make it as an actress. She will do. She will be part of the one per cent of people who actually make a living out of this ridiculous job. Why shouldn’t she be one of them? She knows she has the talent, and she can make her own luck.
A strange certainty washes over her. Almost a premonition: she will achieve her dreams. She just needs to surround herself with the right people, positive people. People who believe magic can happen.
‘Thank you for today,’ she says, as they leave the restaurant. Vaughan insisted on paying for her meal, and she tries not to feel too uncomfortable about it, or the fact that Nick’s ￡50 notes are burning a hole in her purse. ‘It’s… It was really good to see you.’
She wants to be independent. She makes a vow to herself, then and there, to repay them both.
They walk to Leicester Square tube and just outside the entrance, he leans down and kisses her on the cheek.
‘It was really good to see you too,’ Vaughan says, and she feels a strange sensation at the pit of her stomach. One that she wasn’t expecting. The beginning of some kind of connection.
She watches as he strides off in the direction of Trafalgar Square. He lives south of the river, he told her, because it’s cheaper. Somewhere called Crystal Palace that she has only vaguely heard of.
‘It’s up and coming,’ he’d said, when he told her about it. ‘Honestly. They’ve just opened a fourth coffee shop on the high street, so things are going in the right direction, right?’
She sits on the Northern Line train going north to High Barnet, rather than south to Canary Wharf, and she thinks of Paulo. The mess she has run away from, like a child.
He’s given up calling her, has taken to leaving great long text messages of regret instead. She wishes she could make the whole situation just disappear.
Tears emerge, and she sniffs them away. It’s been too much, this week. The breakup with Paulo, then the… whatever it was with Nick and then finally the audition and seeing Vaughan.
Her head is a wreck.
She emerges from the station and walks towards the flat. Thankfully, she has her key with her. She has no idea what reception awaits her. What mood he will be in.
She smiles as one of the ladies who works in the Tesco Metro walks past. And then, she looks at the chipped door, the dirty brass numbers in its centre, and she puts the key in and pushes it open.
He hasn’t been down to collect the post.
‘Paulo?’ she calls, her heart pounding. They haven’t lived here long. It doesn’t feel like home. She won’t miss it.
‘In here.’
He’s sitting in the living room, smoking a joint. She closes her eyes in frustration. But it’s a good thing really. When he’s stoned he’s more acquiescent.
‘We need to talk,’ she says, starting to clear up the coffee cups and plates that litter the table in front of him. She stacks them at the side of the sink in the corner of the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, miserably. ‘I’m glad you’ve come back.’
It’s almost worse in a way, seeing him like this. There’s a greasy sheen to his forehead and his eyes are sunken and dull.
It’s hard to believe he is the same man she fell so hard for when they met. He was so charismatic, with his scruffy curly hair, perfect stubble and habit of over-gesturing. Everyone loved Paulo. He was the best company too.
She hates to admit it, but one of the reasons she fell for him was because he reminded her, in a tiny way, of Nick.
But he’s nothing like Nick. When bad things happen to Nick, he doesn’t sit around and wallow. He makes a change, even if that change means leaving.
And she’s going to do the same. She straightens up.
‘We’re going to have to discuss what we do about the flat.’
It surprises her how strong she feels. Maybe seeing Nick has been good for her. A reminder that she can take control of her life, and make things better.
‘What?’
‘Maybe you can get a lodger in,’ she says. Thank God the rental agreement is in his name. She can walk away with impunity.
‘I thought… What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that I don’t want to do this anymore.’
‘Shit Beth, I…’
She doesn’t want him to cry. She can’t bear it. She doesn’t want to stay in this flat one second longer than necessary.
‘You smashed the remote control,’ she says, trying to hold her nerve. ‘You were so out of it you probably don’t even remember. But I do. And I don’t want to live like this… I don’t have a choice. I’m sorry Paulo. It’s over.’
Why is she apologising? For fuck’s sake.
He shakes his head. She sees a flash of his nasty side in his eyes, can see he’s on the brink of saying something horrible.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, eventually. It’s almost a mumble. Then he gives a shrug.
So am I , she thinks. For staying here for so long and putting up with you. For believing you to be more than you are.
At least he’s not trying to change her mind. She goes into the stuffy bedroom and fills her large suitcase with the last of her things. In a way, his response seems to confirm what she’s been feeling all along: that she’s worthless. Dispensable.
She thinks about last night, with Nick. The way he pulled away from her. Even though she could sense the intense longing that came from him too.
She thinks of Nick with Celine. Having sex. Enjoying life. Something she finds it difficult to do.
But it doesn’t matter. She has her work. She will make her life matter.
She leaves the keys on the worktop in the kitchen. Paulo doesn’t even stand up.
‘Go then, if you’re going to,’ he says, staring at the television. ‘But I won’t forget this. I won’t forget you kicking me when I was down.’
She takes a deep breath, a wail of frustration rising. But before it’s released, she spins on her heel and hurries to the stairs, thumping her suitcase down each step and closing the grotty door behind her.
Feeling freer than she’s felt in months.