Be Careful What You Wish For

by Vivien Brown

  Why was it that her thoughts always came back to Joe? Because she loved him, she supposed. Or had thought she did. She had felt safe with him, and comfortable, but that wasn’t love, was it? It was friendship and familiarity, and gratitude. An acceptance of what she had and a fear of letting that all go if she were ever to take that scarily dangerous step and reach out for something more.

  They had been friends for as long as she could remember. Her and Joe, Ralph and Sian, their own little gang of four, until, somewhere along the way, as they all got older, things had started to change. Sian and Ralph had fallen for each other. In an innocent, teenage way at first, but it was clear sometimes that they just wanted to be by themselves, just the two of them, leaving Prue and Joe behind, forced to find a way to rub along together, more and more often, without their partners in crime.

  In time, with teenage hormones doing their thing, Prue had begun to look forward to being alone with Joe. She’d started to notice his eyes, his hands, what he was wearing, the smell of him, the feel of him. There had been a gradual, gentle move towards the holding of hands, tentative experimental kisses on the way back from school, out of sight, on the corner, before she turned into the lane that led her home. How much of it had happened simply because the others were doing it, she could never be sure, but they’d gone to the cinema together too, her and Joe, sharing tubs of popcorn, her head resting sleepily on his shoulder on the way home on the bus, and sometimes, once they were old enough, he would ring and ask if she fancied a drink and they’d meet in The Brown Cow, have a game of darts, a bag of crisps, a laugh. Looking back now, she couldn’t help wondering if that was all it had ever been to him. A laugh? A casual thing. Not the romance she had imagined it to be. Needed it to be. Not the real thing at all.

  The bun was gone now, every crumb pecked up greedily from the path, and the birds flew off, their eyes fixed on an old man who had just arrived on the next bench, providing another likely source of food. Prue screwed up the paper bag and dropped it inside her empty cup, popped the lid back on and took it to an overflowing rubbish bin. It was no good dwelling on what was gone. She was twenty-four, and she had let too many years slip by. There was no her and Joe. Not any more. Not in the way she had wanted anyway. She had watched him go off to uni, been proud of him, and excused his long absences and his long silences as necessary if he was to do well, work hard, study hard. Had he played hard too? She would never know. She had believed only what she’d wanted to believe, seen only what she’d wanted to see, and heard … well, what? She had certainly never heard him say he loved her. Because he didn’t love her, and he probably never had. That was so blindingly obvious now.

  She went back out through the gate to the street and spotted another bus approaching. Without any time to work out where it might take her, she ran to the stop and jumped on board. What was the point of being in London and telling herself she was going to change her life if she couldn’t act on impulse and just hop on a passing bus and see where she ended up?

  ‘Sorry, love.’ The driver sniffed at the fiver she held out towards him. ‘We don’t take cash these days. Oyster?’

  Prue shook her head. She hadn’t had time to think about getting herself a travel card, but no cash? Really? How could a bus not take cash?

  ‘Or a contactless card’ll do. Got one of those?’

  She rummaged about in her purse, feeling her face redden, wishing her research into bus routes had expanded into working out how to pay, but thankful at least that there was no queue behind her waiting impatiently to board. She found her bank card and touched it on the round yellow pad the driver was pointing at. The beep noise seemed to satisfy him. He nodded, and she walked down the bus and found herself a seat as he drove back out into the traffic, narrowly missing a cyclist who stuck two fingers up in the air as he clung to the handlebars one-handedly and wobbled out into the centre of the road.

  The man sitting in front of her was tall, his head bent over a newspaper, his dark brown hair skimming his collar at the back. She caught her breath. He looked so much like Joe she had to fight the urge to reach out and touch him. But as he turned his head to look out of the window she saw that he really didn’t look like Joe at all. He was about ten years older for a start, and dark skinned, and he was wearing glasses. Prue shook her thoughts away. Silly, silly, silly … Joe was miles away, and she couldn’t conjure him up at will, much as she might like to.

  She turned her attention away from random passengers and towards what was going on outside the window, lifting a finger and wiping a little patch of the glass clean. Was that Trafalgar Square looming up at her? Yes, it was. The big stone lions, the fountain, and all those people! This was where she would start her first London adventure. Checking that her compact camera was still safely tucked in her pocket, she jumped up so excitedly that she almost tripped over her own feet, and rang the bell.

  Chapter 5

  MADI

  When Madi woke up, to the sound of a far-off cockerel announcing the morning, it was still dark. She turned over onto her back, her scar sore where she had rolled onto her side in her sleep, and lay for a while, listening to the unfamiliar creaks of the old cottage.

  When she was sure she was not going to be able to get back to sleep, she made her way slowly down the stairs, pulling her dressing gown tightly around her against the chill, and went into the kitchen, hoping to find that the cat had returned. The bowl of food she’d left on the floor was empty, so at least the little truant was around somewhere, not run off in disgust at the new living arrangements or trapped in someone’s shed. Well, you heard such stories about animals going missing when an owner moved house or went on holiday, and she’d hate to be the one to have to explain to Prue that she’d let her down and lost the poor little mite.

  The water that emerged from the hot tap was, if anything, even colder than the water coming from the cold one and she remembered, too late, about the immersion heater. Oh, well, no bath or shower for her this morning. At least there was a kettle, so she could enjoy her first coffee of the day and make herself some porridge.

  Madi ran her hand over her head. With nobody here to see her, and the curtains still closed, she had not bothered wrapping one of her many coloured scarves around it this morning or resorted to hiding beneath that nasty, itchy wig. Her fingers played with the short stubbly covering of new hair that was starting to emerge and she couldn’t help wondering what colour it would turn out to be. It had been a very long time since she had last seen her natural chestnut colour, having veered between various reds and browns and even the occasional blonde over the years, depending on changing fashions or her mood or what role she was playing at the time. At sixty-two, the chances were that it would end up grey, of course. Or, at best, a sophisticated shade of silver. Still, having hair back at all was a relief, and there was always the dye bottle to fall back on again if what nature decided to provide needed a helping hand.

  As she sat at the kitchen table, a clack of plastic at floor level alerted her to the return of the missing cat.

  ‘Ah, so you must be Flo,’ she said, lowering her hand and feeling pleasantly surprised when the little tabby walked towards her, tipped her head and started rubbing it round and round against her fingers, her tail pointing straight upwards as she arched her back and purred loudly. ‘Well, I can see we’re going to get along just fine, aren’t we, sweetie?’ She tried to remember which cupboard held the clean cat bowls and found them on the third attempt. Her memory, quite worryingly, wasn’t as good recently as it had once been. ‘Now, let’s find you some breakfast, shall we?’

  The first day in any new place always felt a bit unsettling. Not knowing where things were, or how things worked. She’d moved around a lot as various theatrical productions she’d been involved with had toured the country. It was a life she had chosen long ago and had grown used to. Two or three nights in one town, then maybe a week or two in another and, if she was lucky, a few days back at home in between. Different dressing roo
ms, different guesthouses and hotels, different rules. A changing circle of colleagues and crew members and friends, some of whom she would come across often and some she would never meet again. Her face and her name on the posters outside greeted her at every theatre they went to, sometimes in a leading role, sometimes (and more frequently as she grew older) just as one of the supporting cast, but she always made a point of keeping a programme to add to her vast collection. She had even been in a TV soap once, although only for a dozen or so episodes, and still had the Radio Times to prove it.

  This, she told herself, peering through the curtains at the lane outside, was going to be just the same. A new place to explore, a new bed to sleep in, new people to meet, and then home again to touch base and await whatever opportunities might follow. Was there any call for a damaged ageing actress without a full head of hair? She hoped so, but it had become all too easy lately to look at life more pessimistically. Just four months ago she had been utterly oblivious to what was going on inside her own body, those horrid little rogue cells gathering together and ganging up on her, determined to do their worst. But she was rid of them now and, despite the surgery and the chemo, she was still here. She had survived and, apart from occasional visits from Betty next door to check she was doing okay or to get her heavier bits of shopping in, she’d done it alone. And from now on it was all about recovery, regaining her strength and her positivity, making time for herself for a change. She fought back the tears that so often threatened to overwhelm her. What good would it do to cry? It would change nothing and, besides, the worst was surely over now. Life could only get better.

  She had told nobody of the seriousness of her illness, just blamed a bad bout of flu, withdrew from the play she had been rehearsing in favour of an understudy, and slipped out of the loop for a while. The last thing she needed was pity. Best that nobody knew. Not even George. Especially George.

  While she was here, just as if she was acting a part, she did not have to reveal anything of her real life or her true self if she chose not to. In Norfolk she could be anyone she wanted to be. In this little corner of the world, she could be whole again. No cancer, no scars, everything still in its place. That, more than anything, was what she needed right now. That anonymity, that normality, the chance to re-adjust to her new self, before going back to face whatever life decided to throw at her next.

  One thing she could not do, try as she might, was lie to herself. As soon as she took off her dressing gown and opened the wardrobe to select an outfit for the day, the full-length mirror reminded her of that. It still came as a shock, seeing her newly altered body, so unfamiliar, so lopsided, her scars still raw and so difficult to look at. The easiest thing, the safest thing, was simply not to look at all, to select something to wear, something loose and all-concealing, cover herself up and shut the door on the mirror as quickly as possible, but she couldn’t do it. Every mirror she approached seemed to compel her to look into it, as if it was forcing her to confront the truth.

  The cat was rubbing around her legs now, almost tripping her as she stepped into her trousers. She bent down and picked her up, holding the thin little body close and listening to her purr. ‘It doesn’t bother you, does it, sweetie? What I look like, whether I have one breast or two, as long as I give you cuddles and fill your bowl.’

  People were a different matter though. In a business like hers, appearance was everything. It was a world of costumes and camouflage, make-up and make-believe, where its players came on stage for a while, fooled the audience into believing just about anything and then left again through different doors, a world where nobody was entirely who they seemed. Perhaps that was the best way to live, given a choice. Just pretending all the time. Avoiding real life altogether, because real life, as George would no doubt say, sucked.

  She wondered, briefly, where George might be at this moment, what he was doing and who he was with. It had been almost five months since she had last seen him, at the small party she had held for her birthday, backstage in her dressing room straight after coming off stage. She hadn’t known about her cancer then. The lump lurking in her left breast had not yet made itself known, and life was still busy, hectic, normal. George had wanted to take her out for dinner, said there was something he wanted to talk to her about, but she had already made the arrangements. Assorted bottles of booze and a cocktail shaker were lined up beneath her mirror, the lights positioned around it sparkling off the glass, and the cast were elated after a successful opening night. George had hovered in the corner, out of place, and had left early. As far as he was concerned, he told her afterwards, it was yet another snub, proof that she preferred the company of her fellow actors and had never put him first. Oh, how wrong he was. If only she had taken the time to notice his distress and give him the love and attention he needed, but she had been caught up in the buzz all around her and it had never occurred to her that there might not be a chance the next day to put things right.

  When she had called him in the morning, he had told her that Jessica had left him. That everyone he had ever loved always left him. The sting in his voice left no doubt that he was talking about her. His hurt ran down the phone line like treacle she had no idea how to wade through. Her heart went out to him but she couldn’t find the words she needed to say how sorry she was. She knew only too well the pain of being abandoned, but that didn’t mean she had the answers, or that she had ever had the right to abandon him too. But she had had her career to think about …

  Remembering their argument still hurt but reaching out across the void between them just seemed to get harder and harder as time went by. He had ignored her calls over the following weeks, and she knew that if she had tried to get in touch later, while she was ill, she would just have looked needy, come across as a sick woman desperate for sympathy and for her son to come back and look after her, and the irony of that, after all the years when she should have been there to look after him, was far from lost on her. No, it wouldn’t have been fair. She’d had to deal with this on her own, even spending Christmas by herself, lying low, doing very little, as she recovered from her mastectomy. He had sent a card but no invitation to meet, and there had been no festive phone call. Clearly, he found it hard to forgive, but not telling him about her cancer felt like the right thing to do and being alone to face it was quite possibly exactly what she had deserved. But now she was on the mend, maybe …

  She carefully positioned her wig on her head and pulled a chiffon scarf over the top, tying it securely under her chin, still not comfortable or confident enough wearing the damned thing to trust it to stay in place. She dreaded to think what she must look like, but going out without it would feel a whole lot worse. She picked up a deep canvas shopping bag she found hanging on a hook in the kitchen and popped her purse and keys inside it, deliberately leaving her handbag with its mobile phone and diary and everything else that marked her out as Madalyn Cardew, escapee, behind. On the dresser, she told herself, trying to imprint exactly where she had left them onto her memory, desperate to retrain it before she mislaid anything else. It had happened too often in the last six months or so. It must be a sign that she was getting old, that perhaps a little part of her mind was starting to slip away and might never come back. She shivered at the thought and peered into the bag again, just to make sure she really had picked up the keys.

  The morning was looking bright and clear as she opened the front door and stood, breathing in lungsful of country air, on the step. It was time to walk around the village and see what it had to offer, and to locate the shop the girl at the vets’ had mentioned yesterday so she could stock up on food, perhaps buy a newspaper or a magazine, and a bottle of wine or something a tad stronger to ward off the cold until she figured out how to light that damned fire.

  ‘Good morning.’ The voice, coming from behind her, took her by surprise.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Madi turned to see a short and dumpy woman, her tightly permed hair framing a round suntanned face, standing and looking at
her from the pavement. ‘It’s looking like we’re in for a nice day.’

  ‘Nothing like a bit of spring sunshine after a long cold winter. I’m Faith Harris, by the way. Prue’s mum.’ The woman lifted the gate and pushed it open, a lot more expertly than Madi herself had done the day before and, without waiting for an invitation, ambled up the path towards her. ‘Prue did say someone would be staying here for a while, but she left in such a hurry, I’m afraid I didn’t get the chance to find out anything more. Not even your name …?’

  ‘It’s Madalyn, but call me Madi. Everyone does.’

  Faith held out a hand and Madi took it. ‘Nice to meet you, Madi.’ She stood silently for a moment, her arms folded over her bosom. ‘This was my mother’s cottage, you know. I grew up here, lived here all my life until I got married. Then Mum left it to Prue in her will. Well, I didn’t need it, and I think she wanted to give Prue her first step on the ladder, a taste of independence, you know? Always close, those two.’

  ‘Ah. The elderly lady on the wall in the lounge? I thought as much.’

  ‘You’ve been looking at the photos then? All our Prue’s doing. She’s quite a talented photographer, isn’t she? But, yes, that’s her gran over the fireplace. Verity Bligh. One of a kind. She passed on last year. Eighty-three. Not a bad age, I suppose, but I would have liked to have her around for longer. I still miss her.’ She sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know what she would have made of all this business …’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘Well, Prue running off like that, I mean. Hardly a word to any of us. No forwarding address, and she’s not answering her phone. Taken time off from her job, and everything. It’s really not like her at all. I’m quite worried about her, to tell you the truth, and so is Joe, of course. I don’t suppose you know where she is?’