by Lucy Dawson
I actually forget all about it after that – until the doorbell goes off like machine-gun fire in my head at 10 a.m. the next day, jolting me awake with several shocked expletives because I randomly had a setback last night. I was only going to have one drink after work – but went badly off-piste after that – so if I’m going to get up and do anything, it’ll be to puke, violently – not for some non-essential action like answering the door. I ignore the buzzer and go back to sleep; only realising what it was when I practically brain myself tripping over the packet on the doorstep when leaving the flat a couple of hours later for the Saturday matinee. It’s not just because it’s been left in a stupid place – although it has – but mostly because I’m wearing shades in an inadequate defence against the aggressively bright November morning and so simply don’t see it.
I clutch the book to my chest, eyes down, as I walk to the train station, stepping round people on weekend time. It seems like I’m the only one not in love with London today. Everyone has gone all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the cold winter sunshine.
There’s a palpable sense of ‘leading up to Christmas’ excitement in the air as I walk through Covent Garden at the other end of my journey, and in the queue at Starbucks – this gingerbread latte is either going to kill or cure me – I hear two girls talking about how they need to have their annual watching of Love Actually when they’ve finished their shopping later. I have to restrain myself from butting in and asking them exactly what they find so cute about Andrew Lincoln telling his best mate’s new wife that he’s in love with her, behind his pal’s back, mere days after their wedding. I don’t really want to get started on the subversive subtext of Love Actually. I am the Grinch: taking out on other people my disappointment in myself for getting trashed last night.
My mood has crashed dramatically and I find myself wishing I were with Seth. The fact that he always has a smile on his face is one of the things I like best about him. I pull my phone out of my bag, but change my mind at the last minute. He’s with his kids. It’s not fair. It’s their time with him now. I don’t want to disturb them.
So for want of something better to do – I take my drink, sit down at a table and start to read Charlotte’s book. I’m pretty proud of myself as I’m the only person not on their phone, but it’s not long before I’m genuinely engrossed. Charlotte’s précis was bang on: the woman in the book – coincidentally called Mia, which is a bit freaky – is batshit mental, but like a car crash; I can’t tear my eyes away. I want to find out what’s going to happen next. Having found out her boyfriend is cheating on her, she does indeed go after the other woman, stopping at nothing to protect her happy ever after with the man she believes is ‘the one’. It’s pretty chilling. And very sad, because how could a man like that ever be worth fighting for? Emotional rawness pours off the page and I wonder if that one star reviewer might not be right after all. The way Charlotte describes the discovery of betrayal feels very authentic indeed. She’s been there too – I can tell.
I’m hooked… but have to put the book down to do two shows… so, I’m only just getting to the bit where they are blatantly going to have a dramatic love-triangle-three-way-showdown, on the bus to my parents’ for lunch the following morning. I wander up their road slowly, turning the pages eagerly and stop outside the gate to read the final chapter.
My sister opens the front door and calls: ‘Are you actually coming in, or are you just going to stand there all day?’
I hold up a hand absently, read the last few lines, shake my head in disbelief and walk up the path, still holding it.
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Kirsty grabs my hand and inspects the cover, before taking it and flicking through. ‘You got me one of hers last year, didn’t you? I’ve read this one too – it’s really old, isn’t it? A sort of Fatal Attraction set-up?’
I consider that. ‘Not really. Nothing happens, to be honest. No one dies or anything. A woman finds out her bloke is cheating on her.’
‘It’s a revenge thing then? I can’t remember.’
‘No. She just wants to keep him at any cost.’
Kirsty shrugs, pulls a face as I walk past her into the house and shuts the door behind me. ‘Honestly no recollection of it at all. How are you anyway?’ She leans in to kiss me.
‘Tired,’ I sigh, and Kirst narrows her eyes.
‘Sorry. Not in your league tired,’ I say hastily. ‘It’s just been a bit of a full-on week. That’s all. Where are the boys?’ I kick off my shoes before slipping my bag from my shoulder, which Kirsty catches, placing the book back in it and hanging it up on the end of the bannister. I take my coat off, shivering luxuriantly as the cosy warmth begins to spread through my body.
‘They’re upstairs. Let’s go through though, because lunch has been ready for a bit and I’m not sure they can hang on much longer. EVERYONE!’ she bellows suddenly, inches from my face, making me wince and step back a bit. ‘Auntie Amy’s here! We can eat now!’
‘Mia! It’s Mia now, remember?’ I correct her and, flustered, she waves her arms around before taking my coat, too.
‘Sorry. Genuine mistake. DOWNSTAIRS, PLEASE!’
The ceiling creaks in response to three small boys scrambling to attention above us. Seconds later they appear and thunder down the stairs in a pushy crush, breathlessly shouting ‘hi Auntie Amy!’ as they shove past me on their way to the kitchen. I throw my arms wide in frustration, and Kirsty shhhes me, hanging my coat over my bag.
‘They’re so hungry they’ve gone light-headed – that’s all. They don’t know what they’re saying. Come on, or there might not be anything left.’
She needn’t worry. My poor mum has obviously worked very hard all morning and there is a veritable mountain of food to go round. As everyone starts to load up plates, she trots backwards and forwards from the kitchen to the dining room, re-appearing with yet another dish of vegetables, or Yorkshire puddings, her glasses steaming up as she carefully places down a brimming gravy jug before wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Has everyone got what they need?’ She looks around us anxiously, then glances at the clock. ‘Well there we are – it’s only just gone one o’clock.’ She sinks down onto a chair in relief. Kirsty obviously set a specific time to eat and Mum has bust a gut to get there. Time trial roast cooking. Lucky her.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ Kirsty says, patting her arm. ‘It’s just they go beyond hunger if it gets too late, then no one eats anything properly and it’s just a nightmare.’
I look doubtfully at my three nephews. They don’t look like they’re having any problems to me. They’ve gone completely silent and have their noses in their plates, troughing away like piglets. I’m reminded suddenly of the scene in Snatch where Brick Top does his monologue about pigs being the best way to dispose of a human body as they eat every last scrap of skin and bone – but keep my mouth shut. Firstly Kirst would not be amused by the comparison, although I have to say, much as I love my nephews – and they are the cutest ever – it’s a pretty spot-on likeness right now.
Secondly, although I know the boys would love to hear all about pigs’ more hardcore characteristics, my sister would not. It would not be deemed ‘suitable’ information. She has only just let them watch the Peter Rabbit movie, because Mr McGregor dies graphically on-screen of a heart attack. She told them he trips over a rake you can’t see and just passes out. Bad things don’t happen in my sister’s kids’ world.
I take a mouthful of roast potato and silently thank God that I never have to watch Snatch again as long as I live. Hugo must have made me sit through hundreds of viewings of his starring role: Angry Gypsy #2 – as he appears in the credits, alongside Brad Pitt and Jason Flemyng. Part of me secretly hopes he’s out there right now, inflicting it on Ava instead. That might just be a fitting punishment for her being such a disloyal best friend; a lifetime of being forced to watch Angry Gypsy #2 – the role that was going to launch Hugo’s career into the A-list but never did. Anyway… water under the bridge
. Make like Elsa and ‘Let It Go’… Good luck to them both; I mean that sincerely, but I also hope neither of them ever dares contact me again as long as I live. Particularly Ava. Not that she ever would after what I did.
‘You all right, darling?’
I look up quickly to see Mum watching me keenly. She does not miss a trick, my mother – not a single trick. I nod, and she looks relieved.
‘How’s work been this week?’ Dad asks, smiling at me.
‘Oh, you know.’ I decide not to tell them about Theo’s ranty, unkind outburst. They’ll only become outraged on my behalf, and this time next week he’ll be out of my life for good. ‘It’s always a bit weird when you get to the end of a run.’
‘We wondered if you’d let us take you to a late dinner after your final show on Saturday?’ Dad enquires, adding hastily ‘or not?’ as I hesitate. ‘You’ve probably got after-show parties and that sort of thing though,’ he continues, waving a hand. ‘We didn’t think of that, did we?’ He turns to Mum. ‘No – don’t you worry. You see your friends instead. We’ve got all the time in the world to take you out. You should put the run to bed properly.’
In truth, I’m only dithering because I suspect Seth is going to ask to see me afterwards and, much as I feel bad about it, I’d rather see him than Mum and Dad. I couldn’t give a toss about giving this play a proper send-off. It can get its coat and sling its hook for all I care. ‘But you don’t really want to come into town on Saturday night, anyway, do you?’ I wrinkle my nose. ‘Plus you’ve seen me in it a million times already. Honestly, I don’t mind.’
Mum looks doubtful. ‘But you need some family there on the last night. We’re so proud of what you’ve achieved and we want to be there to support you.’ She reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze. ‘You’ve come such a long way, sweetheart.’
There’s a moment of pause and I wonder if they’re also picturing me lying listlessly on their sofa in pyjamas this time last year, catatonic with grief, unable to do anything but watch Strictly Come Dancing, those constant tears streaming down my face. I clear my throat. ‘I’m very lucky to have you all. I couldn’t have got everything back on track without you. My er…’ I glance at my seemingly oblivious nephews but nonetheless try to think of another word for breakdown, ‘perfect storm moment,’ I pause to let my meaning sink in, ‘was really challenging all round. You were brilliant and I love you all.’
‘What’s a perfect storm?’ Max, the youngest, asks.
‘A really big whirlwind, thunder and lightning, all at once,’ says my brother-in-law, and my sister smiles at him gratefully, but then he burns his brownie points by asking me: ‘So have you got anything lined up for when you finish, then?’
My sister scowls at him, and he looks confused. ‘What? What’s wrong with asking that?’
‘Everyone knows actors rarely go from job to job these days,’ Kirst says quickly. ‘Even the household names.’
‘It’s OK,’ I step in. ‘I don’t mind. I haven’t had any castings yet, but something will come up.’
‘So do you call your agent and have to hassle them for stuff or do they call you?’ Bill persists, and Kirsty looks at him incredulously.
‘What?’ he says again, genuinely confused. ‘I’m just interested. What you want to do,’ he looks at me thoughtfully, ‘is get a part in EastEnders.’
‘That’s what everyone says to actors,’ Kirsty snaps. ‘You should get a part in one of the soaps.’
‘Oh. Sorry,’ Bill shrugs and returns to his food, ‘I’m obviously way behind the curve.’
‘Something will come up though, darling,’ Mum adds reassuringly. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Absolutely!’ beams Dad. ‘It’s just a question of time! That’s all, and—’
‘Actually,’ I cut in, having been made more than aware that they are all genuinely anxious about me; obviously terrified that I’m going to crash and burn in seven days’ time, once I’ve got no focus anymore. ‘Something is already in the pipeline.’
I can’t bear it – I want to make it better for them and take some of their worry away… it makes me feel so guilty that I’ve been such a burden to them.
‘Oh?’ My mother instantly looks proud and excited, putting down her napkin.
They all look at me and my mouth just says it. I don’t even know what messed-up part of my brain it comes from, except it’s probably the same bit that always gets me into trouble: the act first, think later lobe.
‘I’ve written a book.’ Oh god, I’ve said it out loud…
Kirsty gives a surprised half-laugh, mouth falling open, and Bill’s eyebrows rise up before he shrugs and helps himself to more potatoes. Mum just stares at me, and Dad claps his hands. ‘Darling, how lovely! Bravo you!’
‘I just have so much time during the day, you know?’ I reach for the water and pour myself a slightly shaky glass. ‘I thought I could put it to good use and see if anything came from it.’ If Charlotte changes her mind about me, just disappears and I never hear from her again, I’m screwed.
‘Well come on then – what’s it about?’ Dad says eagerly.
‘It’s a thriller.’ I gulp quickly and end up coughing a bit. ‘Excuse me.’
‘What sort of thriller?’ Dad forks up a bit of chicken. ‘Police procedural? Crime? Or Domestic Noir, as I believe it’s called?’
I stare at him blankly. Damn his newly retired, obsessive daily newspaper habit; from current affairs through to property, arts reviews, business and culture there’s not much Dad doesn’t have at least a basic working knowledge of. ‘It’s cross-genre?’ I hazard, and Dad nods, impressed. ‘I probably shouldn’t go into the nuts and bolts of it now.’
I look pointedly at the boys, and Kirsty says quickly: ‘Yes, thank you. That would be great, if it’s unsuitable.’
‘No problem.’ I look down and pretend to concentrate on cutting a parsnip while I try to gather my rapidly scrambling thoughts, but now it’s Mum’s turn.
‘Well, you always were filling notebooks with pages and pages of imaginings when you were little,’ she smiles at me, ‘but you’ve not mentioned a single thing about this? I mean, it’s wonderful, but a bit surprising!’
‘I didn’t want to say anything in case I didn’t finish it and it was just a… I don’t know… whim. You know me.’ I reach for the pepper. ‘But, I did and now I might have a go at seeing if someone wants to publish it.’ I clear my throat. ‘I’ve been told that publishers really like debut authors, and my already being an actress and having a bit of a profile is helpful too, apparently. So we’ll see…’ I exhale. ‘I don’t want to get your hopes up though, it might not get anywhere at all.’
‘Or, you might be the next J.K. Rowling,’ Bill says, through a mouthful. ‘That’d be a smart move; a wizard James Bond. Jack Reacher does magic. That’s what I call cross-genre. Sounds good to me!’
‘I can see that it might bring you some added publicity,’ Mum says sensibly, ignoring Bill, ‘if you had a book published. The two careers could feed off each other. I expect that was your thinking, wasn’t it?’
She is so sharp.
‘Exactly.’ I pick up my water again, wishing I’d kept my stupid mouth shut. ‘But please, guys, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Writing a book is one thing, getting it published is a whole different story.’
‘No pun intended,’ says Bill, tapping his nose and pointing at me. ‘I like it. You’re already talking like an author. So what do you do next, take it to your agent?’
‘Probably. I should see what he recommends.’ I’m starting to feel a bit hot and I absolutely can’t look at my mother. ‘I’ll keep you all posted.’ I smile widely and put my glass down firmly. ‘Can we talk about something else now?’
‘Of course we can,’ Dad says. ‘But I have every faith in you. When one of our girls turns her mind to something, watch out world!’
Kirsty smiles faintly, but shoots me a worried look. Something tells me I’m not going to have
heard the last word on this.
‘But if it doesn’t get where you hope it will, it is still an enormous achievement and we are very proud of you.’ Dad reaches out and squeezes my hand. I have to swallow a lump in my throat. ‘Have you met my daughter, the actress and published author?’ he pretends to ask the company of the table.
My nephews look between each other, confused, and Mum says gently: ‘All right darling, let’s leave it now… too much pressure,’ she murmurs, not quite discreetly enough, picking up her napkin again.
‘Please can we talk about something else?’ I beg desperately.
‘How’s your love life, then?’ says Bill, sitting back and trying to pick a bit of chicken from between his teeth. ‘When are we finally going to get to meet this new bloke?’
Kirsty rounds on him furiously. ‘Could you be more socially challenged?’
Thankfully, we are spared an answer to that, because my brother FaceTimes us from New York with my sister-in-law and my other nephew and niece. They are about to brave the cold, wrap up warm and head out for what they call Sunday Second Breakfast, because the kids had cereal at 7 a.m. but could now force down a pancake or two, while the grown-ups want to get stuck into some coffee. I’m incredibly grateful to have the spotlight taken off me, and everyone is in a cheery mood once they’ve gone and we clear the plates; a little NYC glamour having dusted our day like the first flurry of snow, or sifted icing sugar falling on French toast. Bill starts talking about getting a new sledge for the boys, Dad suggests we all watch a Christmas movie together after lunch, while Mum and Kirsty protest that it’s much too early to be feeling this festive. The heat is no longer on.
