by Sarah Clarke
‘Mothers, grandmothers. It’s their job to worry, I suppose.’
‘Mama says she wasn’t always that way. That something happened to her during the Prague Spring.’
‘Prague Spring?’ I ask, embarrassed by my ignorance of Czech history.
‘Sorry. There’s no reason you should know. It happened in 1968. We were part of Czechoslovakia then, had been communist for twenty years. But the mood was changing and a new leader was voted in, a more liberal one with big plans. My babicka was a student at Prague University. She was so excited, when Dubcek came to power, was certain things would change for the better.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The Russians didn’t like it; thought they would lose their grip on us. So they sent their soldiers. My babicka said it was horrible, watching the Soviet tanks roll in.’
‘And that made her scared?’
‘At first it made her angry. She became part of the resistance.’
‘And then?’
‘She was arrested; spent two days in jail. Nothing terrible happened, but they threatened it, over and over. Then they just let her go. Those forty-eight hours created a fear so deep that it changed her forever. Crazy, hey.’
‘Not so crazy.’ A shiver crawls up my spine. I think of that night, how profoundly it changed me.
‘It was over fifty years ago. And she still begged me not to come to London; was scared I’d get mugged, or caught in the crossfire of some gang fight.’
I can see the man now. The whites of his eyes. The glint of his knife. And then Dan, trapped. My skin feels clammy. My breathing starts to stutter.
‘Fiona, are you okay?’ Fiona. The name was supposed to symbolise a fresh start. But it’s bullshit. Those memories, that night, I’ll never escape it.
I focus on Marco, still spinning on the dance floor, and his happy grin draws me back to the party. ‘Let’s dance,’ I shout, with a level of mania I didn’t intend. I don’t wait for Hana’s response before grabbing her hand and pulling her onto the dance floor, close to the speaker. I want to drown out those memories with loud Christmas tunes.
I close my eyes and swirl, arms reaching up, body brushing against other dancers as the alcohol boosts our confidence and frees our movement. I need to forget what happened before, concentrate on the future. The Pogues comes back on and I dance with more enthusiasm. I’ve built something with Charlie, something I barely allowed myself to wish for. The dance floor is packed now. I spin again.
Then slam!
Stars explode in my eyes.
‘Oh shit, Fiona! Sorry!’
I stagger backwards. Pain threatens to overwhelm me.
‘Jesus, get her some tissues, a napkin.’
My nose is on fire, my whole face feels like it’s buzzing with an electric shock. Blood gushes down my chin, drips onto my new dress. How can there be so much blood in my nose? My eyes sting with tears, distorting my vision. I can see Marco, rubbing his elbow, his face tight with remorse. And Hana thrusting Santa napkins into my hand.
And I can see Charlie. His eyes wide, his body frozen in fear.
Chapter 29
SEPTEMBER 2005
Phoebe
‘Do you need a top-up, Phoebe darling?’
I rest my hand over the top of my glass and shake my head. I know that Richie will be happy for us when he finds out I’m pregnant; he’s not the type to fret about how the clients will react. But our first scan isn’t until next week, and I don’t want to tempt fate by telling him our news prematurely.
‘Probably for the best. You’ll need a clear head when you collect your award later.’ He winks at me, then reaches across the table, proffering the bottle towards Dan.
‘There are five of us nominated,’ I remind him. ‘And Susie Hall has got two clients into the RSC this year. She has to be favourite.’
‘Well, that’s not the rumour I’m hearing. Dan, you won’t force me to drink alone will you?’
‘Of course not.’ Dan smiles at Richie and reaches forward with his glass, but I notice it’s still over half full. That’s not like him, and I wonder why he’s holding back. Maybe this is part of his promise to make our night together perfect, his recognition of my not drinking. ‘Cheers.’ He clinks Richie’s glass first and then leans over to meet mine. ‘I think you’re going to win too.’
‘Really?’
‘You’re definitely the best theatrical agent I know, anyway.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ I tease back. We both know how exclusive that group is.
‘Ah, excuse me!’ Richie joins in, puffing out his chest and pretending to be offended. ‘I taught her everything she knows.’
Our laughter is interrupted by the buzz of a phone. Dan reaches inside his dinner jacket, looks at the number flashing on his Blackberry and frowns. ‘I better take this,’ he says, pushing back his chair.
I watch him walk to the back of this proudly ostentatious venue. Café de Paris has long been a favourite with London’s rich and famous. A heady escape into luxury and flamboyance, it’s a natural habitat for people like Flora, adorned with elaborate chandeliers and dramatic sweeping staircases. With its many pillars holding up a line of ornate balconies, I imagine the illicit conversations that have taken place in the shadows, and wonder who has whisked Dan away from my side.
But when he strides back to the table, with a deeper frown and an air of urgency, any hint of jealousy disappears. ‘Are you okay?’
‘That was Flora.’
I sit more upright and feel my shoulders tense. ‘What did she want? Why didn’t she call me?’
‘She didn’t want to disturb you apparently, in case you were on stage or whatever. Charlie’s woken up and he won’t settle.’
‘Did she sound drunk?’
Dan doesn’t respond and the silence says it all.
‘I need to go, Phoebe.’
‘I know.’ My eyes well up and I have to concentrate really hard to stop the tears. I should be worried about Charlie, consoling him, protecting him from my awful, irresponsible mother. But all I can think about is how my night with Dan is over. What kind of mother does that make me? Putting my happiness before my child’s?
‘I’ll get a cab – it shouldn’t take too long to flag one down.’
I shake my head. ‘No, take the car. It’ll be quicker, and Charlie deserves to have you home as soon as possible.’
‘I would prefer to drive, but only if you promise to stay at the hotel. I don’t want you getting a cab home by yourself late at night.’
I look over at Richie, feel the warmth of his concerned gaze, think about the money he’s spent. ‘I guess I could still stay.’
‘You’ll love it, Phoebe. And you deserve it, somewhere plush to recharge.’
I picture the hotel room with its jacuzzi bath, luxury bedding and 24/7 room service. It might not be the fairy-tale ending I was hoping for, but perhaps I can salvage something from this mess. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Absolutely. It will be fun, just me and Charlie for a night.’
‘Well if you’re sure; I can get the bus home in the morning.’
A smile spreads across his face, the relief that I’m okay shining through his expression. I smile back and enjoy the warmth of his kiss, his whisper of good luck. Then I give him the car keys, and with a small salute, he’s gone.
*
‘And the winner of Theatrical Agent of the Year 2005 is …’
My heart booms inside my chest; my mouth goes dry. I imagine walking onto the stage, pray that I don’t trip up the steps, or stumble over my acceptance speech. I look at the trophy, wonder what shelf I’ll put it on.
‘Susie Hall!’
Not me after all. Applause erupts around me and I respond to Richie’s instructions as if on autopilot. Smile. Clap. Make eye contact. I didn’t even want the award, dammit, it was more than enough just to be nominated. But Richie had been so sure. And Dan isn’t here. And now I feel like crying again.
‘Oh, da
rling, I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m fine. It’s fine.’ I smile at Richie, but it’s false. The muscles in my cheeks are stiff with the effort.
‘Are you sure? Because I’ve just spotted Oskar Jansen.’
I follow his eyeline until I see the Dutch supermodel-turned-serious actor holding court in a red velvet armchair at the back of the room. He graduated from RADA in the summer with a distinction, and Richie is one of a number of agents trying to sign him.
‘Of course, you go. I might do some networking myself.’
‘That’s my girl. Tougher than you look.’
I watch him scamper in Oskar’s direction, nodding and waving to people as he snakes a route around the many tables. It’s a small industry and everyone pretends to be friendly, but we’re adversaries first and foremost. There are plenty of people I know here too; I should go and say hello. But they’ll offer me sympathy, and I’ll tell them how honoured I was just to be nominated, and they won’t believe a word of it. I just haven’t got the energy.
It’s past eleven o’clock and the agent of the year award was the last to be announced, the grand finale. The lady from the Globe theatre who handed out the awards has disappeared, probably heading back to her husband, or wife maybe. The venue staff are clearing the tables and a few guests have decided the stage makes a really good dance floor. Richie seems to have hit it off with Oskar, and I can see Piers – Paul’s old agent and my first boss – entertaining a tribe of young assistants with his wild stories from yesteryear.
I feel so lonely.
Of course there’s nothing keeping me here. I could just pick up my overnight bag from the cloakroom, head west down Piccadilly. Even in these heels I could be at the hotel in under ten minutes, sinking into a bubble bath five minutes later with a box of Pringles and a large glass of Coke.
Except I’d still be alone.
Not tickling Charlie with my monster fingers, or stroking his forehead to lull him back to sleep. Not climbing into bed next to Dan, listening to him promise that awards mean nothing compared to the new life growing inside me. And how he doesn’t need a piece of silverware to know how talented I am.
I dig deep into my clutch bag and find an old biro. I scribble a note on a discarded menu and leave it by Richie’s jacket. It’s the perfect sweetener, and I’m sure Richie won’t waste any time in offering my now redundant hotel room to his latest target. I pick up my denim jacket from the glamorous cloakroom assistant and head out into the night air. It had been a warm day, but the temperature has dropped, and I wish I’d thought to wear a thicker coat. Now that I’ve made the decision to go home, I feel impatient to get there, and I shrug off Dan’s plea that I don’t get a cab home alone.
Leicester Square is heaving with people: wide-eyed tourists enjoying the buzz of this cosmopolitan city, plus groups of young workers as they move from pub to club or late-night bar. I usually love the energy of this place, the anomaly of such crowded streets after dark, but hailing a taxi here will be impossible, so instead, I head south down the much quieter Whitcomb Street.
My feet are killing me by the time I reach Nelson’s Column and I fight the urge to remove my stilettos. But there are plenty of black cabs trundling around Trafalgar Square, or down the Strand, and many of them with their yellow light shining, showing they’re free. As one comes towards me, I lift my arm as a signal, but the driver stops twenty metres away, and I watch a man in a business suit climb into the back. I try again with the next cab I see, but either his light is on by mistake or he doesn’t notice me because he sails straight past. I wander a bit further down the road to see if my luck improves, but all the empty cabs seem to have disappeared.
And then it starts to rain.
I swear under my breath and head for the nearest cover, which turns out to be a bus shelter next to Pizza Express on the Strand. I know this place, perhaps better than I should, and I find myself smiling as I sink into the plastic seat. As a teenager, I’d get the bus into town with my friends; the 87 would drop us here and we’d wander up to Covent Garden, stare in shop windows and dare each other to pickpocket the tourists (a dare none of us ever played out). There might be a spliff at some point, or a bottle of cider. Then we’d amble back to this bus stop and giggle until the bus arrived to take us home.
The loud sigh of a bus pulling up brings me back to the present. Amazingly, it’s the number 87. This will take me back to Wandsworth, then it will only be a short cab ride to Southfields from there. Should I do it? For old times’ sake?
Decision made, I extract my Oyster card from my bag. Buses only started accepting these a few months ago and I still feel slightly relieved when the yellow pad beeps its acceptance of me. It’s warmer on the bus and I feel my shoulders relax a little as I head upstairs and slip into a window seat close to the back; the seat we’d always choose if it was free. The top deck is almost empty, and the only sound comes from the patter of rain on the window. A dark-haired girl in a leather jacket is sat at the front, big headphones covering her ears, and an old man is fast asleep a couple of seats behind her. It’s almost tranquil.
After a minute, the engine rumbles into life, and I see the flash of an indicator through the window. I settle back against the royal blue seat covering and wait for the bus to leave. But before the driver finds space in the traffic, noise erupts below me and then I hear feet pounding up the staircase. Three boys bundle their way to the back of the bus, eyes wide and breathing shallow. I instinctively know they’re running away from something and panic starts to rise in my chest. But am I scared for them, or me?
The last in the trio sits at the midway point, opposite the aisle, and I can tell that he feels exposed. We catch eyes for a moment, and I see both fear and bravado in his. He looks so young, 15 at a push, and I find myself thinking that he shouldn’t be out this late on a school night. When did I get so middle-aged? I smile, to reassure him. Whatever danger they’ve run from, they’ve made it; they’re safe now.
But he doesn’t smile back because his attention is pulled away by more noise. Loud scuffling, heavy footsteps banging on the stairs. There are four of them, teenagers still perhaps, but also proper men, with wide chests and Parka hoods shadowing their faces. They fall still when they see the boys and I sense what they’re thinking; no need to rush now, their prey have nowhere to run. Then they start to move forward, taking their time, intimidating with their swagger and silence.
I push myself back against the window. I’m not part of this argument and I need to create some distance. But I can’t help stealing a glance at the three boys, their eyes darting left and right in a futile search for an escape route. Should I pull the emergency cord? Stop what might happen before any damage is done? But what would I say? These teenagers are scaring me, officer; the way they walk, the threat in their stares. What label would that give me? I look at the girl at the front of the bus, her head moving slightly to some beat that only she can hear. The old man is still fast asleep, arms crossed over the gentle curve of his belly. They don’t care what’s going on. I hear Dan’s soothing voice in my head – Not your problem, Phoebe – and realise I don’t need to care either.
The bus is moving now so I stare out of the window, try to let the grandeur of Whitehall calm my nerves. We pass the Cenotaph, an imposing stone structure built to honour the bravery of British soldiers, and I silently ask them to get me home safely. No one is saying a word behind me, but the air is heavy with simmering testosterone and it would only take a spark to set it on fire.
The bus lurches suddenly, the driver heavy on the brake, and one of the men loses his balance, falling forwards towards the boy facing the aisle. The boy screams in fear and suddenly he’s holding a knife, waving it left and right. ‘I’ll cut you, man. I’ll fucking cut you!’
A gasp escapes from my lips, but the man just laughs, reaches inside his coat and pulls out a length of metal pipe. ‘Oh yeah?’
Then it starts.
The four men surge forward. It’s a blur of r
ustling coats and clenched fists. I hear muffled swearing and panting, catch the glint of a knife, rising then disappearing again.
I need to do something. Stop this.
But I can’t move.
I’m pushed up against the window. I feel my bladder loosen and I squeeze it shut, but I can’t stop my heart from pounding in my ears. Like one terrifying monster, the tussling bodies sway towards me. I can smell their sweat, the stench of cortisol leaking out of their pores. If I stay stock-still, if I pretend I’m not here, they won’t hurt me.
They’ll just hurt each other.
Like the man on the floor, blood pouring out of his head.
The one I’m not looking at, because it’s not my problem.
But it’s too late anyway. The boy, the one I smiled at, the one with the knife, he’s heading for me. He’s going to stab me. Why me? I haven’t seen anything. I’m not a witness. I just want to get home. To Dan and Charlie.
But he’s not heading for me.
He’s falling on me.
He’s bleeding on me.
Chapter 30
DECEMBER 2019
Ben
The angry fire burning inside him has gone out. Not smouldering, ready to reignite with the smallest spark; but absent. The smell of her skin, the taste of her lips. For the first time in forever, Ben feels totally calm.
As the kiss deepens, Ben feels himself falling. In love, yes. But also, physically falling. Descending into somewhere new. Dopamine floods his body, and he can feel it on his skin. A fizz of excitement. How can this be happening? Even dreaming of this moment had felt wrong, like he was tainting Hana just by imagining being with her. But when, fuelled by all that free alcohol, he’d spurted out his true feelings, she’d actually smiled, then leaned in for a kiss. And it had felt so good.
Too good to be true perhaps.
Ben senses Hana pulling away from him. He opens his eyes and tries to hide his disappointment. ‘Everything okay?’
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’
