Chapter 10
Ten
I did the same the next year.
And the year after that.
ALESSANDRO PROMOTED ME TO head waitress among our small team of four. I was paid an extra quid each hour and given my pick of the shifts.
I FOUND AN ARMCHAIR left out on the street. I dragged it home and squeezed it into the only available space in my room.
I VISITED THE LIbrARY every Friday. I read more books.
AS EACH YEAR PASSED, my world shrank a little more.
Slowly I was disappearing, scraping my presence from other people’s lives.
Jolly muscled through my solitude occasionally, but he was the only person I really spoke to outside the cafe.
We’d meet up every now and again, our conversations following a similar pattern.
He’d tell me what he’d been up to, who he was shagging, which auditions he’d gone up for and which bastard had thwarted his chances this time, while I’d sip the grande latte he’d bought me and make small noises of agreement.
‘It was this arsehole I see at every audition.’
‘The one that looks like you?’
‘He doesn’t look like me, he’s just a skinny little twink who seems to get every bloody part I go up for. It’s a conspiracy, Shannon, I’m telling you.’
Then he’d tell me about how fucked the industry was and how everything was stacked against him, how it wasn’t fair, how he was way more talented than all the other weaselly cunts he’d see at auditions, how they’d never said it would be like this at drama school, that they never told us how hard it would be.
‘I mean, I know Frida and Malcolm thought I had zero versatility, but I thought I’d at least get some stuff, you know?’
I responded with the correct interjections, playing the perfect conversationalist, but really, during those conversations I was barely listening.
After the Pamela Swift workshop, like amputating a gangrenous limb, I’d cut myself off from the industry entirely.
I nodded along, letting Jolly’s bitter words wash over me like raw sewage, knowing that ultimately it would all drain away in the end.
I worked in a cafe.
I read books.
I had a chair.
That’s who I was now.
THREE YEARS TO THE day after showcase, Obi messaged me asking if I wanted to grab a drink. It’s been too long. I was so startled to see his name come up on the screen that I texted him yes immediately.
We met in central London, at one of those places that think the more uncomfortable the seating, the better the coffee. I found a thin, roughly hewn bench at the back of the shop and waited for him to arrive.
A bell rang, the crowd shuffled forward, and then suddenly, there he was.
I gripped my knees and plastered what I hoped was a friendly smile onto my face.
He raised his eyebrows and gestured at the menu board.
Cappuccino, I mouthed in response. He nodded and, a few minutes later, came over carrying two cups and saucers.
‘Hi there.’
‘Hi.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, taking the cup from his hands.
‘Good to see you.’
‘You too.’
He climbed onto the bench opposite. We smiled at one another. He clicked his neck and ripped open a tab of sugar. I sipped my drink. It was still far too hot.
As he stirred, I stole a glance at him. His arms were thicker.
I looked at his wallet open on the table.
A gym ID peeked out from the cracked black leather.
His head was clean-shaven, his stubble kempt.
He looked different, although I suppose to his eyes I must have done too.
I wondered what my days of wiping tables and dragging a mop along the floor had done to me, whether he could see the lines of drudgery and sop-water etched into my face.
‘How have you been?’ he asked, taking a sip and replacing the cup in its saucer.
I answered briefly: cafe, books, chair. Obi frowned as I told him about finding the chair on the street, probably wondering why I was bothering to mention it at all.
Still, he listened politely. When I finished, I felt my cheeks colour, suddenly ashamed of the few crumbs of life I had to share with him.
‘What about you?’ I asked.
His answer was more detailed. He was still living at his mum’s.
He worked most evenings at a bar in Peckham and occasionally helped out at an after-school youth club.
He was still acting. He’d switched agents.
His current one had got him a handful of auditions; some commercials, not much theatre, a bit of TV.
He told me he had a small part in a historical drama coming up on Channel 4 in the autumn, that he’d been cast as some rich dude’s servant.
He shrugged as he told me this, his gaze distant.
I told him that was great, that it was great news he was still acting. ‘Do you have any lines?’ I asked him.
‘No.’ He shrugged again. His mouth twitched. ‘It’s fine. It is what it is.’
We spoke about drama school. I asked him if he was still in touch with anyone.
‘Yeah, some people. Matt, Archie, Poppy, Jolly occasionally. People come and go. It’s hard to keep track of them all sometimes.’
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve only really seen Jolly.’
He told me then that he was still in contact with Frida too, that she sometimes asked him back to assist with the intake auditions.
He said he liked helping out, that he enjoyed seeing all the fresh, bright-eyed actors coming through the doors.
‘They look so young, though,’ he said. ‘I look at them and think, were we ever that young?’
‘It feels like a lifetime ago.’
‘Yeah, we thought we were such big shots, but we were babies. They come in with all these ideas about who they are, what they’re going to achieve.
But then I guess they get stuck into first term and the real work begins.
’ He shook his head. ‘That’s when Frida gets her hands on them and straightens them out. ’
I nodded, considering his words. ‘Does she need to, though?’
‘What?’
‘Straighten them out.’
Obi thought for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘Maybe they’d be better off if they were left alone, with that first bit of talent they came in with. Happier.’
‘Maybe.’
Obi was silent. I drained my cup and stared at the milky residue around the rim.
Obi rubbed his hand across his scalp and glanced at his watch.
His eyes seemed to glaze over and I knew then that he thought coming here had been a mistake.
Whatever flame he’d hoped to rekindle, of friendship, love or even the thin warmth of nostalgia had long since sputtered out.
I didn’t want him to go just yet, to leave things like this. I pulled out my purse, wondering if the fiver I’d brought would stretch to two drinks.
As if reading my mind, Obi got up. ‘Same again?’ he asked.
I hesitated, then shook my head.
‘No worries,’ Obi said, noticing the thin fabric purse gripped tight within my fist. ‘Do you want a tap water or something?’
I smiled, grateful for his tact. ‘Yes, thank you.’
Obi returned and slid the water across the table.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘No worries.’
I cradled the glass. ‘I think I owe you an apology.’
‘What for?’ Obi replied, the latte halfway to his lips.
‘Showcase.’
Obi took a sip. A line of foam remained along his top lip. ‘No need.’ He licked it away.
‘There is. I messed our scene up and I left you hanging, and I can’t really explain why or what happened, but I’m sorry.’
‘Look’ – Obi shook his head – ‘yeah, I was mad at the time. But I’m over it.
Honestly, Shannon, it’s fine. Sometimes crappy things happen and we can’t explain them and we can get mad and curse the sky or whatever, but really, it’s pretty pointless.
’ He sighed. ‘I know you didn’t do it on purpose, to hurt me, and besides, I’m not sure it even really made much of a difference. ’
‘Still, you deserved better. I mean, Victoria would never have messed up like that.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Obi sighed and bowed his head. ‘You’re still doing it then?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Comparing yourself to her,’ he said. ‘Even after all this time.’
Shame crackled through me. ‘I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to forget her.’
Obi brushed a flake of pastry to the floor. ‘That’s something you just sort of need to work out, I guess,’ he muttered, glancing at the door.
I could feel the walls going up again, feel him cloaking himself in some impenetrable fabric, blocking me out.
I knew he would leave soon, that he’d make his excuses and it might be months, years even, before I ever got to speak with him again.
But I was done with being shut out. I was done with tiptoeing around him and only getting half the story.
‘Why wouldn’t you sleep with me?’
Obi looked at me, surprised. ‘What?’
‘You slept with her, I know you did. So, why not me? What’s wrong with me?’
‘What?’ He looked confused. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with you.’ He sighed and rubbed his face. ‘And I never slept with Victoria.’
‘I thought you . . .’ I felt something compress inside my chest. ‘You didn’t?’
‘No.’ Obi picked up a packet of sugar and cleared his throat. He suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘I, err, don’t believe in that, err, before marriage.’
‘Oh.’
He tore open the packet and swirled the sugar into his drink. ‘I thought you knew,’ he mumbled.
‘I didn’t. You never told me.’
‘But you’ve been round my house,’ he said, a defensive tremor in his voice. ‘You must’ve seen all the stuff on the walls, the big cross above the sofa in the sitting room. Or the fact we say grace, go to church. I thought it was obvious.’
‘I thought all that was just for your mum.’
Obi, not looking at me, shook his head.
‘But you and Victoria—’
‘Me and Victoria had something, yeah – a relationship, sort of. It’s hard to explain without . . .’ He trailed off. ‘Look, if I tell you something then, like, know I’m telling you to help you move on, so you can stop beating yourself up – forgive yourself, forgive her.’
‘OK.’