Chapter 28
Roger Newcombe was definitely wearing the same jacket again this week, and definitely the same pair of shoes, God love him, as Mam would say. He met Cassie in his office on Monday morning, looking sheepish, and explained that Miss Upton wasn’t well but would be in by break time. She replied agreeably that it was no problem but did notice Helen, the secretary, shooting a jaundiced expression towards his back. Not to worry – no Marisha meant a hassle-free morning, although Cassie had to admit that her attitude had softened considerably in recent weeks.
The class began rehearsing. Cassie had composed a rock ’n’ roll routine which included Rowley belting out some early Elvis-style lyrics through a crackly microphone. He and Ahmed, who was now playing the part of the giant’s electric guitar, rather than the harp, were learning what could potentially be a showstopping routine, if only Rowley could remember the steps and Ahmed didn’t keep tripping over both of their feet.
The show was scheduled for two weeks’ time and shaping up to be a far cry from the original sedate affair. It might veer in the direction of outrageous, but look, wasn’t that what everyone dreamed of, a bit of excitement in an otherwise mundane world?
At break time Cassie spotted Marisha’s car pulling into the car park. She traipsed into the classroom, looking tired and wan, as Cassie tidied up after the set builders.
‘Cassie, look at the marvellous work you’ve all been doing. Listen, I really wanted to catch you on your own. My daughter Samantha told me this weekend what had transpired between you last week. She didn’t tell me at the time because I think she felt guilty. I know she can seem a little .?.?. harsh, but she’s a good girl. It’s all just been very hard on her, you know, at fourteen you’re not one thing or another, it’s such a difficult age.’
‘Marisha, I get it. I’m not trying to take anything from anyone. That’s what I wanted to tell her. I would have been exactly the same if my parents had split up, worse probably.’
‘Well, mine did split up when I was fourteen so, unfortunately, I know exactly what she’s going through.’
Nonetheless, there was something about the streetwise Samantha that put Cassie on alert. Although she was undoubtedly a vulnerable, remorseful teenager underneath, Samantha was clearly taking advantage of her parents’ guilt and calling the shots. It wasn’t that long since Cassie had been fourteen herself.
Marisha, in the meantime, seemed to have flipped back into professional mode.
‘I think you might need to collect the children, the bell is about to go,’ she announced briskly.
Cassie really wanted to like Marisha; the only problem was, how could you like someone who was treating you as a confidante one minute and a minion the next?
*?*?*
Shortly after three o’clock, Cassie was reversing out from her parking space in the school car park, when a call came through. The number was familiar, though she hadn’t seen it for a while, so she quickly pulled up to a safe spot at the side of the road.
The projected voice practically leaped down the line. ‘Hi, darling, it’s Sunita from London, remember me? Surprise, surprise. How’re you getting on in little old Ireland?’
Cassie was genuinely delighted to hear Sunita, who’d taken over the agency after Bea’s passing.
‘Sweetie, what a pleasure to hear from you. All good here, what’s up?’
‘Well, if you’re not sitting down, find a chair. I just got a call from the BBC ten minutes ago to say they’d seen an old tape of yours and they’re interested in you trying out for a part on Wentworth Way . How about that?’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘Not at all, I’m going to ping you over the details. And absolutely no disclosure, complete confidentiality, I know I can trust you. They want the tape for Wednesday, close of business, all right? Get back to me later, sweetheart.’
And she was gone.
Wow. That came from outer space. Cassie should’ve been delighted, she realised, but right now, with everything else that was going on, the whole idea felt exhausting. On the other hand, it was a fantastic opportunity.
She waited until the email came through and scanned the script. It was a good storyline. Great, in fact. It wasn’t just a blink-and-you-miss-it affair, this was actually the really meaty, really nice part of a woman who’d just got out of prison and was trying to restart her life. She began to feel a fizz of excitement and a surge of possibility. Just then the familiar, creeping doubt raised its head. How many times had she been in this situation? Endless audition tapes, endless hopes, only to have them dashed yet again.
All of a sudden, she felt a wave of loneliness and yearned to talk to someone who’d understand. Mam would tell her to have more sense, and anyone else she could think of would have some sort of a vested interest. Then it hit her, the last time she’d been phoned at home by her London agent was that horrible day when she’d lost little Miri in the supermarket and thought she’d ruined everything. But that had been a lifetime ago. She needed someone whose judgement she trusted but who’d give her sound professional advice .?.?. There was only one person she could think of.
‘Phil?’
‘Cassandra, I’m hearing nothing but great things about you from Roger Newcombe.’
‘About that, Phil, it might all be getting a little complicated.’
She explained to him about the phone call from her agent and her confusion. He listened carefully, without interrupting.
‘And the thing is, Phil, it’s a really good part.’
‘And do you want to do it?’
She sighed audibly.
‘Or maybe d’you not want to put yourself in that position again?’
Philip really got it, in fairness.
‘Something like that.’
‘OK, what if I said to you that it wouldn’t be the same as before, because now, whether you get it or not, it can’t make or break you.’
‘You think I should do it, Phil?’
She braced herself for an evasive answer, but after a long pause he replied, ‘What I’m hearing is that you’d love to go for it but you’re afraid. And what I think is that it’s come to you, you’ve earned it, so don’t turn away from it. Sure, make the tape, send it off .?.?. and let it go. Isn’t that what Ecclesiastes says: cast your bread upon the waters?’
‘I thought that referred to doing good without expecting a definite reward, sort of thing?’
‘Let’s just say, your talent is a gift to the world, so if you’re asked to share it, don’t question too closely, just do it.’
There was something about his words that reached beyond the surface. She felt a wave of peace.
‘Thanks, Phil, that really helps.’
*?*?*
She trailed in the door of her apartment that evening, hauling a big bag of art materials to make props. Ramona was scrolling on her laptop with an unusual intensity.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Booking flights to my new life.’
Cassie’s heart jolted. ‘What? You’re leaving?’
‘No, I’m starting a new business. It’s going to be a clothing and accessory line based on my online presence, and it’s going to be aimed at women twenty-five and upwards who aren’t afraid to dress for their fantasies.’
‘Wow!’ Cassie privately thought that sounded a little risky, given that people’s fantasies were inclined to vary; however, what Ramona actually meant was that she’d define the fantasies, and her customers would buy the outfits. Well, it’d worked so far with her influencer career, so she was perfectly poised to launch the clothing line. In fact, it was a bloody great idea.
‘Yah, I’ve been on to Grandma and she’s all over the idea. So, I’m going to China to source a pattern cutter who’ll prepare my designs and then, of course, I’ll need a factory for manufacture and distribution .?.?.’
‘Jeepers, you decided all of this since .?.?. what, ten o’clock this morning?’
She was clearly out of her funk.
‘When I go, I go.’ Ramona glanced over the top of the screen. ‘You look chipper, what’s up?’ After swearing her to secrecy, Cassie explained about the BBC soap that she wasn’t allowed to name, and how she was going to need help videoing herself and sending it off.
‘And you think present company might help you with that?’
‘Please?’
‘Are you kidding me? Wotcher, me old China plate,’ she began, in an excruciating cockney accent.
*?*?*
That evening, when she was supposed to be crafting an electric guitar out of cardboard and twine, she started learning the three scenes she had to record. The accent required was her own, so she decided there was no point in over-stressing about it. Instead, she focused on learning the lines so thoroughly that she could forget about them, which generally took more time than she had. Miraculously, Ramona came up with the solution.
‘All you gotta do is record the scenes on your iPhone, then you tap share, then you select “Loop Playback” and then you can play them on repeat all night at low volume as you catch your Zs,’ announced Ramona. ‘It’s how they teach dudes foreign languages for the military, scientifically proven. You’re welcome.’
The following afternoon she and Ramona set up the phone camera. Cassie was dressed in a hoodie and ripped jeans, and had rubbed a bit of Vaseline into her hair to look downbeat. She’d almost forgotten the excitement of creating a character. Ramona assembled the impressive collection of lights she kept for her posts and created a professional-looking corner where she’d be well-lit.
‘Boy, you look like shit, it’s perfect,’ Ramona commented.
‘OK, you have to read the in-between lines to give me the cues. And not in that atrocious accent you put on, for feck’s sake.’
‘Aw, please? Can’t I just throw in, “ Cor blimey, she’s been banged up in the Rusty Nail! ”’
‘ No! Now stop messing.’
There was something about Ramona’s cockiness and irreverence that leeched the stress out of the situation. It turned out her tip about the sleep had been spot on and the lines felt securely in Cassie’s head so that she could just play the scenes as spontaneously as possible. After two takes, they had it.
‘That was really good, really natural. I’d have believed you’d done time.’ Ramona sounded mildly astonished. Between them, they uploaded the clips to the appropriate platform and hit send.
Cassie punched the air with her fist, feeling strangely at peace. She’d made the decision not to hope and stress, as she’d done in the past. She’d cast her bread upon the waters and that would have to do. She wasn’t going to tell anyone either; the last thing she wanted was well-meaning people constantly asking if she’d heard any news. Say nothing and let it take care of itself, she decided.