by Louise Beech
‘They said that to her?’
‘One did. He got some looks to be fair. But she just smiled and said she only had good feelings about playing Esme Black. I think she’s gonna be amazing. I can see why you like her.’
‘Chester!’ Chloe shoves him.
‘You like her?’ Beth stares.
‘They know each other,’ says Chester.
‘Not really.’ Chloe tries to change the subject. ‘What did Edwin Roberts have to say about the show?’
Among the discarded plates she finds a silver charm bracelet. She holds it up to the light. Trinkets dangle from it like small icicles; a witch’s hat, a musical note, a star, and a theatre mask that makes Chloe’s breath catch. She sees them all suddenly, in dying sunlight, clanking gently against a glass. She fingers the intricate theatre mask; why does it stir her so?
At that moment, the green-room door opens, and Ginger comes in. She begins to speak and then sees what Chloe is holding.
‘You found it,’ she smiles. ‘I panicked when I noticed it had gone. I’ve had it since—’
‘You were sixteen.’ Chloe remembers in a rush. ‘You wore it all the time.’ She hands it back to her.
‘You bought me this one.’ Ginger touches the mask.
‘Did I?’ Chloe sees it in her own younger hands. ‘I did. Yes.’
Ginger smiles. She tries to fasten it around her delicate wrist but can’t. ‘These bloody nails,’ she says. ‘They do get in the way a bit.’
Chloe helps her. She knows that Chester and Beth are watching them but doesn’t care. ‘Can we go somewhere a bit private and chat?’ Ginger says more quietly.
‘You have your own dressing room now.’
‘No. Somewhere else.’ Is Ginger scared of that room? Is it any wonder?
‘Are they all still in the rehearsal room?’
‘Yes.’
‘How come you’re not?’
‘This.’ Ginger holds up her hand, shakes the charm bracelet. ‘OK, follow me.’
Didn’t Chloe always…
27
The Dean Wilson Theatre
May 2019
Chloe follows Ginger out of the green room and down the stairs, knowing Chester’s face will be a picture. They go through the black backstage door and close it after them. For a moment, Chloe pauses. She hasn’t been on the stage since that night when she thought she saw a woman at the back of the theatre. But she isn’t alone now. It isn’t the middle of the night.
The place is deserted; everyone is occupied elsewhere. The stage is set up for the current show, Dark Dreams, a musical about a woman’s quest to make it in the modelling world. A mirrored path cuts the stage in two. Ginger marches along it to the centre. There, she spins, arms out, head back, her hair cascading like a gold waterfall. ‘There’s nowhere like it, is there?’ she asks Chloe, laughing.
Chloe remains in the shadows.
‘Come and join me,’ says Ginger. ‘You belong here too.’
Chloe shakes her head, suddenly shy.
‘What happened to the girl who loved being centre stage?’
That was always you, Chloe thinks.
But she joins her; together they look out at the rows of red seats rising up towards the technician’s box, and the flip-down usher seat where Chloe sits. Is that someone loitering at the top?
‘What?’ asks Ginger.
‘Nothing.’ It’s nobody; just the shadows.
‘I did want to contact you,’ Ginger admits after a moment, the flamboyant façade dropped. ‘I wrote messages a few times and deleted them.’ Chloe smiles to herself. ‘I was just … look, I don’t know if I’m ready for anything … like that. You know – serious. I’ve had a few boyfriends, kissed a few girls, even, but my life has always been about this. The stage.’
‘You don’t have to explain,’ insists Chloe.
‘The thing is … since I saw you again, things have been … odd … and it made me nervous to get in touch…’
‘Odd how?’
‘Remember when we met, and I said it was like a door had opened when I saw you?’
‘Yes.’ Chloe nods. ‘I felt it too.’
‘Well, I’ve been having these horrible nightmares since then.’
‘About what?’
‘It’s hard to say.’ Ginger wraps her arms about her body. ‘They’re vague. But horrible. Dead birds. Dead bodies. This ominous feeling. I wake feeling sick. I feel like…’
‘Like what?’
‘Like we need to remember.’
Chloe doesn’t speak.
‘We need to remember exactly what happened back then,’ continues Ginger, and for a moment she is young Jess again, with pigtails and pink cheeks. ‘With the Ouija board.’ She pauses. ‘That was weird, in the dressing room, wasn’t it?’ For a moment Chloe wonders if she means their kiss. ‘The door shutting and the lights turning red. I feel like we imagined it … together … but also that maybe it’s related to the past.’
‘But why do we need to remember?’
Ginger thinks. ‘So the horrible dreams stop. I’ve been trying to remember, but it’s like … I just can’t see it all. And I know that the only way I will is with you.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe we should get together and talk about it?’ Chloe can’t think of anything she would rather do, even if thoughts of the Ouija board fill her with a dark dread.
‘Let’s. I’m scared, but I think we should. How did we forget?’
‘Don’t people bury traumatic memories?’
‘Maybe,’ muses Ginger. ‘But it’s more like … I don’t know. It’s like the synopsis of a play. We just can’t see the actual script.’
‘I agree. I can see bits clearly … other stuff, not so much.’
‘Look, I have to go back to London tonight, but I’m back in three weeks for rehearsals and I’ll be staying at the Hilton. We can talk about it all then, can’t we?’
‘Yes.’ Chloe is excited to imagine them together, even just as friends.
Ginger pauses. ‘I think we should look for Ryan too.’
‘Ryan?’ Chloe sees him suddenly; a boy in a red jacket and jeans, hair ruffled. Ginger slept with him back then; no, Jess slept with him. She’s sure of it. Ginger must remember too. You never forget your first. ‘Why should we look for him?’
‘There were three of us. Something big happened, I’m sure of it, and he’s part of that. Can you remember his surname?’
‘No.’ Even if she could, Chloe wouldn’t tell her.
‘Shit. Maybe when we talk, we’ll remember it. I know I had a crush on him.’
More than that, thinks Chloe.
The thought of him being back, coming between the two of them again, fills her with hurt. She won’t let it happen.
‘We shouldn’t find him,’ says Chloe.
‘Why?’
‘Do you remember …“you three, never be, under one roof”?’
‘Shit.’ Ginger gasps and steps a little further away from Chloe, her eyes full of fear. ‘I don’t know what it means but, God, it scares me. Where have I heard it before?’
‘I saw the words on a mirror.’ Chloe doesn’t tell Ginger it was in her dressing room. ‘I think someone said it to us once.’ She pauses. ‘And I think it would be really dangerous to find Ryan.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
Chloe hates to see Ginger looking so scared.
The door opens and they both jump with a shriek.
Edwin Roberts strides onto the stage, fedora in hand and hair as wild as a thorny bush. ‘There you are,’ he says to Ginger. ‘We’re all looking for you. We need a photograph of the whole cast. Can you come, darling?’
‘Yes, of course, Eddie, darling.’ Ginger assumes a professional, crisp air again. ‘Are you still in the rehearsal room?’
‘Yes. Come now, we’re all waiting for you.’
She sweeps past and follows Edwin, who looks back at Chloe, an unasked question knit
ting his brow. And then Chloe is alone. She walks to the front of the stage. She can’t look up towards the back, afraid of what she might see. What must it be like to have rows of captive faces awaiting your every word? She hasn’t performed for any sort of audience since they were at the youth theatre, and that’s so long ago now. What would she even say if the light swung her way?
You know what you’d say, she thinks.
But does she even know it by heart?
Chloe closes her eyes and pictures the script in her box.
She speaks.
Acts.
‘The dancer who doesn’t dance,’ she whispers, nervous at first. ‘Why does she haunt me? I am different with her. My body knows the moves, as if I’m guided by some higher hand. We are one when the music starts…’
Chloe pauses. She speaks more slowly, feeling the words. As all the best actors are supposed to, she draws on her own experience to bring the character to life.
‘I’m changing, the way we change in water, becoming light, free, buoyant.As I change, I remember when she kissed me, surprising me, and made my pores tingle. She didn’t laugh at my scars. She said we—’
‘What’s that?’
Chloe gasps. Ginger is standing in the wings, radiant against the black curtain.
‘Nothing,’ stammers Chloe.
‘It’s beautiful. Did you write it?’
‘Yes,’ says Chloe softly, embarrassed.
Someone calls Ginger’s name. She looks back at the door, unsure. It comes again. She disappears. But Chloe can wait. Only three weeks, and she will be back.
28
Jess’s Bedroom
2005
In Jess’s room, under an original Dust poster that they’d both covered in pink lipstick kisses, she and Chloe admired Jess’s new bracelet. Though silver, in the evening light that slanted through the open window it appeared to be gold. Chloe touched the single charm attached; a delicate witch hat with a frilled edge.
‘My mum got me it,’ said Jess, proud. ‘She said she’ll get me a new charm each time I star in a show. This one’s to represent Macbeth.’
‘I reckon you’ll end up with thousands, then,’ gushed Chloe. ‘You’ll need another bracelet.’ She wondered if she could afford to buy her one.
It was the night after the Ouija board had spelled out MORGAN MILLER. Neither of them had mentioned it yet. After the actress’s name appeared, everything had stopped. Cold. The glass hadn’t moved another inch. Chloe had tried again and again to shift it, and Ryan had ranted at her, saying, ‘Oh, now you want it to work!’ She couldn’t deny that shehad been desperate to get Morgan Miller back.
Was it even really her?
They had to find out.
Even if it had been Morgan, she had disappeared as soon as she’d arrived, as fleeting as a lone flake of snow. They had left the theatre then, Jess going off with Ryan, leaving Chloe to wait for her bus.
Now she said to Jess, ‘We need to do the Ouija board again.’
Jess fingered her bracelet. ‘But you were the one who said it was getting out of hand. You wanted us to say goodbye and end it, remember? And you said you’re sick of the phone ringing all night.’ She paused. ‘Did it ring last night?’
‘No,’ admitted Chloe.
‘Well, then maybe we should stay away.’
‘But aren’t you curious? I mean, it could really be Morgan Miller.’ Chloe stretched up and touched the Dust poster where, as a lank-haired Esme, Morgan looked into a mirror at the more golden and glorious ghost of Esme.
‘I bet it’s not her. They can trick you, you know.’
‘Who can?’
‘Spirits,’ said Jess impatiently. ‘You’re not the only one who did some reading, you know. They can play games. Pretend to be other people. Mess with you.’
‘Then we do what we did with Daniel Locke,’ insisted Chloe. ‘We ask her questions we know the answer to, to check it’s her. Come on, we’ve both read enough books about her.’
‘I don’t know.’ Jess shook her head, her ponytail swishing. ‘Maybe it’s time to stop. After all, she came and then she disappeared. I’ve felt so weird lately. Sick and tired all the time. Then last night I slept really well…’
‘But we could find out what actually happened to her,’ said Chloe.
Jess didn’t speak for a moment. ‘But even if she told us, who’d believe us? A load of teenagers on a Ouija board.’
‘I don’t care if no one believed us. We’d know.’
‘Why us?’ wondered Jess.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If it is her, why did she choose to speak to us?’
‘Because we were asking?’ Chloe shrugged. ‘OK, I don’t know. But I want to.’
‘It makes me tired just thinking about it.’ Jess untied her hair and lay back on her gingham pillows. ‘We’ve got rehearsals tomorrow. Can we just decide then?’
Chloe joined Jess, lying on her back beside her. She loved this room. Loved being in it. Loved the way Jess arranged her perfumes and body sprays with the most expensive at the front. Loved that the sweet smell of her hit as soon as you opened the door. Loved sharing a bed with her on weekends, sleeping side by side, legs entwined, the bristle of two-day hair growth on Jess’s an exotic irritation.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d slept with Ryan?’ Chloe asked suddenly.
‘I was going to. I just haven’t seen you properly, have I?’
Chloe didn’t want to know about it in detail, so changed the subject a little. ‘I don’t like how he speaks to you sometimes. I don’t like how he treats you. What do you even see in him?’
Jess closed her eyes. ‘There’s just something about him.’
Chloe studied her; the spidery eyelashes that they always made a wish on when they found one; the neat, sandy eyebrows; the spattering of freckles Jess hated so much.
‘He lied to us,’ said Chloe, not giving up. ‘He didn’t tell us that Daniel Locke was his best friend. That’s huge. He knew a boy who committed suicide! I don’t trust him, Jess. He’s doing the Ouija board for some reason that he won’t share.’
‘So let’s not do it anymore.’
Now you have Ryan, thought Chloe, you don’t need to.
‘Where do you think we go when we die?’ asked Jess, sleepily. ‘What do you think there is?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t really like to think about it.’
‘I mean if we have beenspeaking to the dead, then what’s it like for them?’
Chloe tried to imagine. Tried to visualise being on the other side; being here – still existing somehow in this world – but not able to speak to the ones you loved. Did the spirits wander among the living? Did they watch them? If so, what must it be like to witness others doing wonderful everyday things while you could not? Chloe hoped that when she went, she would simply go. Be gone. Not exist at all. Yet that was even harder to picture. Where did your soul go? Where did your feelings go? Your essence?
What would it be like to no longer love Jess?
29
The Game
2005
At the Macbeth rehearsals the following night, Ryan and Jess returned with gusto. When Ryan silenced the room with his dagger speech, any anger Mr Hayes had had about their absence was replaced with a satisfied smile. Chloe could not deny Ryan’s stage presence. She sat at the back, out of his sight, not wanting him to see her admiration. Lit blood red, he was a living, breathing Macbeth, older than his years, haggard, driven to consider murder, descending into madness.
Jess sat stage left, face angelic with awe. The silver dagger glinted in the stage lights; something about it mesmerised Chloe. She imagined the blade in her own hands. How heavy it might be. How cooling to the palms. She knew it was real, a carving knife that Ryan had brought from home. Despite the fact that it could cause great injury, Mr Hayes had said it looked stunning and he would put it safely away after each rehearsal. Chloe blinked at the flash as Ryan held it aloft. Then frowned.
Why was it affecting her so?
Silence, followed by rapturous applause. Chloe joined in. It was only fair. Ryan deserved it. He and Jess were the kind of actors you couldn’t take your eyes off when they performed.
‘Just over three weeks until the show,’ said Mr Hayes when the room fell quiet again. ‘You need to attend all rehearsals from now on. Twice a week. OK, on a more serious note – has someone been staying behind when the building is shut?’
Chloe was glad she had sat at the back, hidden. Jess and Ryan were sitting together at the front, so she couldn’t see their faces; she knew that Ryan would look composed, but was sure Jess looked nervous. No one in the theatre spoke.
‘Well,’ said Mr Hayes, ‘I hope not. Some things have been messed around with.’
‘Maybe it’s that homeless guy who hangs around here,’ said someone Chloe couldn’t see.
‘Maybe. We’ll have to make sure the building is more secure. We can’t run the risk of the set being destroyed or some important costume going missing. Right – witches! You’re up!’
