Alex crosses his arms in front of his chest. Mummy, nobody knows a real superhero!
I know you, dont I? And youre going to have to sit down properly. No standing on the kitchen chairs. Now, with peanut butter or not? I pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.
Good morning, mate! Allysons dressed in a white towelling bathrobe. She swoops down on Alex, scooping him up in a great big bear-hug. Hey, mister! Wheres my kiss! she demands, tickling him under the arms.
Ewww! Gross! Ugly Aussie girl germs! He giggles hysterically. Ewwwww!
No quarter, mate! Give it up! Say, I love Allyson!
Never! he screams, delighted. Never, ever, ever! You stinky poofter!
I whip round. Hey! Where did you learn that word? Thats not a word I want to hear again, do you understand me? Where did you hear that?
He looks at Allyson who, in turn, stares at her toes. Sorry mate. Mustve been me, she admits. Im really going to try to clean up my language. Promise.
Sometimes I hate being Mom. Well, its not a word I want to hear again from either of you. Do you understand?
They look at each other and giggle.
The toast pops up and Bunny breezes in, carrying a stack of old magazines, which she plops down on the kitchen table. Shes always the first to wake, the one who puts the coffee on and rescues the milk and morning paper from the front doorstep. Im off, she announces. Allyson, please pass me a plastic bag from that right-hand drawer, will you? Im going to drop these by the surgery. I went the other day to have someone look at my toe and all they had were a bunch of copies of Horse and Hound. Can you imagine how depressing?
I pass Alex his peanut butter toast, carefully cut into strips rather than squares, squares being for some reason entirely inedible. Whats wrong with your toe?
Bunny pops an apple into Alexs school satchel.
He removes it again when shes not looking.
Nothing, as it turns out. It just looked odd. And thats all Im going to say, as youre dining.
Allyson and I exchange a smile; only in Bunnys world is peanut butter toast considered dining.
Oh! Bunny swirls round, hands on hips. And someones been smoking in the house!
Smoking! Allyson gasps, throwing her hand in front of her face for protection. This is a non-smoking household! We dont smoke in here!
Yes, but there were ashes in one of my favourite china planters; the one with the white orchids. I know it couldnt possibly be one of you girls. She eyes us sternly anyway. I must have another word with Piotr. Damn, the dry cleaning! Id forget my own head, girls. And she darts off, her high heels clicking against the flagstones of the kitchen floor.
Allyson glares at me.
Its my turn to feel like a child. Stop it! It wasnt me! OK?
Well, someone had to do it! Probably that beast upstairs. She pours herself a coffee and settles down at the table. Its a disgusting habit! she continues, flipping through back issues of Hello!. I cannot live in a smoking household! It plays havoc with your voiceGod, what are these people like! Look Evie, My Plastic Surgery Torment by Jordan Halliwell. Jesus! Just look at the size of those tits!
Ally!
Its too late.
Let me see! Let me see the tits! Alex bounces up and down, brandishing a piece of toast and pulling at Allysons sleeve.
She covers her mouth. Oh, shit! Sorry, darling! I completely forgot!
I flash her a look.
Oh, bugger! She giggles.
Im fighting a losing battle. Sit down, Alex, and finish your breakfast. Were going to be late and Ive got a lot of work to do this morning. Whatever brief authority I possessed is quickly draining away. Alex ignores me and dances around the table instead, chomping on toast and repeating the word tits as many times as he can.
Listen. Allys desperate to make it up to me. Ill walk him over today. Give me one minute while I pull on some clothes!
No, its all right.
Come on, Evie. Give me a break! she challenges. What can be so difficult about walking a child to school?
Well, hes got to have his gym things today and he needs to go in the side entrance rather than the front because of the road works on Ordnance Hill, and hes not to give any of his lunch to that little Indian boy with the nut allergy; it was a close call the last time. And hes going to bug you about going into the newsagents for sweets but I dont want him having any, Ally
Shes laughing at me.
Im serious!
Thats exactly why youre so funny! She rubs Alexs hair and he beams up at her. Ill be two minutes.
She rushes upstairs with her coffee.
And no more swearing! I call after her.
Mummy! Alex yanks my sleeve. I didnt give him the sandwich, Mummy. He took it, he reminds me.
I rub my fingers over my eyes. Yes, darling.
Shes going to buy him sweets, I just know it. She always does.
Ohbugger.
And sitting down at the table, I nick a strip of Alexs toast, skimming through the abandoned magazines. These people live in another worldsocialites, Hollywood actors, royalty, rock stars
Mum? Mummy?
I look up. What?
Alex is watching me, his small face suddenly serious. What is it?
I stare at him.
Another face looks back at me.
Nothing. I stand up, forcing my brain back into the present day. Put your coat on, darling. Its time to go.
Allyson appears in a Cossack-style fur hat and long grey wool coatas always, every inch the diva. Lets go, mate! Come on! Have you got your gym kit?
I need my crayons! Alex bounds upstairs.
Taking a final swig of coffee, she puts her cup down on the table with a flourish. And this time I promise: no sweets, no swear words and in school on time!
Yes. Fine. I move on auto pilot, clearing the table of our breakfast things.
Are you OK?
I scrape the toast into the bin. Yes. Fine.
Allyson leafs idly through the magazine pages.
Hes still a good-looking man. Even after all these years.
Im sorry?
That Jake Albery She holds up his picture. Still handsome, dont you think? God, I used to have such a crush on him!
My hearts racing, hammering in my chest. I force the corners of my mouth upwards into a smile. Youre showing your age, Ally
She laughs. I know. Im getting old. Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, Baby Home Wreckers in town! she sings, dancing over to the door where Alex waits, dressed and ready to go. Grabbing his hands, she whirls him into the hallway. Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, da, da, da, da, da, da, da!
The front door opens and closes, sealing the world out.
Lingering at the sink, I make myself wash up the plates and mugs, slowly rinsing them under the warm water.
Then I turn the tap off.
Fold the tea towel.
And pick the magazine up again. As I knew I would.
So, hes back.
So, hes back.
Allysons right; he does look goodslightly tanned; the kind of gentle wash of colour thats the result of a couple of weeks in Monte Carlo or Beaulieu rather than a month in Mauritiusand effortlessly chic in a dark tailored suit and crisp white shirt. But theres that familiar air about him, even in a photograph, a slightly edgy awkwardness as if even after all these years in the limelight he still doesnt quite fit in. He remains, as always, the outsider, one eye forever on the door.
His hand rests on the shoulder of a glamorous blonde. She has the same glowing tan, amply displayed in her sheer, strappy pink dress, and similar expensively tousled bedroom hair. But her smile is harder, more focused. The cameras are on her and its a moment shes been waiting for. She looks both terrified and intensely determined. Something in my stomach wrenches with recognition. Jake Albery seen leaving a private party at the Café de Paris the caption reads. A back catalogue of songs from his hit band Raven is due to be released in May.
Opening a kitchen drawer, I take out a plastic carrier bag and stack all the magazines neatly inside.
And then I stand there, staring at it.
If only it were as simple as that.
But it never was simple.
Right from the start I shouldve known.
Nothing happened.
Nothing? Imogene frowns.
Were waiting for our first day of classes to begin, sitting in the basement studio beneath the North London Morris Dancing Association. Its a vast square room with wooden floors and an old upright piano in the corner. Light filters in through small round windows near the ceiling; dust particles dance in the shafts of brilliant sunlight, slicing like lasers through the hazy calm.
Thats right. I mean, we just hung out. Went to see the band, talked. My cheeks are burning. I turn away, pretending to search for something in my brown corduroy handbag. All I can find is a mouldy old mint. I pop it into my mouth anyway.
Around us the rooms filling with students.
Youre blushing! She giggles. You like him, dont you?
I smile back at her.
Yes, I like him.
And I shouldnt. Jakes not my type of guy, not that Ive ever met anyone like him before. Theres something rough about him. I dont mean physically rough. But he has this dark undercurrent of raw energy Im not used to; like anything could happen, any time. Besides, Im not meant to like anyone except Jonny.
Jonny is my type; polite, clean-shaven, on timethe kind of guy who celebrates the anniversary of your first kiss with flowers, even when he doesnt have any money.
But if I love Jonny, why do I keep thinking about Jake?
I wish hed kissed me good night. Not just a peck on the cheek but one of those full-on face-devouring sessions that dont stop with kissing. But I cant tell that to anyone.
Robbie, on the other hand, happily disappeared with Mr Chicken for ages.
Enough about me. Im determined to rein in these thoughts. Show me which one of these fine gentlemen is Lindsay Crufts.
Now its her turn to blush. Wheres Robbie? she skirts my question. You guys got back so late last night.
I shake my head. I dont know. I heard her alarm go off. I check my watch. And I pounded on her door before I left. She should be here.
A slender young man with soft, ashen hair walks in. He smiles at Imo and her whole face lights up. This must be Lindsay. But he takes a seat on the other side of the studio, folds his legs neatly over one another and fishes a worn copy of Shakespeares sonnets out of the pocket of his tweed jacket. He reads intently, brow furrowed, nibbling away at his nails.
Imo gazes at him with unrestrained longing. I give her hand a gentle squeeze.
Soon the studio is full; there are about twenty of us and still no sign of Robbie.
At ten oclock precisely, the door swings wide and Simon enters, wheeling expertly into the centre of the room. Good morning! he bellows. Welcome to the beginning of the spring semester! Im Simon Garrett. Ive spoken to most of you, and shall, no doubt, speak to you again. However, if you have any questions or problems, either my assistant Gwen or I will be available to help you. Gwen!
Gwen appears behind him, clutching a stack of papers, which she begins to pass around the room.
Simon whips one from her hand and raises it high. Here are your schedules for the next three months. As you can see, we expect a great deal from youin addition to your regular classes there are masterclasses, workshops, private tutorials, and plenty of opportunities to see the greatest living actors of our generation in live performances. Youre in London now, ladies and gentlemen. Its time to seize the day! If this is your chosen profession then youll need discipline, determination, the ego of a dictator and the stamina of a decathlon athlete! Weve provided you with the most extraordinary professional actors, actresses and directors as teachers. In return we expect you to be prompt, prepared and, above all, professional.
Theres an awful hacking sound on the other side of the door; a kind of retching cough, followed by a long, woeful moan: Jesus! Fuuuuuck!
The door opens and a dishevelled, overweight man, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and sixty, stumbles in, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lower lip. His thinning brown hair is scraped back across his scalp, and hes wearing a wine-coloured pullover, grey suit trousers and a pair of well-worn black sneakers. He looks like a tramp. Standing just behind Simon, he pulls a gold lighter out of his back pocket. The cigarette fizzes into life. He inhales deeply.
Greetings. His voice is deep and resonant: the rounded, poignant timbre of a fallen hero. Pardon me. Have I interrupted your St Crispins Day speech, Simon? Once more unto the breech and all that? O! for a Muse of fire, he roars, that would ascend the brightest whatever-the-fuck-it-is of invention!
Not at all, my dear man! Simons all warm authority; they shake hands. Just giving them an idea of what to expect. He turns his attention to us. Id like to introduce Boyd Alexander, who will be your principal acting instructor this term. Boyd has just returned from Russia where hes been working with members of the Moscow Art Theatre on a new production of The Cherry Orchard.
Theres an audible gasp; the Moscow Arts Theatre is legendary; the company Chekhov himself favoured.
Hes also due to direct the Wars of the Roses next season at the RSC, so were very, very lucky to have him.
Boyd executes a little half-bow, nearly scorching himself with his cigarette in the process.
Right! He pulls a chair up and collapses into it. Enough about me. Run along, Simon! Nowhe glowers at uswhat I really want to know is, can you people act? Or are you just poncing about in London on your parents credit cards for a few months?
Gwen and Simon exchange a look.
Boyd waves them on. Off you go, you two! And Gwen, a cup of tea wouldnt go amiss. Trust me, he purrs placatingly I am, after all, a professional!
They leave. The rest of us are left clasping our schedules, the way that lost tourists cling to maps.
You were meant to prepare an audition speech. So, which one of you has the balls to go first?