by Karen Clarke
‘Yes, I know the quote,’ I said.
‘Anyway, it’s nonsense.’ He looked from Craig to me, clearly seeking a stronger reaction than tired irritation. ‘I want to put everyone’s daughter and son on the stage, and I want to direct them like they’ve never been directed before.’ His eyes blazed with a passion I suspected many women would like to see directed at them.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ I wondered how he still managed to look groomed in the middle of the night – apart from a sprinkling of stubble, which lent him a devilish air.
‘The time, madam?’ He tweaked his cuff and squinted at his watch. ‘It’s fifteen minutes past two in the morning.’
‘I meant, do you realise how late it is?’
The pad of his thumb travelled across his lips as he attempted a thoughtful look. ‘I expect it’s very late,’ he said in a ponderous tone. ‘Although… it’s also very early.’
‘He’s drunk,’ Craig said, rubbing his face with both hands. ‘I’ve told him to go to bed, but he wants to go out and look at the Christmas lights.’
‘No,’ I said, lifting a hand from the door frame. ‘You caused enough of a disturbance last night.’
‘Are woo cwoss wiv me?’ He stuck out his bottom lip and gave me a sad-eyed look.
‘Very cwoss. I mean, cross.’ I travelled slowly to the armchair, aware Craig’s eyes were following me.
‘Something aching?’ he said.
‘Just a bit.’ I lowered myself down like a pensioner with brittle bones. ‘I probably shouldn’t have run so far.’
‘You can’t be cross,’ Ollie cut in. ‘Not when I’ve had such a splendid day.’ It struck me afresh how comprehensively he dominated a room and a conversation. Even at this ungodly hour. ‘If I say so myself, I was an absolute whiz on the directing front and I loved it.’ He gave a little shake of his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. ‘What a troupe! You wouldn’t believe they were amateurs. There wasn’t a single wobbly-curtain moment and they’re all fine actors, especially your mother, Lily. She totally rocked as Letitia Blacklock.’ I felt a sweep of pride. I knew Mum was good but it was nice hearing someone else say it. ‘The show brought the house down, and I have to say I didn’t mind not being in front of the audience.’ He lifted his chin. ‘In fact, I don’t want to be an actor any more. Directing is where my heart is.’ He slapped his chest. ‘Ow! That hurt.’
Craig and I traded looks.
‘I’m pleased for you, really,’ Craig said, sounding genuine. ‘But maybe we could talk about it in the morning.’
‘How come you’re so late back?’
‘Lily, I’m delighted you asked.’ Ollie sat on the arm of the chair, so I had to crane my neck to look at him. ‘We went to this café after the matinee called The Greasy Piglet. It’s a tradition, apparently.’
I nodded. I’d been there. They did amazing bacon butties.
‘We had an absolute wheeze. They’re such fascinating people.’ He sounded awestruck, as though he’d encountered a rare, uncivilised tribe that spoke perfect English. ‘Anyway, upshot is, I decided to stay for the evening performance, and then we went for drinkies in the pub next door to the theatre.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Annie, who works in that hilariously named shop with your mother was there and started getting frisky, so after I’d given everyone a bit of a show with the trumpet—’
‘You took your trumpet?’
‘I always take my trumpet.’
‘He always takes his trumpet,’ Craig said at the same time, and I noticed the case flung down next to the sofa.
‘—I decided it was time to weave my way back to Sibley-by-the-sea, or whatever this place is called…’
‘Shipley,’ Craig and I murmured.
‘…so I got a cab.’
‘All the way from London?’
‘For a price.’ Ollie lurched into my lap, radiating alcohol fumes, and began fiddling with the belt of my dressing gown. ‘I might have had a little tipple of whisky in the car,’ he said. ‘It’s a very dull journey and the driver wasn’t keen on me playing my trumpet. He said it was distracting.’
‘I don’t blame him.’ The weight of him on my legs was unbearable, and I shoved him away. Unprepared, he toppled to the floor, turning the fall into a breakdance move, before reaching for Craig’s camera on the sofa (had he been cuddling it in his sleep?).
‘Hey, why don’t you film me and Lily doing the lift from Dirty Dancing?’ He was on his knees, panning the camera around.
‘I can barely move,’ I said, raising my legs a centimetre to prove it.
Craig untangled himself from his sleeping bag and yawned into his hands. ‘Ollie, I’m shattered.’
‘Look at you two.’ Ollie swung the camera past our faces. ‘It’s like the aftermath of a gas explosion and someone’s taken you in, but you know you’ve got to go back to your burnt-out homes in the morning.’
‘Great,’ I said.
Craig covered his eyes with his palms. ‘What we look like is tired.’
‘It’s a big day tomorrow,’ I reminded Ollie. He was fiddling with the buttons on the camera, not really listening. ‘Switching on the tree lights?’ I added. ‘You should get some sleep so you’re nice and fresh.’
‘’M always nice and fresh,’ he muttered, staring at the viewfinder. ‘Where am I?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Seaview Cottage, Maple Hill.’ Craig spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘Maybe we should write it on your hand.’
‘No, I mean, where am I?’ Ollie waggled the camera. ‘On here.’
I looked at Craig, my heartbeat speeding up.
‘Let me have it.’ He held out his arms, as though waiting to be delivered a baby.
‘Where’ve I gone?’ Ollie was hitting the buttons again and squinting at the screen. ‘Can’t find me.’
‘I think it’s time for bed,’ I said, bracingly. It was too late for a showdown and we needed Ollie in a good mood for the next twenty-four hours.
I attempted to stand up, but Ollie had thrust the camera at Craig and was scrambling onto the sofa beside him. ‘C’mon, show me,’ he said, putting a brotherly arm around Craig’s shoulders. ‘Why are you wearing this?’ His fingers plucked the material of Craig’s running top. ‘You need some proper PJs, bro. I can lend you a pair of mine, if you like.’ He gave a winsome smile. ‘We had a matching pair when we were kids, remember, Craggers? Ma bought them for our birthdays.’ He gave me a fuzzy look. ‘We both have birthdays in June, would you believe?’ He ruffled Craig’s hair. ‘This little chap could be my twin, if he wasn’t a year older.’
It was hardly the best time to be reminiscing about his ‘brother from another mother’ – not when he was about to discover there was no footage of him and there wouldn’t be a ‘one-off’ show.
Craig was looking a bit queasy, twisting the camera around in his hands, as if unsure what to say.
‘I wiped it all by mistake,’ I blurted out.
Craig’s head whipped up and I widened my eyes, signalling him not to argue. ‘But there’ll be plenty of opportunities for mingling tomorrow, and lovely things will be happening, so we can… replace it,’ I steamed on. ‘With something better.’
‘Wiped it?’ Ollie was looking at me as though I’d spoken in Spanish – although if I had, he would no doubt have understood. ‘Wiped it?’
‘I was… messing about and pressed the wrong button.’ I looked past him to avoid his slightly bloodshot stare, fixing my gaze on the smooth surface of the wall. ‘But it’s OK, because it wasn’t that good anyway. I mean, it was all… blurry.’
He switched his gaze from me to Craig. ‘Wiped it?’ He looked back at me, trying to focus his eyes. ‘Only the bits with me in?’
‘I… don’t know how that happened,’ I said, voice wobbling a little. I’d never been good at lying and, even drunk, Ollie could probably tell it didn’t make sense. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I’ve been wiped,’ he said to Craig. He sounded bemused, rat
her than angry, but that might have been the cushioning effect of the alcohol. ‘Eliminated,’ he added. ‘I no longer exist.’
‘Ollie, mate…’ I could tell from the set of Craig’s shoulders he was about to tell him the truth.
‘Look at my toes!’ I said, kicking off my slippers in an effort to skirt the issue, but Ollie was on his feet looking galvanised.
‘We have to get out there this minute and start shooting,’ he said, and I had to admire his ability to bounce back from what must have been a catastrophic discovery – that all of his performing had gone unrecorded. ‘This is actually good,’ he said, combing his hands through his hair as he paced up and down in a whisky haze. ‘It’ll be more naturalistic,’ he said, barely slurring his words. ‘You film me walking down the street, like this,’ he slipped his fingers in the pockets of his silky jacket and mooched from the door to the fireplace and back. ‘I’ll be looking at each of the houses in a considering way.’ He paused, hand cupping his chin, eyes scanning imaginary Christmas lights in a thoughtful fashion. ‘Then, maybe Lily could run after me—’
‘I’m running nowhere,’ I muttered.
‘—and take my hand,’ he demonstrated by lifting my palm and linking his fingers through mine, ‘and say something like, “Isn’t it magical?”’ He put on a falsetto voice, mimicking a love-struck expression that almost prompted a giggle. ‘And then we could stand for a moment, admiring the Santas, or whatever, before I kiss her.’ As he tilted my chin with his finger, I jerked away.
‘Why does it have to involve a kiss?’ I said, glancing at Craig, who was studying the floor with apparent interest. ‘And I thought you’d changed your mind about being an actor.’
Ollie looked as if I’d pinched him. ‘I was actually directing just then. I won’t be acting.’
‘But if you’re directing yourself, you’re not being natural,’ I pointed out. ‘You have to let things unfold.’
He looked uncomprehending. ‘Wouldn’t that be awfully boring?’
Craig gave a noisy sigh. He was still wrapped in his sleeping bag like a chrysalis. ‘It’s all in the editing, mate.’ He lifted his head. ‘Or at least it would be if we were—’
I cut him off. ‘We’re not filming in the middle of the night,’ I practically shouted.
Ollie jumped. ‘Fine.’ For a moment, I thought he was actually agreeing, but then he dived for the camera. ‘I’ll do it myself,’ he said, and left with astonishing speed.
A gust of cold air hit my ankles as the front door opened, and by the time Craig had extricated himself from his sleeping bag, Ollie had gone.
‘Shit,’ Craig muttered through gritted teeth, stuffing his feet in his trainers, and as he hurtled after Ollie, laces flapping, I saw he was wearing black boxers and that his calves were surprisingly muscular – probably from all the running.
‘For crying out loud.’ Forcing my own legs into action, I tightened the belt of my dressing gown and staggered after them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Outside, I gasped.
A layer of snow had settled, cloaking Maple Hill in a soft white blanket and enhancing the twinkle of Christmas lights on the houses. A huge, round moon hung over the rooftops, casting a silvery light, and I wanted to lie in the garden and make a snow angel.
Instead, I followed the footprints through the gate, like Bridget Jones rushing after Mark Darcy – except I wasn’t wearing animal-print knickers and a cardigan. I’d stopped to pull on my boots and parka, which was just as well as it was freezing and my face already felt numb.
‘So, here we are in the festive season, hours before I switch on the Christmas tree lights in SHIPLEY.’ Ollie was in the middle of the road, camera aloft, giving a running commentary. ‘I’ll also be judging these houses, where the lighting rivals the NASA space station. Forget Blackpool Illuminations and come to SHIPLEY, where no Christmas cliché has been ignored, from whisky-nosed Santa’ – he focused on the Lamberts’ front garden – ‘to Creepy Elf’ – he swung the camera to a house a few doors down – ‘to Rudolph the wonky reindeer.’ As he panned to the roof of Number 10, Craig made a grab for the camera, but Ollie swung it up and out of his reach.
‘At least keep your voice down,’ Craig said, and even though quietly spoken his words carried on the frigid air.
As lights came on in a couple of bedroom windows, I tried to speed up, boots crunching the powdery snow. Hopefully, I could get Ollie back inside before someone reported him for breaching the peace… again.
‘Forget the new runway at Heathrow,’ he continued, clearly enjoying himself. ‘In future, aeroplanes will land on MARBLE HILL.’
‘Maple,’ I muttered. Why couldn’t he get it right? ‘Ollie, will you please stop shouting?’ My words seemed amplified and I lowered my voice to a hiss. ‘People are sleeping.’
‘We can sleep when we’re dead!’ he shouted. A glowing Rudolph nose from a nearby garden briefly bathed his face red, so he looked like the devil. ‘Lily, you’re adorable.’ He lowered the camera and gave me a playful grin. ‘Now, keep walking towards me but try to look as if you’re out for a late-night stroll.’
I kept moving forwards, while Craig closed in behind him.
‘Maybe don’t stare at the camera like that.’ Ollie clearly fancied himself as the next Woody Allen. ‘And perhaps soften your face a bit. You look like a serial killer.’
‘I want to kill you, right now.’
He gave a burst of laughter. ‘You’re hysterical, Lils. I’ve never met anyone like you.’
‘In that case, you need to get out more.’
He pulled the camera back. ‘I like this feisty you,’ he said, eyes dancing with mischief. ‘It’s very Scarlett Johansson.’
‘Ollie, give the camera to me,’ Craig said.
With a look of surprise, Ollie swung round and slipped, and as the camera fell from his grasp, Craig deftly caught it.
‘Hey, well done, my man.’ Recovering his balance, Ollie slapped Craig on the back. ‘Knew those baseball games would come in handy one day.’
‘It’s not even switched on,’ Craig said, checking for damage. His lips looked blue with cold – though it could have been a lighting effect – and his teeth were chattering. He hugged his camera like a much-loved puppy, and the sight of his shins, naked but for a soft coating of darkish hair, made me feel a bit tearful. Or it could have been the cold, stinging my eyes.
‘Let’s go in,’ I said to Ollie, holding my hand out as though trying to coax a deer, but he ducked down and scrunched some snow between his palms.
‘Ollie, no!’ I backed away as a snowball whizzed through the air and caught me on the shoulder.
‘Catch me if you can,’ he taunted, crouching like a rugby player waiting to be tackled – if rugby players wore loafers and gold velvet jackets with silky linings.
I brushed snow off my coat. ‘Not right now, thanks.’ I’d loved a gentle snowball fight with the children at Kingswood Primary and, years earlier, I’d given Chris a black eye with a badly aimed snowball that took him years to live down. But it was almost three o’clock in the morning and more windows were lighting up.
‘Coward,’ teased Ollie. He tossed another snowball, which I managed to dodge.
‘Ollie,’ Craig warned, but Ollie’s face was bright with daring and the urge to respond was irresistible.
I gathered a handful of snow, compacting it into a sizeable ball, and lobbed it at him before he had chance to react.
It hit him square in the face.
‘OUCH!’
He reeled back, one hand cupping his nose, and, to my horror, I saw blood dripping through his fingers.
‘Oh, Christ.’ Camera swinging in one hand, Craig clutched at his hair with the other. ‘He’s got sensitive sinuses.’
‘Well, how was I to know?’ Guilt made me snippy. ‘Here.’ I fished a tissue out of my pocket, not bothering to check it was clean, and shoved it into Ollie’s groping hand. ‘He started it,’ I said to Craig.
&nbs
p; ‘I know, I wasn’t blaming you, I—’
‘I can’t believe how much that hurt,’ said Ollie, tipping his head back and pressing the tissue to his nostrils. ‘More than the punch at the book-signing, actually.’
Brilliant. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, hands hovering uselessly. There were vivid red spots of blood in the snow and the sight of them made me feel sick.
I began to shiver as the cold penetrated my coat and nightclothes, and Craig looked on the verge of hypothermia. Only Ollie seemed untroubled by the sub-zero temperature, as if he had warmer blood than the rest of us. ‘There are a lot of stars in Shipley,’ he said, his head tipped right back as though on a hinge. ‘You never really notice them in London. Light pollution, you see.’
‘Why don’t we go inside and have a hot drink?’ I managed, through clattering teeth. I wasn’t in the mood for stargazing.
‘Now, that sounds like a marvellous idea.’
‘It really does,’ said Craig, hugging himself awkwardly as he swayed from foot to foot.
‘What on earth’s going on out here?’
I swung round to see Sheelagh approaching, in her emerald coat and a pair of fleecy ankle boots, looking suspiciously well-turned-out considering the hour – unless she always slept in full make-up.
‘Sorry if we disturbed you,’ I said, heart sinking when I saw the look of reproach on her face. ‘Ollie was just—’
‘Oh, my goodness, what’s happened to him?’ Her hands shot out as he staggered towards her, but it was only because his eyes were still skywards and he couldn’t see where he was going.
‘I think Lily broke my nose,’ he said, the tissue muffling his voice so it sounded like he was crying.
Sheelagh threw me a horrified stare. ‘Fighting in the street in the middle of the night is not what we expect from our neighbours,’ she said, in the manner of someone who’d been let down by a favourite niece. ‘We had such high hopes of you, Lily.’
Craig jumped in. ‘Hang on, it was an accident.’ He moved between us like a referee. ‘It’s not like she hit him or anything. Well, only with a snowball.’ His lips looked bloodless, and as she clapped eyes on him, Sheelagh’s mouth gaped.
