Chapter 15
She’d decided on a smart pair of ankle grazer trousers, which she’d teamed with a navy blazer. It was the costume she’d worn on a bank commercial a few years ago. God, she should’ve watched more educational TED Talks, she should’ve boned up further on the latest educational theory and formed opinions of her own. Oh well, too late now.
She knocked at the glass window of a little beige office where a tired-looking lady in a baggy pink cardigan was staring at a desktop screen. The woman’s gaze suggested she’d had it up to the back teeth with hassle and just wanted a quiet life, which Cassie found rather reassuring. Perhaps someone too high-powered was the last thing they wanted. The woman glanced around wearily.
‘Hello?’
‘I’m Cassandra Kearney, I’ve an appointment to see the principal.’
The secretary’s pale blue eyes focused on someone behind her. She heard the sound of air being inhaled through nostrils and swung round to find herself excessively close to a balding middle-aged man with heavy eyebrows and deep stress lines on his forehead.
‘Roger Newcombe, please come in.’
The tall, bespectacled figure held out his hand formally towards her, which was a little awkward given their proximity, then indicated an adjoining door. He led the way into an office about the size of a department-store changing room, where the air felt thick with chalk dust and years of responsibility. He squeezed in behind a desk, which had the effect of either keeping her out or barricading him in. There was a little sign saying: ‘Roger Newcombe, Principal’ on the desk, as though he needed reminding himself of his position. He leaned back in his chair and paused.
‘This is a fine school you have here, Rrr— Mr Newcombe.’
‘Well, we try. It’s all about budgets, of course, making them stretch .?.?. I don’t know what they think I am.’
The last bit felt almost as though he’d forgotten she was in the room. His no-nonsense square glasses gave the impression that whatever he gazed upon would be viewed in an entirely serious light. He was wearing a green check shirt and knitted tie that some fashion-forward art students might have worn ironically, though probably without the egg stain; however, this clearly wasn’t the case with Roger Newcombe. Clothes were purely functional and, all in all, Roger Newcombe was one of the most thoroughly responsible people she’d ever met, although he was probably no more than five years older than herself.
‘Perhaps you could tell me about your teaching experience?’
What was he playing at? He had her CV in front of him, which gave zero evidence of anything of the sort. Oh hell, just wing it, she thought.
‘None .?.?. precisely, but I have worked extensively in musical theatre and in an educational setting as a .?.?. facilitator.’
She was chancing her arm and they both knew it.
‘Ah yes, Slime Planet, I noticed. Not a name I see on every résumé. I brought my son there once, as a matter of fact. I remember we quite enjoyed it.’
That was an unexpected moment of self-revelation.
‘Although, as far as I remember, any “facilitators” we saw there seemed to end up as part of the experiments, rather than conducting them.’
Damn. He had her there.
‘I simply did what the job required,’ she replied, trying not to sound desperate.
He contemplated her through the thick lenses and then seemed to cheer up.
‘Well, let’s hope that even on its worst day, nothing like that should happen to you here. I’ll be honest, we are chronically short of a substitute teacher so could you start at eight thirty on Monday morning? And if you wouldn’t mind not parking in the space where Mr Daly, the groundsman, parks the electric buggy? I’m sure you saw the charging point.’
‘Of course, thank you. I won’t let you down.’
She sat waiting for his response, but he seemed to have already moved on, almost having forgotten she was still in the room. She sat awkwardly for a moment.
‘So, shall I .?.?.?’
He looked up as though surprised she was still there.
‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. See you on Monday.’
She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this man was treating her like a six-year-old. Still, a job was a job, even if her status was one step below the golf buggy.
*?*?*
By half past twelve she was pushing open the door to the apartment, while awkwardly balancing a celebratory piping-hot latte and pastrami roll along with her shoulder bag. She was met by the pounding beat of Lady Gaga’s ‘Paparazzi’ coming from the doorway . Edging into the hall, she peeped into the sitting room to find Ramona rotating upside down on the pole, gripping it between astonishingly high platform shoes and dressed in a barely there leotard. Cassie gaped as she spun downwards, supporting her entire weight using only her stomach muscles, then performed aerial splits and lowered her legs slowly down to the ground. Cassie spontaneously burst into applause, narrowly escaping scalding herself with the small tidal wave of coffee. Ramona looked up in surprise and smiled.
‘Oh my God, that was incredible. I mean, where did you learn to do those acrobatics? You’re a total gymnast, even apart from the dance routine.’
She expected Ramona to light up in response to her enthusiasm and was just a little disappointed at the low-key reaction.
‘Yeah, I grew up doing gymnastics back home. I used to compete a lot as a kid.’
‘Your family must have been so proud of you .?.?. you’re sensational.’
Ramona shrugged. ‘They weren’t really around much, and my grandma used to just put me in a cab. I mean, it worked fine. Until it didn’t.’
‘So, you’d nobody to cheer you on?’
‘Like those dance moms who live entirely through their little sprogs? No, I didn’t have one of those.’
There was a wistfulness in her tone. It struck Cassie that Ramona mightn’t have minded being fussed over. What she’d got was travelling alone in a taxi.
‘Hey, fancy half a pastrami roll? Finn’s cooking for me tonight so I’m saving myself.’ She did a little hula dance with the roll.
‘You’re on, I’m freaking starving.’
The pair of them trooped into the kitchen, where Ramona shoved a pod into the coffee maker and whipped two plates out of the cupboard, all in what seemed like a single movement. She was phenomenally well co-ordinated, that was for sure.
‘So where do you perform?’
‘I’m with an agency, we get hired for big events like corporate conferences. Which is just code for being perved at, but hey, all part of the job.’
Cassie laughed.
Just then Ramona noticed her outfit. ‘Girl, you’re looking like you’ve been put through a refit. Who are you now, corporate Barbie?’
Cassie chuckled. ‘Thanks for noticing, it’s teacher Barbie, actually.’
She explained the whole saga of the interview and it actually felt such a relief to unload her feelings over strong coffee, scrumptious sandwich and Ramona’s bullshit-free gaze.
‘Sounds wholesome, I like it. Don’t think I could do it but, you know, part of me envies you.’ Again, Cassie detected the loneliness in Ramona’s tone.
‘Really? If I could do what you do, I’d swap.’
‘You wouldn’t, trust me. Once you get used to doing anything, it’s a job. You must know that from acting.’
Cassie nodded. It was true. This was an incredibly hard way to make money, however enviable and magical it might require your body to become.
‘So, you’re seeing your beau this evening for a special date. What’re you going to wear?’
‘Jeans and a black top?’
‘ Stop! ’ Ramona raised her palm. ‘Don’t offend my ears. Girlfriend, this is a Thursday night and therefore pre-weekend , and therefore you have to look bewitching with your killer figure in your most alluring outfit. You have got to stun him.’
Cassie let her mind wander over her sensible, well-washed underwear, her cosy jumpers, graphic tees and stripy tops. None of it seemed quite up to the job of stunning anyone. Ramona could see her hesitation.
‘Don’t panic. We can salvage this. Trust me.’
Cassie had the feeling she was being sucked into Ramona’s world, which was going to leave her own humdrum version of life face down in the dust.
‘Girlfriend, we are going to turn you into a goddess , you are going to go out of here this evening on another level . He will not recognise you.’
Cassie could hear alarm bells at the idea of being unrecognisable; on the other hand, Ramona’s confidence was infectious. Seriously, what could go wrong?
Under her flatmate’s surveillance, Cassie went through her drawers and pulled out a tangle of lacy underwear. They settled on a silver-and-aqua set from Victoria’s Secret which she’d fallen in love with the previous year in a moment of excitement after hearing she’d been booked for the deodorant job. The labels were still on, so she’d never worn the items, which said something about how much time she’d spent with Gav in the last few months.
‘These are passable,’ announced Ramona, now leafing through her wardrobe. She fished out a red satin mini slip dress with diamanté straps which was perfect for either a heaving nightclub or a country with a climate considerably warmer than this one.
‘Perfect, now what about shoes?’
Cassie was dragged into Ramona’s room and saw it in its totality for the first time. It looked more like the wardrobe department for Cirque du Soleil than the average person’s bedroom. Angel wings, silver boots, wigs, an ominous-looking Crocodile Dundee whip – not to mention a five-foot-high Perspex champagne glass which was currently full of richly coloured feather boas and ostrich fans.
‘Ramona, is that for .?.?.?’
‘My burlesque act. Only damn problem is travelling with it. Try hauling that lot through airport security. I’m going to have to find someone to make one for me in the States.’
In a bowl on the dressing table were a number of objects she didn’t recognise.
‘Sorry for being nosy, but what are those C-shaped things? Are they hair accessories?’
Ramona looked at her in astonishment and then burst out laughing.
‘No, sweetie, the other end – they just keep everything in place during my act.’
‘Right, gotcha.’
Cassie felt a bit silly – what else were these, after all, but Ramona’s normal work clothes.
‘Now, these’ll be fun.’
She pulled a couple of pairs of sky-high platform ankle boots off a rack and headed back to Cassie’s room. As it happened, they were about the right size. Cassie slipped into the red netting, six-inch heels and laced them up. They felt surprisingly stable when she tried to walk in them.
‘Course, they are, they’re dance shoes. I mean, you’re going to look a klutz if you go over on your ankle in the middle of your act. OK, now, I’m going to do your makeup. Do you trust me?’
What the hell, it was a drizzly grey Irish day.
‘Just make me sparkle.’
Ramona applied a smooth layer of light-reflecting foundation, followed by skilfully swept eyeliner. By the end of thirty minutes of elaborate brushstrokes, blending and shading, Ramona swung the chair around for Cassie to catch sight of herself in the professional makeup mirror.
‘Is that me?’
The exotic, stunning creature staring back at her was unrecognisable from the neat, modest little temporary teacher she’d been costumed for that morning. She was back in another costume.
‘It’s fabulous. If you ever want to give up performing, you can just become a makeup artist,’ said Cassie.
Ramona looked genuinely proud of herself.
‘He’s going to go crazy when he sees you, chick, just you wait.’