Chapter 9
Nine
I LAY IN THE grass while summer unspooled before me; endless, aimless and dull. I held a book above my head, trying to blot out the sun.
The Moving Body by Jacques Lecoq.
I had a stack of reading to do before the new term began. I was staying with Grandma for a few nights while my parents visited friends in Scarborough. I figured I could get it done then.
A sparrow wittered from the hedge. An insect scrambled over my foot.
It was hot. Too hot.
I gave up and placed the book over my nose, inhaling my stale breath from within its pages.
I heard Grandma come outside, the clink of glass, the creak of the deckchair as she settled by the pond. I rolled my head to one side and peeked at her while she leafed through the Morning Star, pushed her sunglasses up her nose, sipped her drink.
I sighed and returned my attention to the same page I’d been stuck on now for the last fifteen minutes.
There are three masks: the one we think we are, the one we really are, and the one we have in common.
Ice cubes. The pale scent of lemonade.
I shut my eyes.
I’d been having this feeling, this odd sensation that my life, my real life, was happening somewhere else. That if I were to return to London now, I’d find another version of myself wandering the corridors, stretching in a rehearsal room or huddled around a picnic bench with my classmates.
On the last day of term, everyone had gathered in the pub to talk and laugh and despair over the travails of the year. I’d tried to join in, to listen and contribute, but my brain was on fire, my mind elsewhere.
Magic.
Frida’s words sat like a talisman against my chest. She had seen me. Frida had seen me, she knew what I was capable of. From now on, things would be different. No one could hurt or undermine me now. No one. I was a fucking witch.
But that was three weeks ago.
Magic. The word – its edges worn smooth, turned over too many times in my mind – was losing its potency, its power to protect.
School felt a long way away. My friends, even further.
Victoria had promised she’d stay in touch.
She was visiting family in Cape Cod over the summer and travelling the East Coast. She said she’d call me and message whenever she could.
She promised me a postcard every week, although I’d long since given up waiting by the door each morning.
I hadn’t mentioned my meeting with Frida yet. I didn’t know how she’d take it. But in the face of my abandonment, some sly part of me longed to find out.
I thought about sending her an email telling her everything.
If I shut my eyes, I could almost picture her reading it, curled up on an oatmeal-coloured sofa in a white clapboard house.
There’d be a glass of red wine on the table; pampas grass in a tall jar.
She’d be relaxed and sun-tired. Her hair tangled and loose.
She’d be wearing a pair of cut-offs and a roll-neck fisherman’s jumper.
She’d hear a ping and then open her laptop to see my name.
She’d click on the email and read everything.
She’d see how much better I was than her.
She’d see that despite everything she had, everything she was, it was me who was the better actress, me who could summon magic.
Her cheeks would burn. Her neck would flush.
She’d feel sick. She’d feel jealous. Maybe she’d cry.
Maybe she’d run from the house in a fury, down to the beach, shedding her clothes as she went.
Maybe she’d jump in the water, a bitter baptism, her body slipping beneath the waves before emerging slick like a seal, the briny ocean wetting her lips.
‘I got a new Puzzler, by the way,’ Grandma said, startling me from my thoughts. ‘Do you fancy doing a crossword?’
‘Why?’ I replied, flustered.
‘Because it’s fun.’
‘I’m a little busy,’ I said, turning onto my front and cracking the spine of the book.
‘Not to worry.’ She took another sip of her drink. ‘Shall we go to the cinema later?’
‘I’m all right, thanks.’
‘Go on. Just think, air conditioning, ice cream . . .’
‘No, thanks.’ I flicked a greenfly from my wrist.
‘Suit yourself.’
I scowled at the words on the page. I didn’t know why I was being so mean, why everything suddenly felt so hopeless. I felt tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision until the sentences all ran into one another.
Grandma got up. I heard the crunch of gravel and the patio door slide shut behind her.
I dumped the book and wiped my eyes.
I picked up my phone.
There were no new messages.
Why hasn’t she messaged?
I checked Facebook. Nothing.
I clicked on Victoria’s last response.
Victoria Parker-Tilley posted 11 days ago
Sorry for late reply. Haha yeah that sounds about right. Beach bonfire tonight with cousins, heading into town for provisions, have become addicted to potato chips – SEND HELP. I’ll call you next week if I get signal x
The phone buzzed in my hand. My heart leapt.
But it was Stefano, not Victoria. A grainy picture.
Sunglasses. Chin shot. Standard. He was the only one who stayed in touch.
I was so bored I almost didn’t mind the distraction.
He’d send some dumb observation or joke and I’d reply, parrying inanities back and forth, aware I needed to hold up my end of the ‘Girlfriend’ contract I’d entered into.
Friday, 30th July at 13:57
Shannon Bell
Looking good
Friday, 30th July at 13:59
Stefano drama school
Guess where I’m heading next week?
Friday, 30th July at 14:01
Shannon Bell
Where
Friday, 30th July at 14:02
Stefano drama school
Rome baby :P
Friday, 30th July at 14:06
Shannon Bell
Cool
Friday, 30th July at 14:07
Stefano drama school
Staying at my uncle’s place
Friday, 30th July at 14:21
Shannon Bell
Nice
Friday, 30th July at 14:23
Stefano drama school
You should come
Friday, 30th July at 14:24
Stefano drama school
Keep me company
I locked the screen, ignored it.
No way.
I wouldn’t go.
I couldn’t.
Could I?
Friday, 30th July at 14:29
Stefano drama school
Got the place to myself, we can see the sights, it’ll be fun haha
Rome. I’d never gone further than France on camping holidays with my parents. The summer was getting away from me. All I’d done so far was help Dad paint a fence, eat far too many Cornettos and take an unhealthy number of naps.
The thought of being alone with Stefano for any length of time made my insides squirm, but I was suffocating here.
Friday, 30th July at 14:35
Stefano drama school
Come on, my treat . . . ;)
I rubbed my eyes and tapped out a reply.