Chapter 30
Thirty
THE ROOMS WERE COMING along. Slowly the layers of decay were being stripped away, peeling back their dirt-encrusted skin to reveal walls and walls of blank possibilities, of a thousand fresh starts.
When I entered the house, the air was sharp with ammonia.
The smell made my eyes water. But it was good.
I felt cleansed by the newly whitened walls, the promise of something different on the horizon, something better.
But there was still one room I avoided, one room I hadn’t dared enter. I knew it was silly, that it was two years since Victoria and Obi had slept in there, but the memory refused to dissipate.
I couldn’t sleep.
Don’t worry.
Come here.
I shook the words away and tried to remind myself that, despite the fact Victoria had very pointedly not chosen me, Obi had.
It was me who he rang every evening when he got home from the front-of-house job he’d taken over Christmas at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane; me who he told about his day, babysitting his cousins, drafting showcase invites, playing video games with his brothers; me who he told about his two-bus journey to work and the puffed-up audience members he encountered during the interval, swarming around his tray and barking orders at him for six-pound tubs of ice cream.
‘You know some of them pay thousands to sit in the stalls, them and their entire families, and for what? Like two and a half hours of theatre. It’s mad.’
‘If you were rich though, wouldn’t you do the same?’
Obi thought for a moment. The line crackled. ‘You know, I don’t think I would. I mean, I love theatre and everything, but there are so many things in life I want to do, so many other things I’d rather spend my money on, you know?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘You can get just as good a view from the gods.’
‘Or from onstage,’ Obi said. ‘Hopefully one day.’
‘Yes. One day.’
I enjoyed those conversations; they stole the chill from my nights alone, curled up in bed. But I still couldn’t erase the images of Obi and Victoria painted behind my eyes. Surely after her I could only ever be a consolation prize, the wooden spoon on awards day.
Obi and I hadn’t slept together yet. There hadn’t been time. Victoria had made sure of that. There was one evening when I thought maybe it might happen, but when I started to unbuckle his belt, he put his hands on my shoulders and gently steered me off his lap.
‘Slow down, that was a big meal we just ate.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Have you ever played Vice City?’
‘Huh?’
‘Grand Theft Auto.’
‘The one where you run over prostitutes?’
‘Yeah, but it’s more than that. Look.’ Obi got up and retrieved the controller from under his bed. ‘It’s a classic. You’re going to love this.’
And later that evening.
‘Woah, woah, what’s your hurry?’
‘I’m not in a hurry – I just like you.’
‘I like you too.’
‘But you don’t want to—?’
‘Look, you know what, it’s late. Maybe you should think about getting home. There’s a night bus that goes from right past here. Mum will box you up some curry.’
I stood outside the room they’d slept in, the room they’d fucked in. I touched the handle and shut my eyes. I’d heard scratching coming from there which I could no longer ignore. Whether it was mice, rats or the pacing figure of Victoria, I needed to be rid of them, ghosts or no ghosts.
I pushed open the door. There were cobwebs in the corners, a layer of dust coating the duvet, a rusted exercise bike, and some mouldering linens shoved under the eaves. The room was just a room. But for the trail of droppings leading under the bed, I was completely alone.
I tied my hair up and crouched down on my hands and knees.
I pulled back the frilly valance and peered under the bed.
The floor was spotted with tufts of loft insulation and ribbons of newspaper.
Mice. I stood up and heaved the bed away from the wall.
But as I did, I noticed something: writing on the wall.
I squatted between the bedhead and the wall panel to see the felt-tip markings of a child snaking up the plaster.
Wen I grow up I wont to be an actress. I will hav long herr and ware prity dresis and I will stand on the stayj and peepil will clap and frow flowers at me. I will hav lots of muney and everywon will love me very much.
Below, there was a stick figure with curly hair rolling down to her ankles. She was holding a triangular bouquet of flowers. A Mr Happy smile escaped from the pen lines of her face.
I stared at the panel. I had no memory of drawing it. A lump swelled in my throat. What optimism that little girl must have felt. I wanted to unpeel the image, the words, the boundless smile, from the wall and press them like a tattoo against my chest.
Just then I heard a loud bang from downstairs. I stood up, nearly hitting my head against the slanting pitch of the ceiling. I waited, rooted to the spot. Silence, then more banging, and voices, unmistakable voices.
I ran from the room and – trying to avoid the spiked teeth where a new carpet had yet to be installed – thundered down the stairs. I threw open the front door.
‘No Bolly this time, I’m afraid,’ Victoria said. ‘Just us.’
Frustratingly, she looked lovely. Her hair was damp from the cold and her eyes had a smudged, faraway look to them. She pulled me into her arms and air-kissed my cheeks. ‘Hello, darling.’
Jolly bounded up the path behind her. ‘God, you couldn’t have waited two seconds for me, V?’ He stepped inside the hallway. ‘Roll on 2012, baby! Happy New Year, Shan. Oh no, wait, are we even allowed to say that yet?’
‘Not until midnight,’ Victoria replied, her cold cheek still pressed against my own.
‘Shit, is it bad luck or something?’ Jolly asked. ‘Have I cursed you with seven years’ bad sex?’
‘You’ve haven’t cursed Shannon,’ she replied. ‘You might’ve damned yourself though.’
‘Like I’m not already damned.’
‘Just shut up for a minute and come here,’ I said, pulling him into the hug. ‘What the hell are you both doing here? You should’ve called ahead.’ I meant to sound chastising but couldn’t contain my bewildered glee.
‘Call ahead?’ Victoria pouted. ‘When have I ever called ahead?’
‘I could’ve got stuff in,’ I gabbled, leading them through the house. ‘There’s loads of food at home, the cupboards are empty here. I can call my dad. Or we can go into town. Oh, but I guess the shops won’t be open now, will they? Wait, don’t touch the walls. New paint.’
‘Chill, Shan. V’s got half of Fortnum’s in the boot,’ Jolly said, rolling his eyes.
‘Really?’
‘My brother and his wife never know what to get me,’ Victoria said, heading into the living room and collapsing onto a plastic-covered armchair. ‘So every year: a fucking hamper.’
‘Fortnum’s?’ I said. ‘V, no, that’s too generous.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m on a diet for the role.’
‘She wants to be an impoverished waif,’ Jolly trilled.
‘Really?’
Victoria patted the flat line of her stomach. ‘Trust me, Shan, you’ll be doing me a favour.’
‘I hope you’ve actually looked inside it,’ Jolly said, retrieving a half-drunk bottle of zinfandel from his bag. ‘It better not be just damson chutneys. I’m starving.’ He unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He caught my eye. ‘Don’t worry, there’s more booze in the car.’
Jolly and I went outside. He unlocked the boot. ‘She’s been insufferable,’ he whispered.
‘Who, V?’
‘Who else? She’s not stopped going on about Dexter and meeting this person and this person and, oh God, the Jane Eyre stuff.
’ Jolly shook his head. ‘I didn’t even think she cared about doing theatre.
But now she’s all like, “Of course, you can’t really call yourself a proper actor until you’ve worked at the RSC.
” I’ve no idea how she’s getting seen for Jane. She’s not right for it at all.’
‘I don’t know, she might be good,’ I said unconvincingly.
‘Have you heard her accent, Shan? She sounds like an extra in Kes, and a piss-poor one at that. It’s embarrassing.’
It was true. Her accent was appalling. I’d half-heartedly tried to help, but it was a lost cause.
In the end, I let her staccato consonants and pancake-flat vowels slide.
I don’t know, maybe a small part of me saw it as revenge, payback for the part that should’ve been mine.
Let her make a fool of herself. I wasn’t her accent coach and I certainly wasn’t her girlfriend. Victoria wasn’t my problem.
Jolly hefted the wicker hamper from the boot and I grabbed the opposite handle.
‘God, what’s in this thing?’ he said. ‘It’s like we’re in fucking Wind in the Willows or something.
’ We carried it to the door. ‘Anyway, don’t mention I said anything,’ Jolly whispered.
‘I mean, she’s a conceited ass, but she’s our conceited ass. ’
‘I won’t.’
Once the hamper and Londis’s finest were inside, I laid an old tablecloth across the bare floorboards of the sitting room and retrieved the white pillar candles Mum had bought from IKEA for when people came to view the house.
I lit them in a circle and we arranged our spoils in the centre, our mad picnic for the end of the world.
Wine, KP nuts, pork scratchings and Frazzles sat alongside foie gras, oat biscuits, plum jelly and Florentines.
How we feasted that night, talking, laughing and drinking as our gestures cast strange poppets on the walls.
I found myself wondering what someone on the outside of this gathering might think, some stranger lost roaming the moor, what they would see if they stumbled across my grandmother’s house with its bare curtain poles and misted windows, its flickering candles and ear-splitting cackles.