by Louise Beech
Is she remembering that final Ouija board, just as Chloe did when Ryan turned up, out of the blue, after fourteen years?
‘Ryan,’ she says, and she could be sixteen years old.
‘Jess,’ he says, sounding equally young.
Will she correct him? Will she say, ‘No one calls me that anymore. They haven’t for years. Please, it’s Ginger or just Ginge,’ like she did to Chloe when they first met again? No. She leaves the word ‘Jess’ in the air between them. Despite her anger, Chloe is acutely jealous. Like she was back then. It only feeds the rage.
‘What the hell?’ Ginger laughs, and the mask is back in place. She is the actress now, vivacious, professional. ‘How are you even here, Ryan?’ She raises her eyebrows flirtatiously. ‘You look great!’
‘I had to come and see the show.’ He smiles. ‘You look gorgeous. And on stage you were just amazing. I can’t believe you did it. You really did it.’
‘Thank you.’ She flicks her hair, trying without success to look modest.
‘You’ll have to sign my programme.’ He holds it out.
‘Well, of course I will. I’ll get a pen.’
It’s as though Chloe doesn’t even exist.
Once again, like years ago, she feels invisible.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ Ginger asks Chloe warmly, seeming to remember she’s here. She obviously has no clue that Chloe overheard the conversation with Edwin about her script.
Chloe can’t bring herself to speak. She simply nods.
A voice filters through from the dressing room behind them and for a moment Chloe thinks someone else is in there; Morgan Miller? Then she realises that it’s just the pre-show call coming out of the speaker. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Dust this is your five-minute call. Five minutes please.’
‘Do you want a quick drink with me?’ Ginger asks Ryan. ‘I’ve only got five minutes as you heard, but come in for a moment. I wouldn’t normally, but my mum brought me some champagne earlier. I can at least open it and have a sip and toast to you being here.’ He shrugs and goes into the dressing room. Ginger follows him and then pauses and looks back at Chloe, at her uniform. ‘Do you have to go back to work? Maybe we can meet after and celebrate?’
Chloe…
She smiles. ‘I don’t work here anymore,’ she says.
‘You don’t?’ Ginger frowns. ‘Why the uniform then?’
‘I just handed my notice in.’
Chloe follows them into the dressing room and closes the door.
51
The Dean Wilson Theatre
September 2019
‘What are you doing?’ asks Ginger.
Chloe leans against the dressing-room door. ‘I thought we could talk.’
‘Talk? About what? I’m on stage in…’ she looks at the clock ‘…four minutes.’
‘Why don’t you open the champagne?’ Chloe points to it.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ Ginger looks pale.
Chloe…
‘Everything. The three of us being under one roof again, maybe?’
‘Shit,’ says Ryan. ‘That phrase.’ He whispers it slowly too. ‘I remembered it when I arrived in the foyer and saw you, Chloe. Something about how the three of us shouldn’t ever see each other again.’
‘You three,’ says Chloe, ‘never be under one roof again.’
‘That was it.’ Ryan looks uneasy.
‘Don’t be nervous. I’m not.’ Chloe looks at Ginger. ‘You remember it too, don’t you?’
She doesn’t respond.
‘The powers,’ whispers Ryan. ‘I remember it all now. You wanted this, Jess. This role. But didn’t we have to…’
‘Yes,’ says Chloe. ‘Stay away from one another. But here we are.’
She looks around the room. Pots of make-up and creams litter the dressing table. Numerous vases of colourful flowers fight for glory, the cards in them wishing Ginger luck and love. Unopened, the champagne awaits celebration. In the mirror, the three of them stand in a circle as though they are about to sit down, put their fingers on a glass and speak to the dead.
What would happen if they did that now? Would Morgan talk to them? Would Daniel Locke still be around, or has he gone elsewhere?
Something small glints in the mirror lights. Chloe goes to it. The charm bracelet. She picks it up. ‘You don’t wear it anymore, then?’
‘Yes, just not on stage.’
‘Do you feel guilty when you look at my ghost?’ Chloe fingers the charm.
‘Why would I feel guilty?’ Ginger shakes her head. ‘Right, you need to leave now.’ She marches to the door. ‘I have to go back on stage. You too Ryan. This was nice, but I have a job to do now.’ She twists the door handle. Frowns. Tries again. ‘What the fuck? Did you lock it, Chloe?’
‘Not me, no.’
Ginger bangs on it. ‘If anyone’s out there, this isn’t funny.’
‘I don’t think it’s anyone out there. Remember last time?’
‘Last time?’ asks Ryan. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We got locked in here,’ says Chloe. ‘I think it was Morgan Miller.’
‘And now?’ Ginger looks horrified.
Chloe shrugs.
Ryan marches to the door and tries it. ‘It must be locked from the other side. Come on, open it! Who’s out there!’
‘When Ginger and I first came in here the door locked like that,’ says Chloe. ‘And then…’ She looks at the mirror lights. They begin to fill with crimson liquid. Then the room pulses red. ‘And then that happened…’
‘What the fuck?’ Ryan goes to them. As he leans close, he looks like he’s blushing in the glow. ‘Is it a trick? Are you two in on this?’
‘Not me,’ cries Ginger. ‘Shit, I’m gonna miss my cue!’
‘Maybe Morgan never wanted you to take her role,’ says Chloe.
‘Quit with the Morgan Miller crap, will you? We’re not kids anymore. That stuff was just dreamed up by a load of hormonal teenagers with overactive imaginations.’
‘How do you explain that then?’ Chloe points to the red lightbulbs.
Ryan is still studying them.
‘I’m as grey as the ash that I clean at his feet, I’m the aftermath of fire, flames he never sees…’
The words drift out of the speaker. It’s Morgan. Instantly recognisable, her tone less sweet than Ginger’s, but richer, fuller. The three of them look at one another.
‘Someone’s doing that,’ insists Ginger. ‘Playing her version to unnerve me. Well, it won’t work. I’ve made that role mine. I’m Esme Black now.’
‘Did they never find her killer?’ asks Ryan, almost to himself.
Chloe shakes her head. ‘Maybe Morgan thinks you stole this show from her,’ she says to Ginger. ‘Like you’re trying to steal mine.’
Ginger starts to say something but then shuts her mouth.
‘I handed my notice in, you see. Because I’m going to devote myself to writing.’
‘You’ve been writing?’ asks Ryan, turning away from the bulbs.
‘Yes. I wrote a script. Ginger read it. Didn’t you?’
‘I did.’ Her voice is shaky. ‘It’s quite good.’
‘Yes, that’s what you told me. To my face anyway. To Edwin Roberts? Well, that was an entirely different description. Something about me pouring my whole heart on the page.’
‘How do you…?’
‘Know? I heard.’
‘Heard?’
‘You and Edwin. In here, talking.’
‘Oh, that.’ Ginger tries to laugh it off. ‘I was just trying to sell it to him. To help you out.’
‘Really? Help me out?’ Chloe frowns as though trying to recall what she heard. ‘What was it Edwin said? Oh yes… “We tell Chloe that we need to shape it, polish it, improve it. Then it’s a joint work. Then we take over and her name becomes a credit. And then we suggest you play Abigail.” Remember that, Ginger?’
‘But Edwin suggested it, not me,’ cries Ginger.
�
�But you didn’t argue. You were silent. Silent. And that said it all.’
‘I would have let you audition too, and they would have picked the best one for the role. That would be fair, wouldn’t it?’
‘Let her audition,’ says Ryan, softly. ‘Fucking hell, Jess.’
‘I think you’ve forgotten what fair even means.’ Chloe has to compose herself. Has her friendship with Jess – because it’s with Jess, really – come to this? ‘What have you become? What has a hunger for fame done to you? You’re not the Jess I used to know. You’re not the Jess who slept over on a weekend and shared your dreams about making it as an actress and made wishes on my eyelashes and promised we’d be friends forever.’
Ginger looks sad.
Chloe rolls up a sleeve. The scars there are healing now but still a criss-cross of old, fading pain. Ryan stares with the fascination of a teenage boy, any fear or good manners put aside. Ginger tries to hide the repulsion in her face, but her acting skills fail her.
‘Yes, I did that,’ says Chloe. ‘I destroyed my body for years. I started because of my anger and sadness at you and Ryan sleeping together all those years ago. I became addicted to the pain. I only managed to stop a year ago.’ Chloe lets her sleeve fall back. ‘And then you betrayed me, and I cut again.’
‘But I haven’t,’ cries Ginger. ‘I didn’t.’
‘I put my pain on the pages of that fucking script. It helped me stop cutting. It got me through life. And you’re not going to steal it, you two-faced bitch.’ Chloe goes into her bag and takes out the dagger. It looks bloody in the red glow. Ginger gasps. ‘This is what I used. Recognise it, Ryan?’
‘I do.’ He comes over, stares at it. Then laughs. ‘You had it all this time?’
‘It isn’t funny,’ cries Ginger. ‘Why the fuck did you bring a knife into my dressing room? You’re crazy!’
‘Not just any knife,’ says Ryan. ‘The Macbeth knife. Shit, my mum went mad about me losing that.’
There’s a sharp rap on the door then. ‘Ginger!’ comes a voice. The stage manager.
She runs to it. ‘It’s stuck! I can’t get out! You have to open it!’
‘The show’s about to start!’ The door handle rattles.
‘I know! You have to get me out!’
‘I’ll get someone,’ comes the voice, sounding far away now.
Ginger turns back to them, her face ablaze. ‘Jesus Christ, it’s my opening night and I won’t be on stage for the second half! I’ll be ruined! My career is over!’ She marches over to Chloe but stops a few feet away from her when she sees the dagger again. ‘This is your fault, you fucking witch. Coming in here and making shit happen.’
‘I don’t make anything happen,’ says Chloe. ‘You asked for this.’
‘It was always you. You caused all that crap on the Ouija board.’
‘No, it was my idea, remember?’ says Ryan, still flushed in the red lights. ‘You can’t blame Chloe. I suggested it. I wanted to mess about with it. You never could make your own decisions or take responsibility for yourself.’
‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’ Ginger turns on him now. ‘You’re the nobody loser. You always were. So jealous of my talent.’
Ryan shakes his head gently. ‘You’re wrong. I was never jealous of your talent. I was jealous of the money and support you had. I was a better actor than you and it killed me that I knew you had a much better chance of getting somewhere than I did. And I got the very thing I wanted, but it was my undoing. So did you, Jess.’ He looks at Chloe then. ‘But you’ll never be the actress Chloe always was, and I think you know that.’
Chloe is speechless.
He thought I was talented?
‘She stole the show in Macbeth that night,’ continues Ryan. ‘When she improvised, and the other witches just followed her … shit, it was electric. That’s what you call true talent. Being able to lead, unrehearsed, and the other actors follow without question.’
Chloe still can’t speak.
But I always thought I followed.
‘If she’s so talented, why isn’t she in Dust?’ Ginger is incandescent with rage.
‘Maybe she didn’t want to step into a dead woman’s shoes,’ says Ryan. ‘Maybe she decided to write her own show and say her own words.’
‘Ha! Her own words! What, some piece-of-shit script about a woman jumping from a ship for a woman she’ll never really have? Is it an autobiography, Chloe?’
‘A woman you want desperately to play,’ says Chloe.
‘Whatever. The pair of you are riddled with jealousy over my success. Wait until the newspapers find out you broke in here with a knife!’ Ginger runs to the door again and bangs on it. ‘For God’s sake, open it, someone!’ Panting, she turns back to face Ryan and Chloe, and rips the veil from her head.
Then, once again, music filters through the speaker, a ghostly echo making it all the more eerie.
‘I’m still here; I am dust. I’m those fragments in the air, the gold light dancing there, that breeze from nowhere…’
‘It’s my song now!’ cries Ginger.
‘When the dust settles, you will know…’
‘That’s not a Dust song,’ says Ryan.
‘No, that’s just Morgan,’ says Chloe. ‘It’s something she used to say to me.’
‘I don’t fall, I fly, I don’t die, I’m free, wherever your heart beats…’
‘Long before you came here,’ says Chloe, approaching Ginger, ‘you appeared to me, in this room, as a dying Esme. I’ve just realised that it was a premonition that you would get this role. And I don’t know why, but I think Morgan doesn’t like you. She never wanted you to play Esme.’
‘Well, I am,’ seethes Ginger. ‘It’s mine! I earned it!’
‘No, you made a deal. You sold a part of yourself to get the role.’
‘Fuck you. It’s not my fault you were so easy to manipulate. It’s not my fault you were so desperate for anything that I let you fuck me. This isn’t about a script. This is because you love me, and I don’t love you, and I never fucking will.’
Remember how. Will it and it shall happen. Push.
The familiar words send heat along Chloe’s spine. And she does it; she pushes. Not with her finger. Not with her body. With her heart. And Ginger flies back, hits the opposite wall, and then crumples in a heap on the floor. The new, gold-framed Dust poster falls beside her, smashing with a thick crack.
‘What th—’ Ryan’s eyes are wide.
Then rage heats the rest of Chloe’s body; rage like the aftermath of fire. With the knife in one hand and Ginger’s charm bracelet still clutched in the other, she goes and stands over her.
‘Please, Chloe, put the knife down,’ cries Ryan, somewhere behind her.
It is hot in Chloe’s hand. Ginger pulls herself to her feet, not taking her eyes off Chloe. They simmer with realisation, and then fear.
‘You,’ she whispers. ‘The time I fell…’
‘Yes. I adored you, Jess. I really did. But you’re not taking my script.’
Chloe remembers the moment that fell into place all those years ago; the moment she first leaned forwards to put her mouth on Jess’s. She had put a hand in Jess’s hair, had wanted to wrap the curls tightly around her fingers so she could never escape. Be mine, her heart had whispered. Now she puts a hand in her hair again, wrapping the curls around her hands once more, and she raises the knife.
Darkness then. Chloe is dragged into a blackout as though by multiple pairs of hands. Before they steal her fully, she sees blood. The dagger and blood, just as she saw it that time in the bar with Ginger.
And Morgan Miller in the mirror…
52
The Game
2005
Chloe opened her eyes. Above, dust dancing playfully in a circle. Nearby, one candle burning still, its flame reflected and blurred in the upturned glass. She sat up. It was just her on the stage, the letters scattered like white rose petals to her left. Had she messed them up with h
er fall? How long had she been out?
Was Morgan Miller still here?
No. The air was too still. Even the candle barely moved. She had gone, Chloe knew it. Perhaps forever. She wanted to cry. She had never felt so alone. The show was over. No more rehearsals. The game was over too. No more magic. Ryan and Jess had gone, and she knew – like she always knew – that there was no point in chasing them. She didn’t mind letting Ryan go, but her heart hurt when she thought of never seeing Jess again.
Forever, together, we are dust. Pieces of everything; pieces of all of us…
The song words came to her. How could Chloe ever sing them alone? If she did, she’d only ever hear Jess, her voice more beautiful; only ever feel Jess, her presence eternally there. The scars on Chloe’s thigh throbbed; the dagger was waiting. It was time for her to leave too. She stood.
Should she say goodbye? What was the point to an empty room?
‘Goodbye Morgan,’ she whispered anyway.
Nothing. Chloe left the candle burning to light her way and descended the stage steps. She looked back, knowing nothing would have moved. She saw them in a flash, the three of them, in a circle, lost in the game. She saw them in character; the king, the king’s wife, and the witch. She started down the aisle between the pews. What was it Morgan last said? The question popped into her head – the answer followed.
