Chapter 3
The key turned in the lock with a hollow click, and Lily stepped into the darkness of her flat.
For a moment, she stood motionless in the doorway, letting the silence envelop her like a shroud.
Outside, London pulsed with its usual frenetic energy – car horns blaring, night buses rumbling past, distant laughter floating up from the pub on the corner.
But here, in the confines of her small Southwark flat, time seemed to stand still.
Just this morning she had happily practised the song with no issues as she got ready.
Lily flicked on the lights, wincing as the sudden brightness assaulted her red and sore eyes, cried out so much they hurt to open.
The shared flat was a study in organised chaos – a testament to two creative souls crammed into a space barely big enough for one.
Sheet music littered every surface, competing for space with dog-eared scripts and a few of her half-empty mugs of long-cold tea.
A garish poster for The Wizard of Oz dominated one wall, a glittery Post-it note stuck to the corner: I’ll bring you back a pair of ruby slippers! x
The sight of his note made Lily’s heart clench.
God, she was really giving herself a pity party, she thought as she shuffled into the tiny kitchenette, filled up the kettle and turned it on.
The dishes from breakfast still sat in the sink – Nigel’s ‘lucky audition mug’ perched precariously atop a stack of plates.
This morning, they’d laughed on the phone, trading show tunes and inside jokes.
Now, the memory felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
He had told her she would nail it, had helped her practise the song a few more times over the phone on FaceTime, ignoring the banging on the floor from below, and she missed him more than ever.
A soft meow drew her attention to the windowsill, where Mr Mistoffelees sat watching her with knowing yellow eyes. ‘At least someone’s glad to see me,’ Lily murmured, reaching out to scratch behind his ears.
The cat butted his head against her hand, his purr a comforting rumble in the oppressive quiet of the flat. For a moment, Lily allowed herself to be soothed by his affection, but as her gaze drifted to the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall, reality came crashing back.
The girl staring back at her looked like a stranger – pale, hollow-eyed, the spark of ambition snuffed out.
Her eyes were swollen and red, her face blotched and her usually bouncy curls hanging limp and lifeless over her shoulders.
Lily turned away quickly, unable to bear the sight of her own defeat.
Her gaze drifted back to the mirror.
She was seventeen again, standing on a rickety stage in the community centre, the heat of the lights making her makeup run.
The final notes of ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ hung in the air, and for a moment, there was silence.
Then, like a wave crashing to shore, the applause erupted.
Her drama teacher, Mrs Wilson, with tears in her eyes, mouthing, ‘Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!’
But truth be told, Lily had once aspired to become a music instructor.
She had been taught by wonderful teachers at school in piano and singing, and she had imagined herself helping people find their voice and learn to play the piano.
In fact, Lily was positive that teaching was her calling.
She’d even started looking into universities with strong music education departments.
However, that all changed when the school’s production of West Side Story took place.
Lily had been cast as Maria, and she was enthralled from the moment she stepped onto the stage. The brilliant lights, the rush of adrenaline, the thunderous applause – it was exhilarating. Suddenly, the concept of teaching felt… less. Less interesting, less glamorous, and less everything.
‘You were born to be on stage, sweetie,’ her mother exclaimed following the performance. ‘You’re going to be a celebrity!’
So Lily’s dreams were waylaid, and she convinced herself that teaching was merely a phase, a backup plan. She was meant for bigger things, to have her name in lights on the West End.
When she started acting school, her teachers supported her new dream. One singing instructor had laughed when someone suggested teaching as a profession. ‘Teaching is for those who can’t make it as performers.’
So Lily had set aside her old desire, burying it behind new goals of fame and fortune. She poured herself into acting and singing, anxious to prove that she possessed the necessary talent to succeed.
But now, her voice mysteriously gone, Lily couldn’t help but question if she’d made the correct decision. She remembered the joy she had felt in assisting others in finding their voice, as well as the satisfaction of developing talent. Had she been too quick to discard that option?
She shook her head and pushed the thought aside. No, she was a performer. She’d worked too hard and made too many sacrifices to quit just now. When her voice returned, she would resume where she had left off. She had to. Hadn’t she?
Lily blinked, and the memories faded, replaced by the harsh reality of her dingy flat. That girl – the one with stars in her eyes and a voice that could shake the rafters – where had she gone? How had she ended up here, a hollowed-out shell of her former self, dreams lying shattered at her feet?
Her phone rang and she saw her mother’s name come up on the phone screen.
She had been calling all afternoon, probably thinking Lily’s silence was a good sign.
She noted there was a call from Paul. He could wait, she thought.
The last thing she needed was her agent screaming bloody murder at her. But she did need to speak to Denise.
She would have to tell her the truth sooner or later.
‘Hi, Mum,’ she said, sitting down on the sofa. She was ready to tell her how terrible it had been, that maybe she wasn’t meant for this life of hustle. That she really needed to stop for a moment and get her bearings.
‘Gran’s in hospital.’ Denise’s voice was tight and strained.
‘A fall, they said. The woman, Mrs Harris or Mrs Douglas, I think, the one who delivers her bread and milk found her. She had knocked herself out. She’s fallen out the front of the house.
Badly grazed her face, needed stiches on her nose and she’s put her dentures through her lip. ’
‘What? Oh my God,’ Lily said, her misery gone with fear replacing it. All thoughts of Les Mis evaporated. She needed to be with Gran immediately.
‘What hospital? I’ll go and see her.’ She stood up and started to look around for her things.
‘She’s in St Vincent’s but she’s awake now and insisting on going home. Your father tried to talk some sense into her and suggested that perhaps she might think about moving into an assisted living home, but she won’t hear about it or even consider any help.’
Lily wasn’t surprised. Granny Violet was the most fiercely independent ninety-seven-year-old in all of Britain. People were surprised when they learned Gran was still independent at ninety-seven but Lily said that no one argued with Gran, not even time. If she had decided something, that was it.
‘I’ll come up tomorrow,’ said Lily realising she needed to sort her life out here and now.
‘She’s going home tomorrow,’ Denise almost screeched down the line. ‘It’ll be too late.’
‘Then I’ll go and see her at home,’ said Lily. ‘Maybe I’ll stay a few days.’
Denise sighed. ‘Okay. That’s probably a good idea. I don’t want her to be alone and have another fall. You can see how she is and then let Dad and I know.’ She paused and then her voice changed to something synthetic, a forced brightness. ‘Now give me some good news. How did the audition go?’
Lily felt the weight of her mother’s expectations on her shoulders, as though she was being pushed into the sofa, and then she thought about this moment and how much being a professional musical theatre performer meant to her mother and made a choice.
‘Fine, I haven’t heard yet. There were some good voices there though, so I’m okay if I don’t get it,’ she lied, keeping her voice bright. Who said she wasn’t a brilliant actress? ‘There were some real talents there.’
As she spoke, she felt the lies almost burn her tongue but now wasn’t about her and the last thing she wanted to do was tell her mother that her voice had disappeared today.
‘None so talented as you,’ her mother said proudly. ‘Okay, well we’re at the hospital now and we’ll take her back to Appleton Green tomorrow and maybe you can come in the afternoon, so she doesn’t feel ambushed.’
‘Okay, I’ll come tomorrow. Bye,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive up.’ She was grateful for her little hatchback that she used when she needed to go to auditions out of London and sometimes she loaned it to friends for a small fee, which kept the insurance paid.
‘Bye, love, let me know if you hear from the Les Mis people,’ Denise said before she ended the call.
Lily looked around the flat. The need to be out of it was all-encompassing. She needed to be somewhere else to work out what was wrong with her voice and the flat in its current state was suffocating.
A few weeks in her grandmother’s cottage in Appleton Green would be the perfect place to get away from London and work out what her voice and mind were doing.
She opened the iPad on the coffee table and typed into the Backstage website where performers put up rooms or flats to rent while they were on tour.
Two-bedroom flat available to rent for 4 weeks. She typed fast and found some photos of the flat when it was clean when she had put up the room on the same website before Nigel moved in. She added the price and particulars and then pressed post.
‘Right,’ she said as she looked around. She put the soundtrack from Annie on the stereo and then rolled her sleeves up and tried to sing along but nothing came out.
She turned off the music, feeling tears forming again, and she wiped her eyes with her new dress.
She would clean the flat so it was spotless, and hopefully the sun would come out again tomorrow and somehow, her voice would come back to her.