by S. E. Lynes
‘We can buy a special jar,’ Bridget ploughed on. ‘We’ll maybe buy a nice vase from one of those posh shops in Richmond. I could take you there tomorrow, Squirt, how does that sound? Or we could even get my mate Cath to make something.’
And that’s what they did. Cath, Bridget’s potter friend in Teddington, made an urn, and that’s where Stan is now, on the top right-hand side of the bookshelf that the fireplace divides into two.
And all their lives divide that way, into two: before and after.
Sixteen
Rosie
Mum, the thing is, I would never have had a chance with a boy like Ollie, no way would I have even followed him because he’s so out of my league, but there was this group photo from The Wizard of Oz from Easter last year. I wasn’t in that because I was too nervous to audition, wasn’t I? But I helped with props and I did some ushering too, do you remember? You let me do some of the matinees, but you wouldn’t let me do the evening performances unless you came to pick me up, and I didn’t want you to have to come out at night because, well, because.
You see, I do think about you sometimes, Mum. I’m not completely selfish.
Anyway, Stella Prince, you know, cool Stella whose party you didn’t let me go to? She was Dorothy, obvs, and she’d posted about it loads on Instagram, and on one of the photos she’d tagged us all, the cast and crew and everyone. This was before she went away to uni. Stella has more followers than anyone I know, and she posts such cool pics, and I was stoked to be tagged on her feed even though it was only because she’d tagged everyone.
But that’s how Ollie found me. This was before I got Little Red – ages before actually. Before we met Emily and things started to go well for us again. It was May last year or maybe June. I feel bad now. That’s a long time to keep a secret.
I don’t let, like, anyone follow me. I’m not one of those girls who just want loads of followers so they can say, hey, I’ve got 4,000 followers. I’m not like that. Mine’s a private account so people have to ask to follow me. You see? I do listen to you. For some things, I do. I’m so much better behaved than anyone I know, Mum, you just don’t realise it because you only know me and Naomi and Cat and about five of my other friends, and they’re all really nice but even they do way more naughty stuff than me. Naomi smokes, like, ten roll-ups a day and Cat’s had weed, but don’t tell her mum or she’ll kill me. Seriously, Mum, don’t.
So when Ollie requested to follow me, I was like, what? I clicked on him to check him out – I’m not completely stupid – and saw, well, first of all that he was dank. Sorry, but he was so hot. And second, I saw that he followed Stella and a load of others from drama, and Stella and some of the girls followed him back. I even looked him up on Facebook and saw that we had twelve mutual friends, so I was careful, Mum, I so was. I accepted his follow request and followed him back. That’s just what you do. His account was an open one. I stalked him a bit and liked his most recent picture: a flat white at Butter Beans in Richmond next to a copy of Impro by Keith Johnstone. I wanted to comment, I’ve got that book! and to ask if he was an actor too, but that would have been so embarrassing, and I didn’t like any of his other pictures or he would know I’d looked through all of them and that would… well, no. Just no.
Ollie was following loads of beautiful girls, not normal ones like me, and I wondered why he’d bothered following me. He had this picture of him on holiday in Spain or somewhere, with his top off, and he was so dench; he had abs and he had, like, this really intense gaze. He’s got beautiful brown eyes. I took a screenshot, but I deleted it later in case you checked through my photos and asked me who he was. I even deleted the deleted album, to be sure. But I kept it in my phone for a bit first so I could look at it. It’s a bit like when you want, say, new trainers or a top or something but you can’t afford it so you take a photo of it in the shop and sort of carry it around for a bit and imagine what it would be like to just, like, go out and buy it. Have it.
Anyway, then I posted a picture on Instagram of me and Auntie Bridge at her last gig, at the Orange Tree pub in Richmond. Auntie Bridge had her guitar round her neck and she looked quite cool for an old person, and it wasn’t too bad of me obvs because I’d put it up there. I had put:
Me and Auntie Bridge #thepromise
Underneath, he had put:
Cool auntie
I screamed. He had commented on my picture. Oh my actual God. If my friends saw it, they might click on him and they’d see that a total babe had commented on my feed. Loads of my friends get comments and likes from hot guys all the time, but they post selfies in bikinis, in their underwear, where they’re wearing red lipstick, photos of them out drunk or on MD. I don’t post selfies like that, like the others girls do, because, well, because 1) you would kill me; 2) I’ve never gone out and got drunk apart from one time when I went to that party when I told you I was staying at Naomi’s, but I’ve never taken anything; and 3) those pictures are so embarrassing and I can’t even do them. I tried once but it was such a fail so I just choose ones where I don’t look too bad, for me.
I never get likes from hot guys, not normally. But this was more than a like – this was an actual legit comment. This was a move.
I liked his comment, but I didn’t comment back because hello? Internet safety.
Seventeen
Toni
After the accident, I told myself for years you were not harmed. But in your new quietness lay the truth. Whatever had made you stand on that picnic-tabletop and perform for us had died with your dad. Stanley Flint. Stan. The picnic-tabletop was… before. Now we were… afterwards. After the accident, you put it back in the shed. Soil from the trowel fell on it. Snails made a home on it – like barnacles on the bottom of an abandoned ship.
You had become shy. Overnight. You’re still shy, in a way that you never used to be, and that makes me sadder than I know how to say. Sometimes, even now, when you make me laugh or tell me your stories, I long so badly for you to be able to share this wonderful side of yourself with the world. That was why I was so thrilled when you got the part of Little Red. It was Bridget – again – who suggested I sign you up for the local youth theatre, not to explore any potential you might have but to give you back your confidence. You were around ten or eleven by then… so, three or four years after the accident. It was the summer before you went to secondary school. The hospital had moved me to Medical Records, which was good of them. No longer able to cope with dealing directly with the needs of patients, I could have been out of a job completely.
We didn’t talk about talent any more. We didn’t talk about being special or gifted or anything like that. We had passed the prolonged and breathless shock of the first years and we were surviving, holding hands in the dark cave of grief. Bridget was right, as she so often is. You excelled in the art of becoming someone else, maybe because you wanted to be.
* * *
The girl in the bed opposite keeps trying to chat. Her tone hovers uncomfortably close to belligerence.
‘That your daughter?’ she said when we first came in. A’ ya doh’a? That’s what she sounds like. Thank goodness I nagged you to pronounce your words properly, although how I can get you to stop saying ‘like’ every second word is anyone’s guess.
I wanted to say, ‘No, it’s my mother, who do you think it is?’
Except that wouldn’t have felt right, with your granny being dead, and it’s a bit rude.
‘What did you say she was in for?’ she asked, about ten minutes ago.
I didn’t. I didn’t say.
What you’re in for is your own business, no one else’s, not even the police’s. If they trace the body to us, well, then we’ll have to take a view, but until then I’m saying nothing. And nothing is exactly what I said to her. I looked at her coldly, mouth tight shut. That worked. She muttered something about only asking (arxin) and looked out of the window. If I leave your side, I’m sure she’ll be over here straight away, reading your chart before you can s
ay nosy bitch.
Anyway, let’s talk about something nice, something life-affirming that will do just that: affirm your life, now that we’ve retrieved it. I was talking about your first night as Little Red, wasn’t I? About how excited you were when I put you to bed, how full of the famous actress you were going to become. I hoped it would pass, this euphoria, but of course it didn’t, and the morning after, you were still full of Emily this, Emily that.
‘Listen, Rosie,’ I said. ‘We don’t even know her. She could be anyone.’
‘Anyone could be anyone,’ you said as you set the table. ‘We can still look at her website though, can’t we? Just a look?’
‘All right, all right. Just a look.’
You fetched your laptop and we looked up the Into the Light Agency. With hindsight, I suspect you’d already looked it up in bed the night before on your iPhone. Your auntie Bridge had gone to the gym, I think, because it was just us two that morning. I’d made waffles, and we ate them with maple syrup, do you remember?
The agency was exactly as Emily had said: there weren’t many actors on it, maybe eight or ten or so, and they all looked to be in their late teens, maybe early twenties. I tell you what, Rosie, and I don’t expect you to understand this, but as you get older, the sight of young people can bring a tear to the eye. Youth: so beautiful, so full of innocence, curiosity and hope. Maybe it’s because I know I’m looking at the blemish-free faces of people who have yet to experience real pain, have yet to have their lives irrevocably compromised. Why would they not be curious? Why would they not hope? Life hasn’t yet taught them not to.
Sorry, I’m being morbid, not to mention making assumptions about people I don’t even know. I mustn’t let the old bitterness overtake me. That’s in the past, where it needs to stay. Where were we? Oh yes, those photographs. Professional shots like you see in theatre programmes, and my thoughts turned immediately to the worry of how much a photograph like that would cost. There was one shot in particular: a girl with sleek black hair, flawless skin and the biggest brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Sunita Philips, I think her name was.
‘Oh my God,’ you said. ‘She is so amazing.’
I could tell you were thinking about what it would be like to have a photograph like that taken, to have yourself presented in that way and how wonderful it would be. And I wonder if that’s the moment I thawed. I could see that the website was very professional; your auntie had checked Emily’s credentials online. I didn’t trust her, no way, but then I didn’t trust anyone.
‘You really want to do this, don’t you?’ I said.
You nodded once, twice, three times. You were tucking into your muesli and you grinned at me, your cheeks pinking with delight. Another drip fell from the melting iceberg that was me.
‘You’d have to keep on top of your school work,’ I said, pouring coffee into my flask for work. I said nothing about the money, another worry that was running through my mind. I knew I’d find the cash somehow.
You nodded again – three, four, five times – your brow furrowed in a show of commitment. It reminded me of when you were four and I said I would only buy you tap shoes if you promised to stick at the lessons. You stuck to the lessons, all right. I found some tap shoes second-hand. You wore them out. In fact, you wore them until your big toenails went black, and when I asked why, you said you didn’t want to ask me for another pair because they were expensive. Bless your heart, darling. My darling girl.
You probably couldn’t believe I was even considering it, could you, because of how I am – my limitations, my paranoia. I smiled to myself, put my flask into my bag with my packed lunch, made sure your sandwiches were ready in your rucksack with your water bottle and one of the chocolate Rice Krispie cakes I still made for you safe in its Tupperware. I was busy, as usual, scooting about, but as I came past you, I reached over and laid my hand on your soft cheek.
‘This doesn’t mean I’m saying yes to drama school or anything like that,’ I said. ‘That’s a whole other conversation, all right?’
‘I understand,’ you said, washing down your multivit with a slug of orange juice. ‘She said it’d only be for adverts anyway at first, for experience and coaching and all that stuff. Even if I don’t get anything, it’ll be good to put on my CV, and I won’t fall behind on my GCSEs or anything.’
‘And how will you get to these auditions?’
I saw you stop yourself from rolling your eyes.
‘Mum, I take a bus when I go into Kingston or Richmond, don’t I? I’ve been on the train to Waterloo. I’m fifteen.’
‘You’ve only been on the train once, with Naomi. And that’s with no changes and no Tube. What if it’s at night?’
‘They don’t do auditions at night! She’s not going to send me to anything dodgy, is she? She’s not going to send me across London at, like, midnight. Her agency wouldn’t last long if she did that, would it?’
I chewed my lip. ‘I’ll give her a call once the play’s finished its run,’ I said after a moment. ‘No harm in seeing what she’s got to say.’
Eighteen
Rosie
The next time I posted a picture, Ollie liked it even though it was only my dinner, but he didn’t comment. It was Auntie Bridget’s pasta that she makes, with anchovies and tomatoes and stuff, which is well tasty, and it looked amazing because she’d put chopped parsley on it, and Auntie Bridge says chopped parsley makes everything look good, even your lentils, which otherwise look like diarrhoea. No offence, LOL.
Ollie posted a picture of a racing bike. Lime green. Single-speed.
Because we were doing more than likes now, I commented:
Cool bike
He liked my comment and commented back! He put:
Thanks
We started liking each other’s pictures and commenting. Our comments weren’t serious or anything, they were just banter. My iPhone 5C is a bit crap, but it takes quite good photos and I tried to start taking more arty shots to post. I was posting for him, no one else. That’s so embarrassing, but it’s true. Every picture I put up, I hoped he’d see it. I hoped he’d see it and think it was cool – that I was cool.
I hoped he’d like it enough to click on my heart.
I suppose we must have done that for ages, all through last summer. It was just likes and bants. He wished me happy birthday on my fifteenth birthday, good luck when I started Year 11, happy Halloween, happy Bonfire Night, whatever. Then at Christmas, he liked the picture of our Christmas tree and put:
I wanna send you a card. What’s your address? He had added a Christmas-tree emoji – sweet!
I didn’t know if he was joking or not, even though we’d been friends for, like, nearly eight months. If he was, and I DM’d my address, I’d look like a total nerd. And then I thought you’d see the card and ask me about it, so I put:
Next year! LOL. I thought for a second then added a winking-face emoji.
In January, when I got the part of Little Red, I started taking more pictures – rehearsals and things – and he liked all of those. I so wanted to ask him to meet me, but I was way too scared. Loads of girls followed him. He was one of those guys who has a million girls hanging on, like Sam Hanson, this lad in Year 12, who is a total flirt but never commits. Naomi says guys like him have all their little chicks in the nest and they give the worm to whoever has the widest beak just so they don’t give up and drop out of the nest, dead. Ollie was probably going out with some hot girl like Stella Prince, but Naomi said he’d still be keeping loads of other girls interested, waving a worm over their heads, like, Heyee, chickee, open your beak, it might be you next. I love Naomi. She’s so jokes.
I didn’t comment on too many of his pictures or ask if he was going out with anyone. That would have been a bit needy. But I kept on taking photos, kept on getting a thrill when he liked my posts. I would say he liked, say, nine out of every ten. I always felt so gutted when he didn’t like one, proper stoked when he did – I’d be, like, Yay!
Then
I started messing about with the filters, taking pictures of anything I found funny or weird or lovely. I even started to take pictures of food, like on the arty food accounts. Remember when you made Rice Krispie cakes when I got my first audition and you put them on that cardboard cake stand that Richard from work gave you for your birthday, and I took a photo of that?
What are you taking a photograph for? you said.
Nothing. No reason. They just look so yummy.
I started to notice the world more, if that makes sense? And I felt like I could make a world just for me. I could cut out all the bad stuff and just pick the good. I didn’t have to tell anyone about the accident. I didn’t have to tell anyone about you, or about Dad dying. I could like other people’s lives too. I could even like older kids from drama’s posts, even kids who had gone away to uni. And that was cool.
It was all for Ollie. He had made me appreciate things, little moments that usually I’d be, like, yeah, whatevs. And no offence, Mum, but the other reason I put pictures there instead of on Facebook was because you weren’t on it. Sorry, it’s not against you or anything, I just wanted to put my stuff somewhere my mum wouldn’t see it. Or comment! Sometimes when you comment on my feed it’s such a cringe. I’ll put a funny picture of me messing around with my friends and you’ll put some moist comment like You all look so beautiful.
It’s sooooo embarrassing…
A glow from above… white… whiteness… beep beep… That’s a good sound, I think. I’m going to run towards that sound… Help… Help me…
Je suis, I am.
