Chapter 28
Twenty-eight
WE DIDN’T TELL ANYONE.
We lived in snatched moments. Our first kiss: brief, lovely, alone in a music practice space in the basement later that day.
A feeling of . . . safety. Hands held beneath rolls of costume.
Charged looks across the rehearsal room.
We had a week until term ended, a week and a half until I was going back up North for Christmas.
Looking back, it was short, painfully short.
We took our Macbeth scene to Malcolm on Tuesday.
He approved it straight away. He said it was a strong choice and one that would show off our casting well.
He suggested cutting a few lines to fit the showcase timings and that we should still find a short monologue each, just a paragraph or so of something modern to contrast.
‘Shannon, you should look for something northern.’
‘Northern – like what?’
‘Oh, you know, something working class; the miners’ strike, I can’t afford an abortion, they’ve cut my benefits, something like that.’
‘And what should I look for?’
‘Obi, look for something urban.’
‘. . . Right.’
Victoria had no idea what was going on. We never discussed it, but we both knew she mustn’t find out.
Despite this, she was suddenly everywhere and seemingly desperate to involve herself in my life again.
She had a spare plus-one to a movie premiere, could I join her?
She needed to go over some lines, could I help her?
She had to choose a dress for the press night of Dexter’s mum’s new play, could I come over?
I finally agreed to go Christmas shopping with her a week before I was due back up North.
I was meant to be having lunch with Obi that day, but I was running out of ways to say no to her.
There wasn’t much point in me being there.
I was skint and had already bought my parents ten-quid gift sets from Boots.
I told Victoria this, to which she shrugged and said: ‘But darling, you’ve got such good taste. I need your discerning eye.’
We went to Oxford Street. I walked behind her, panting and trying to keep up as she weaved between slow-moving shoppers. Victoria had an apparently endless list of people to buy for, each requiring something exquisite and one-of-a-kind.
Victoria was spritzing herself with Chanel N°5 in Selfridges when she came out with the real reason I was there.
‘I had an audition last week – an important one – and I’ve got a recall.’
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘good for you.’
‘Yes, and I need your help.’
She continued walking, leading me past tubes, pastes and creams promising soft, enduring immortality; elegant gold compacts that snapped shut like clam shells; starched and stanchioned shop assistants; and powders, a billion shades of beige.
She turned towards the escalator and hopped on.
I followed behind her but hesitated, suddenly afraid of the stairs’ sharp, ever-disgorging teeth.
‘Hurry up, I’ve got loads to get and not much time. I’ve got to be at Dexter’s by six.’
I stepped on and we rose up past a row of mirrors. Victoria’s reflection continued, ‘Anyway, it’s a new RSC adaptation of Jane Eyre and I’m up for Jane.’
I gripped the black belt to steady myself. The store was suddenly too hot, too busy. Warm air blasted down on us. My skin prickled with moisture. I pulled my scarf off, but the feeling of constriction, of sticky wool, clung to my neck. How had this happened? Jane was my character. Me.
Victoria carried on. ‘And at the initial audition, they told me that my accent could use a bit of work, and obviously you’re from around there, like up North and stuff, and so I thought you could help.’
‘Right,’ I said. My voice sounded slow; my tongue felt thick and useless in my mouth.
We reached the top. Ahead of us lay stand after stand of elegant ornaments: impractical, dainty, expensive.
Victoria drifted between the displays, lightly grazing her fingers over each item as she passed.
I held my coat close to my sides, fearful that I might break something, fearful that I might break.
‘And, well, it’s not just the accent.’ She picked up a crystal flower girl. ‘Do you like this?’
‘It’s fine.’
She placed it back down again. The girl stood askew.
She continued, ‘The thing is . . .’ She threw her head back and sighed, looking faintly embarrassed.
‘I know that I’m like middle class – upper-middle class or whatever, I don’t even know any more.
Class is such an outdated concept, don’t you think? ’ she said, glancing over her shoulder.
I said nothing. I didn’t know my line.
‘But whatever I am, Jane probably isn’t the same class as me.’
I remained mute, like the flower girl, frozen beneath Victoria’s careless touch.
‘And so, I thought maybe you could help me get into the mindset of like not having had as much growing up.’ Victoria clasped a hand over her mouth and spun around. ‘Oh God, no, that came out all wrong. Ugh, I’m so sorry, Shannon, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.’
‘I had plenty growing up,’ I said evenly, trying not to betray the nausea curdling in my stomach.
‘No, absolutely, of course you did, I didn’t mean it like that, of course, like I know you weren’t poor,’ she said, whispering the word as if it were catching.
‘Obviously both your parents worked, and like you had holidays and food and toys and stuff.’ She laughed, a high-pitched needling sound.
‘I just meant that’ – she tilted her head to one side – ‘I just meant that we’re from slightly different worlds, right? ’
I shrugged. Although I was swaddled in my winter coat, a jumper, jeans and two pairs of socks, I felt exposed, naked beneath my carefully chosen layers.
‘So will you help me?’ she said, gripping my gloved hands between hers. ‘I need you, Shannon. This part, well, it’s a big deal for me.’
I could feel the pressure of her fingers tightening around my own. I could see myself nodding, hear myself saying yes to her demands, over and over and over again.
‘Thank you,’ she said. Her face broke out into a smile. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you. You know you mean so much to me, Shannon, don’t you?’
‘You too.’
Victoria gave my hand a quick squeeze and began moving through the stands again.
She started telling me about the play she was seeing that evening.
‘It’s a new piece. A farce, I think. Dex’s mum plays this peasant woman who rises through the ranks to become queen.
They’ve been having some problems with the set, though.
The revolve keeps malfunctioning.’ She stopped before a shelf of jewellery boxes.
She reached for a jade leather one. ‘This would be perfect for my niece. I wonder if I can get it monogrammed?’ She tucked it beneath her arm and, without even glancing at the price, headed for the till.