Chapter 12
TORI
I think I’m jealous. There’s no point in denying it any longer.
I feel more and more toxic with each rehearsal as I’m forced to look on while Eleanor and Sinclair’s stupid chemistry deepens even further.
It’s horrible. I don’t want to be like this, but my emotions aren’t giving me any choice.
It gets on my nerves the way Sinclair’s eyes keep straying in my direction every time they’ve played a particularly intense scene.
It’s almost like he has to keep checking I’m OK.
I’m the assistant director: it doesn’t matter to me.
All I should care about is the play being a success, which is why I’m giving them tips I’ve got from books on ways they can build up even more tension.
I let them have their starring-role moments and make an effort to grin and bear it.
It’s easier when I’m there and can watch.
The afternoons that Eleanor and Sinclair are spending alone together to get to know each other better are a different kind of dire because they leave everything to my imagination.
It’s only too easy to picture them falling in love with each other, having deep and meaningful conversations on long walks through the wintry countryside around the school.
I usually try to arrange to meet Val at the same time because that feels a bit like revenge and taking back control.
If I’m honest, though, it’s also incredibly childish.
I haven’t seen Val this evening. He’s probably in the gym, doing another round of weights, like he always does after rugby training.
It doesn’t seem particularly healthy to me, the importance he sets on his appearance and the existence of unnecessarily ripped muscles, but last time I tried to talk to him about that, he said it might do me a bit of good to come as well, sometimes.
Obviously I took that as an insult, so now the only thing that helps me not to keep thinking about Val, Sinclair, Eleanor and this whole complicated mess is to read.
It works for precisely five minutes, then Sinclair messages me.
S: What are you doing?
T: Nothing. You?
S: I’m at the bakery.
S: Want to come?
It’s ages since he asked me, and I haven’t dared just turn up unannounced.
Who knows? Maybe he’s been inviting Eleanor round there so that the two of them can shape bread rolls together, or do other things.
Which would be OK – they’re meant to be getting closer.
I don’t have a problem with that, even if that place and our nights together there were always just for us.
Besides, I’m sure he comes up with more exciting plans for Eleanor. So I’m left with the bakery.
T: Give me five minutes.
Of course I need longer than that just to choose a jumper and put my hair up in a bun that looks flattering yet messy enough to make Sinclair think I didn’t do it just for him. The usual thing.
The February night is clear and frosty as I leave the school grounds and walk to the village in the dark.
If I hadn’t lived here for seven years, I might find it creepy, but Ebrington is deserted at this time of night.
Sinclair’s Bakery is the only shop with a light on.
It feels like déjà vu when I knock on the glass door and, a moment later, Sinclair opens it.
He’s wearing his dark red apron and a beanie hat to keep his hair out of the way.
His hands are dusty with flour, his forearms strong and muscular as he kneads the dough and I listen to his lines.
When he suggested it, I jumped at the idea because it’s a handy way of avoiding other conversations.
‘“It’s easy to laugh at this pain if you’ve never been hurt,”’ he says, practising a speech about Rosaline, who broke Romeo’s heart.
He’s very convincing. ‘“I used to think it was pathetic too, but she caught me off guard. Lucky for me that I’ve stopped spending every waking second thinking about her since I met Juliet. Hold on . . . That’s her house, isn’t it?
Why is there a light on this late? It’s .
. .”’ He pauses and his hands stop kneading.
I give him a moment, but when he looks to me for help, I prompt him. ‘“The east.”’
Sinclair looks even more confused now.
‘“It is the east and Juliet is the sun,”’ I repeat.
His face brightens. ‘Oh, yes.’ He looks away again and clears his throat softly.
The way Sinclair slips in and out of this role is the most attractive thing I’ve seen in ages.
His expression is almost transfigured when he’s Romeo.
I wish he could be like that all the time. ‘“She is the east and . . .” Wait, no.’
I have to laugh. ‘Maybe that way works too.’
He looks at me with those Romeo eyes that cut me to the quick.
‘“It is the east and Juliet is the sun. She is the sun, temptation, and the daughter of my accursed enemy. A Capulet, what a bad joke . . . But does that mean I want her any less? Of course not.”’ His eyes flit over me.
‘“I shouldn’t be here. If anyone sees me there’ll be trouble.
But I can’t leave, I must hear her voice.
Just look at the way she’s leaning her head on her hands. ”’
I flush as I realize I’m actually resting my chin on my palm. I hastily straighten up.
Sinclair clears his throat. ‘“She’s so far away but I can’t forget how soft her skin looked. Oh, God, I can’t put her out of my head, just because she’s a Capulet.”’
I feel kind of dizzy as I speak Juliet’s line. ‘“Woe is me . . .”’
Sinclair keeps looking at me. ‘“She speaks,”’ he whispers. ‘“Oh, speak again, bright angel, speak and let me hear your voice.”’
‘“Oh, Romeo,”’ my voice is shaking and I’m praying he won’t notice, ‘“Romeo, this is all a bad joke. Why are you my enemy, a Montague, a man I may not love? As though, once I’d seen you, my heart had any choice . . .”’
Sinclair says nothing, so I look at him. His eyes are on me, he’s stopped kneading the dough.
‘Now you.’
He twitches. His voice sounds rough as he continues: ‘“OK, she’s talking to herself here and eavesdropping is seriously uncool. But who knows when we’ll ever meet again? We can’t be seen out in the town. If our families knew . . . I can’t leave now. I must speak to her.”’
I glance down at the script before continuing with Juliet’s monologue. ‘“Refuse your name and give it to me. I mean what I say. Let me be yours and I will no longer be a Capulet.”’
‘“Let me be by your side”?’ Sinclair suggests, as I frown. ‘Otherwise it makes her sound like an object.’
I have to smile. ‘Yes, better.’
‘“Your name is the only thing that makes it impossible for us to be together,”’ I continue. ‘“Love found me yet I must push it away for the sake of a name. But what’s in a name? Put your name aside and take me in its place, I beg you; O sweet heaven, give me this man.”’
Sinclair turns to me. ‘“I’ll take you at your word.”’ His voice trembles, his yearning is making me dizzy. ‘“Tell me that you want me and I’ll forget who I am. Listen to me, Juliet, the Capulets can’t stand in my way. Your eyes are more perilous than their swords.”’
He looks me right in the eyes. His lips are flushed.
I have to stay as Juliet. ‘“Wait, who’s there? What kind of a creep are you, listening in when I’m talking to myself by night?”’
‘“It’s me, my love. And I will take your name, don’t doubt it. My own is hateful to me because it is an enemy to you.”’
‘“Is that you, Romeo?”’
‘“It is, my love.”’
‘“Wow, we only spoke a few words to each other at that ball yet I know your voice. Romeo. A Montague . . .”’
‘“Not for a day longer if you dislike it.”’ How can he sound so sincere about this unreal thing? I don’t get it. How did he get to be this stupidly talented?
‘“What are you doing here? It’s madness! My parents will have a fit if they find out that you’re in our grounds. Come on, Romeo, you know that.”’
‘“I have night’s cloak to hide me from their sight.”’ He truly believes it; he sounds so proud – and I’m finding it endlessly attractive.
The dash of arrogance that he usually lacks.
‘“It couldn’t interest me less, Juliet. I will not allow the pointless feud between our families to stand in the way of our happiness.”’
‘“I fear we do not really have a choice.”’
‘“Why not? You said it yourself. I’ll cast my name aside. It’s all the same to me. All that matters is that we can be together.”’
‘“Oh, Romeo, those were just glib words.”’
‘“Is that so? It sounded very much like the truth to me.”’
I hesitate. ‘“OK, you’re right. Let’s stop beating around the bush. I’m sick of acting like I don’t want you. But don’t you go thinking I’m a pushover, that I was only playing hard to get so you’d put some effort in. Nothing could be further from the truth.”’ I stop and jerk up my head abruptly.
‘We’ll change that,’ says Sinclair, before I can open my mouth. ‘It’s bullshit, isn’t it?’
I nod slowly. ‘It’s a bit unnecessary.’
‘Of course Juliet’s not easy. Besides, even if she was, why would that be a problem?’ he says, and I can hear real annoyance in his voice. ‘Because it’s unladylike?’
‘They were different times,’ I say lamely.
‘Yes, but in these times, a woman should have the self-confidence to say that she wants a man, just the same way he can.’
My mouth is suddenly dry.
‘Or don’t you think so?’
‘Yes.’ We look at each other. It’s quiet. All I can hear is my heart thumping.
Does that mean he wants me to say it?
No, come on, get over yourself. This is about Romeo and Juliet, not the two of us. Why wouldn’t it be? For pity’s sake . . .
‘You should ask Eleanor what she thinks about it,’ I say hurriedly.
‘I don’t care about Eleanor,’ he blurts. ‘I mean . . . I do care, but you’re the scriptwriter here. It’s your call.’
‘You two have to act it.’
Sinclair gulps.
When he doesn’t reply, I continue: ‘But maybe Juliet should actually say that and then he can point out that it’s wrong. Like you just did.’
‘You mean to give the audience a chance to question the statement?’
‘Exactly.’ I force a tiny smile, but it doesn’t really work. I’m about to ask if we should carry on when Sinclair opens his mouth.
‘Has Val said stuff like that?’ he asks.
I feel cold. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve heard the way he talks about Eleanor.’
I don’t ask what he’s heard and, to be honest, I don’t want to know. I shrug. ‘He doesn’t mean it.’
‘So why would he say it?’
‘Sinclair, that’s how he is. He doesn’t think about stuff. He’s never really got his head around feminism and all that.’
‘Is he planning to?’
‘How would I know? Doesn’t matter to you, does it?’
‘Yes, it does.’
I sigh. ‘Oh, my God. He doesn’t always think before he speaks. But he doesn’t mean anything bad by it.’
‘So he means it nicely? Oh, well, that’s all right then. And, anyway, I get the impression he knows exactly what he’s saying. And exactly how he needs to act to get what he wants.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ I ask quietly.
Sinclair says nothing. His gaze weighs a ton. We both know the answer to my question.
‘He manipulates you,’ he says, in the end. ‘He tries to make you believe stupid stuff.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘Tori, I’ve got eyes in my head. And I know you. You’re different when he’s around.’
‘And what makes you think that’s a bad thing?
Maybe I’m different because he treats me differently.
’ Differently from the way you do . . . Like I’m desirable.
Because he shows me he wants me and I don’t have to keep guessing at what he feels for me.
‘Anyway, you’re different when Eleanor’s around too. ’
‘Tori, leave Eleanor out of this.’
‘Why? It was you who brought her up.’
He clenches his fists and shuts his eyes for a moment. ‘Why can’t we talk about this stuff without fighting?’
‘I’m not fighting,’ I say coolly.
‘No, of course not.’
‘I’m just asking myself what you expect. What do you want to hear from me, Sinclair? That Val treats me like shit and you were right? Is that it?’
‘I’m just bloody well worried about you, OK?’
‘In that case everything’s fine. Just as well we spoke about it.’
‘Tori,’ he growls.
‘What? What, Sinclair? If you want to tell me something, then do it. Right now. I’m all ears.’
We look at each other. His blue eyes spark, but I can see uncertainty in them. His jaw muscles stand out, and he swallows. He doesn’t say anything. Same as ever.
I exhale loudly. ‘Good, that’s what I thought.’ I look at the clock behind him. ‘It’s late. I should head back. Or do you still need me here?’
‘Tori . . .’
‘Do you still need me here?’ I repeat.
He looks at me. I’m praying he’ll shake his head.
‘No.’
Great.
I reach for my script and turn away.
All the way back to school, I’m wondering why it always goes like this.
Why we keep hurting each other and lying to each other.
But maybe they’re not lies. Maybe it’ll just never happen.
Maybe I’ve spent six years reading too much into this thing between Sinclair and me.
But in that case, how is it possible that I want to burn up whenever he looks at me?
Can you really be that wrong about something?
The night is cold. My heart is too.
I’m afraid you can.
SINCLAIR
You shouldn’t decide anything when you’re angry.
Mum’s said that so often it ought to be engraved on my heart.
Normally, I try to listen to her words but right now I don’t want to be sensible.
I want to pound the shit out of this sourdough and, because there’s nobody here to see, I do so.
Frustratingly, it doesn’t even make a satisfying sound when my fist connects with the soft mass.
I repeat the process twice more, but it doesn’t relieve my feelings the way I’d hoped, so I pull out my phone and use my floury fingers to bring up my contacts list.
I’ve never messaged Eleanor and I wouldn’t normally dare.
But there isn’t normally rage boiling in my belly because I have – yet again – picked a fight with my best friend.
Eleanor Attenborough wouldn’t normally have given me her number after our last rehearsal, and we wouldn’t normally be acting together in the main fucking roles in our school play. So I just type.
S: Hi, it’s Sinclair
Fuck, she’s online. OK. I didn’t think this far ahead but there’s no going back now.
E: Hi? What’s up?
I shut my eyes for a moment, then keep typing.
S: I hope you don’t mind me just messaging you
E: That’s why I gave you my number
S: What are you doing tomorrow? Want to go for a walk or something?
E: Yeah, sure. After study hour?
I answer hastily, before I lose my nerve.
S: Perfect. Looking forward to it!
I slowly lower my phone, feeling like a traitor. And then I focus on my work again.