by Rosie Green
Just before my scene, as I’m chatting to Karen, I catch Ethan’s eye and he winks and says, ‘You’ll be great, Fen.’
Distracted by Cressida, who’s got her beady eye on me as usual, I give him a big smile and say, ‘Thanks, Rock!’
He looks confused - and a second later, I blush redder than a holly berry on top of a Christmas pudding when I realise what I just said.
Talk about getting fiction confused with real life! Maybe Ellie is right . . .
‘Er, I mean you’re my rock, Ethan!’ I bluster, my underarms prickling with perspiration. ‘Yes, that’s it. In fact, you’re everybody’s rock. Isn’t he, Karen?’ I swing round in desperation.
Karen looks a bit mystified for a second. Then she smiles. ‘You’re right there, Fen. I’ve learned so much from you, Ethan, since I joined the group.’
Ethan does an ‘aw shucks, it was nothing’ sort of look and goes off to speak to Cressida, whose main goal in life seems to be luring Ethan into corners and engaging him in very intense, one-to-one exchanges.
I watch him curiously. His expression is as bland as it ever is when he’s talking to Cressida. It’s obvious he finds her irritating but he’s far too kind to show it.
It’s like when Alicia appeared in the bar the other night. Instead of challenging her and telling her to leave him alone, which would have been only natural in the circumstances – with his ex virtually stalking him – Ethan made the decision to avoid a conflict altogether, which I think showed admirable restraint on his part . . .
There’s a real surprise when I get to the bit in my scene where the Fairy Godmother puts a spell on Cinderella and the woodland creatures and in a flash of smoke, a coach and horses appears, along with a fabulous make-over for the heroine. Just as I raise my magic wand to the skies, a whole load of glittery stuff floats down from the ceiling.
I laugh to find myself covered in magic fairy dust – and so does everyone else. I’d known it was going to happen but it’s still a lovely surprise.
*****
Next morning, the first thing I think when I wake up is: Oh God, Ellie and I have fallen out! Followed closely by I’m going out with Ethan tonight! Followed by: Oh, shit! It’s the dress rehearsal!
My stomach rolls over with nervous excitement.
‘I’m seriously thinking of driving to the airport and catching the first available flight to Spain. Or anywhere,’ I tell Rob, when I call in at the barn on the way to my shift at the café. (I’m supposedly there to check on his progress, but really I just need to talk to someone who understands me.)
He laughs. ‘I’d come to the airport with you but there’s this panto dress rehearsal I’m going to see later . . .’
I narrow my eyes at him threateningly. ‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Why not? You’re going to be great.’
‘Because I’ll be nervous enough without knowing you’re in the audience. And besides, this performance today is just for the school kids.’
‘Spoilsport.’
I smile. ‘Don’t worry. When I’ve made it big in Hollywood, starring in a blockbuster movie, you can walk me up the red carpet.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
It occurs to me then that actually, I’d rather like it if Rob were in the audience this afternoon. It would be nice just knowing he was there, silently cheering me on.
‘What on earth have you got under there?’ He points at the bulges poking up under the scarf I’ve twisted round my head. ‘A supply of scones and cupcakes to keep you going all day?’
‘Rollers,’ I explain. ‘Huge ones that will make my hair all bouncy and gorgeous and Fairy Godmother-like. At least, that’s the theory.’ I’m about to add that hopefully I’ll look glamorous for my date tonight as well, but something stops me.
‘It’s already gorgeous. Your hair.’ He grins a little sheepishly. ‘You should never tamper with perfection.’
When Rob says things like that, I’m never sure if he’s being serious. So I just laugh. ‘I’d better go. I’m late.’ Leaving the barn, I wave over my head and dash through the rain to the car, glad of the scarf to protect my curls.
My shift at the café flies by – with Ellie still ignoring me - and then it’s time to head for the village hall. The performance starts at two o’clock but there’s lots of preparation to be done before then.
I haven’t been able to eat a thing for the past few days, but it’s not entirely down to nerves. Some of the butterflies that have taken up permanent residence in my tummy are due to excitement.
Ethan has put his faith in me and I really want to do him proud.
Soon after one-thirty, the seats start filling up. When I peek out through the curtain, the village hall is awash with row upon row of school children in their black skirts and trousers and red jumpers.
‘Break a leg,’ says a voice behind me, and when I turn, it’s Cressida.
‘Oh.’ I stare at her, startled. ‘Thank you.’ What surprises me even more than the generous sentiment behind her words, is that she appears to be smiling.
I say ‘appears’ because it could actually be a wince - the sort of expression that comes over your face when you’re trying to decide if you locked the door or not before you left.
‘Same to you, Cressida,’ I reply cheerfully, and she lifts the corners of her mouth again and departs. (Definitely a smile. Possibly a bit rusty because her smiling muscles don’t get out much.)
I stare after her, a feeling of cautious optimism rising up inside me.
Perhaps Cressida is the sort of person who takes her time weighing new people up. Maybe she’s realised that I’m actually okay. And then I’ll feel accepted at last by the entire am dram group . . .
Finally, the curtain rises and the pantomime begins.
I’m actually feeling calmer than I thought I would – mainly because the show is going off without a hitch and the audience of under-twelves seems highly appreciative, laughing in all the right places. The whole atmosphere is relaxed, happy and upbeat.
When my scene arrives, I give it my all. And when I lift my wand and wave it about, calling the magic words, I’m remembering what Ethan told me about projecting my voice to the kids in the very back row.
‘Bibbity-bobbity-boo! Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!’
I raise my arms and my wand to the sky, anticipating the audience’s delight as an abundance of glittery ‘snow’ falls from the heavens.
I wait, my wand frozen in the air – but nothing happens.
So I repeat the words, flinging my arms up even more dramatically this time.
Still nothing.
There are a few titters from the audience, who are obviously sensing an interesting cock-up.
Suddenly I remember someone telling me that they always engineer a ‘mishap’ in the dress rehearsal to make the kids laugh. So this must be it, although ‘no glitter falling down’ does seem a little tame . . .
But just in case the props person hasn’t heard my cue for some reason, I gaze to the heavens once more and call with even greater enthusiasm, ‘Bibbity-bobbity-boo! Cinderella, you shall go to the ball!’
‘Coming down!’ shouts a comically deep voice.
Cinderella looks up with a startled look and skips nimbly out of the way.
And before I know what’s happening, a stream of slippery green gunge descends from above, drilling onto my head and completely coating my face and upper body – all in less time than it takes for me to splutter, ‘What the absolute fuck?’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
There’s a beat of silence.
Then the whole place erupts into raucous laughter.
I can’t see very much at all through the horrible viscous green stuff that’s clinging to my eyelashes and seeping into places (specifically down my bra) that haven’t seen this much exciting action in literally years. As the wails of laughter continue, I place my fingers in my eye sockets and clear out what I can, flicking it onto the stage with a dramatic gesture th
at only increases the laughter from my highly appreciative audience of under-12s.
I’m feeling too humiliated to feel angry at whoever’s idea of a joke this was. Surely Ethan can’t have known about it. He would have warned me. So who . . . ?
Vision partially restored, I glance into the wings and the first person I see is Cressida. She’s looking at me with mean, unbridled pleasure written right across her face – and I know in that instant, it was she who engineered it.
The cunning cow! She lulled me into a false sense of security by wishing me luck before the performance . . . I should have known it wasn’t genuine!
Then I see Ethan with his hand anxiously over his brow. It looks as if he was as unprepared for this as I was. ‘Just carry on,’ he mouths, nodding furiously at me.
I nod back, a surge of what my Gran calls the old wartime spirit rising up in me. I will not be beaten by that sly monster, Cressida! The show must and will go on!
I will not let Ethan down!
I raise my magic wand, Cinderella shuffles forward gingerly, and I start up my speech again.
‘You shall go to the ball, Cinderella! Let me wave my magic wand and say the magic words, Bibbity-bobbity-boo!’ I take a step forward, right into the gunk, and down I go, landing on my bottom with a resounding bump. (If it was part of the panto, there would be a clash of symbols as my bum hit the deck.)
A kid in the audience shouts, ‘Bet you’re glad you’ve got padding in your knickers!’ and the whole place erupts again.
I’m starting to see the funny side myself and it seems perfectly logical at that moment to lie flat on my back in the green gunge and perform an energetic ‘snow angel’, much to the further delight of the audience.
After all the hilarity has died down, we manage to crank the panto up again, but with all the actors having to take massive detours around the splodgy green mess in the middle of the stage, it’s all a bit of a shambles.
But as Ethan remarks later, after we’ve taken about twenty-five curtain calls to deafening cheers and whistles, ‘The kids liked it. And the local paper sent a photographer so hopefully you’ll appear in full glorious colour tomorrow, Fen. You’re the heroine of the night, the way you took that drenching on the chin.’
‘And everywhere else,’ comments Daniel, who’s playing the Prince.
Everyone laughs and I force myself to join in.
The dress Lizzie fitted me with is ruined, although that doesn’t really matter as Rosalind will be back, wearing her own costume, from tomorrow. But what surprises me most is that Ethan doesn’t seem at all annoyed with Cressida for pulling a stunt like that without even telling him first. Maybe he’s just glad of the publicity we’re sure to get in the local paper from the ‘panto gone hilariously wrong’ story.
Even I can see it was funny. (If I don’t dwell on the slightly sinister fact that Cressida was so obviously gunning for me when she planned it.) And it really was the highlight of the afternoon for those school kids.
But Ethan describing me as the heroine of the night I find a bit sad, to be honest. Because deep down I’d been hoping to be a heroine of a different kind altogether.
I wanted to be the heroine who the leading man – Ethan, of course - simply couldn’t resist. The heroine he longed to sweep off her feet and to whom he declared his undying love. But that’s not likely to happen now, with my make-up gone and my lovely bouncy hair all plastered to my head.
I’d dreamed of making Ethan proud to be with me tonight.
But it will have to remain a dream – now that, with my luminescent green skin, I look like I might be related to Shrek . . .
*****
The wine tasting is taking place in a gallery in the picture perfect village of Eagleton-on-the-Green, about twenty miles from Sunnybrook.
I call Jaz and ask if I can get cleaned up at her place. The trouble is, by the time we emerge from the village hall, I find I have exactly twenty-seven minutes to have a shower and wash the green gunge from my hair before Ethan arrives to collect me. Consequently, my lovely, bouncy hair is no longer . . .
From the moment we arrive, park up and emerge from Ethan’s silver Porsche, I realise this is going to be like no other date I’ve ever been on. Not that I’ve been on many. But they’ve invariably involved a pub or a restaurant.
Ethan seems right at home in the sophisticated surroundings of the art gallery. He takes it all in his stride – from the discreetly expensive frontage to the beautiful, elegantly dressed people within, chatting over tall flutes of chilled champagne. Bite-sized nibbles on large platters are being offered around by cheerful young people – who I imagine to be history of art students – dressed in crisp white shirts, black trousers and loafers.
Unlike Ethan, I’m struggling to keep my mouth from opening in awe. I suppose I’m what you’d call a hick from the sticks.
I’ve always shied away from events and places like this, preferring to stay at home on the occasions Mum, Dad and Rich took up invitations to socialise in grand London venues, with colleagues from the world of law. As a teenager, I used to hide when Mum held one of her big parties at Brambleberry Manor – but I eventually gave up trying to avoid them because she would never let me. She always tracked me down – usually I was sulking in my room - and made me go in and talk to people.
As soon as we walk into the wine-tasting, Ethan spots a couple he knows and goes over to speak to them. I try to follow him but I’m blocked by a group of people converging on a waiter bearing a tray of nibbles, and Ethan has disappeared from view.
Then I spot him, chatting to an older couple, the man quite short and wearing a tartan waistcoat that strains over his belly, and his wife (slightly taller and wider than him) in a floaty, blue and lilac floral dress and matching wide-brimmed hat.
‘Roger and Arlene,’ says Ethan when I arrive at his side. ‘I knew Roger when I worked at Watsons,’ he says, naming an engineering plant a few miles from Sunnybrook. He smiles charmingly at them. ‘And this is the lovely Fen.’
‘Very pleased to meet you, my dear,’ murmurs Roger, taking my hand in both of his and looking directly at my boobs.
His wife, Arlene, flutters her eyelashes at Ethan. ‘Last time I saw you was at that Christmas night out a few years ago.’ She wags her finger at him. ‘You naughty, naughty boy!’
I glance at Ethan with interest then at Arlene, wondering if she’s going to elaborate. But she just taps the side of her nose, burps quite loudly and announces, ‘But your secret is safe with me.’
A nervous look passes over Ethan’s face and Roger glares at her and says, ‘I think you’ve had quite enough to drink for one night.’
She frowns. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because you’re starting to talk gibberish?’ Roger smiles apologetically at me, his eyes dropping immediately to my cleavage. ‘I can recommend the claret, by the way. And this is a very cheeky little Merlot, well worth a bash.’ He holds up his glass then takes a sip and swills it round his mouth before nodding appreciatively. ‘I’m getting . . . nectarine and pencil shavings with just a touch of charred herbs.’
I want to giggle. I glance at Ethan but he just nods and says, ‘Sounds good. Point me in the right direction.’ He smiles at me and murmurs, ‘Back in a minute,’ and goes off, I assume to get me some of the cheeky Merlot. Roger follows him, so I’m left alone with Arlene.
We stand side by side for a while, observing Ethan working the room, chatting up little groups of two or three people with his charm and ready smile. The room is full of really beautiful people, all dressed as though they’re fresh from a modelling assignment for Vogue. At least Arlene and Roger look relatively normal.
I’m racking my brains to think of something to say when Arlene completely by-passes the polite small talk and murmurs, ‘He’s really rather delicious, that man of yours. Have you been married long? Because if you’re not careful, I’m going to steal him right away from you.’ She gives a throaty laugh and raises her glass to me, sloppi
ng most of the contents onto the floor. ‘Only joking, darling. But you do have to watch out for men like that. They like the company of women, you see, and somehow one never seems to be enough.’
‘Oh, Ethan’s just being sociable,’ I say brightly, watching him laughing with a pretty girl in a Sixties-style brocade dress and cute pink sling-back shoes. The dress is beautiful, in shades of palest pink and gold, and her blonde hair has been styled in an elegant chignon. No wonder Ethan looks dazzled. She’s so stylish, even I can’t drag my eyes away!
I feel rather boring by comparison in my black wide-legged trousers and simple white linen top, the only embellishment being a little fabric tie belt at the waist.
I hitch my mouth up at the corners, hoping to give the impression that I don’t mind at all that the man I came here with is now having an animated chat with the most gorgeous woman in the room. I don’t want to join them in case Ethan thinks I’m jealous and making a point. And in any case, I’d feel like a bit of a gooseberry if I went over there.
I really wish he would come back and rescue me from Arlene, though. She seems very nice but it’s quite hard having a conversation with someone who’s drunk a bucket of gin.
‘Ah, yes, sociable,’ says Arlene. She goes to tap the side of her nose in a confidential manner but misses altogether and almost knocks her glasses off. ‘I used to say my Roger was just being friendly.’ She gives a hoot of laughter. ‘I mean, there’s friendly and then there’s friendly! Know what I mean?’
The memory of Alicia pops into my head for some reason - the time she tried to track Ethan down in the bar. Alicia is obviously still really hung up on him and I can’t exactly blame her. Obviously Ethan is popular with women. But as he himself told me, there comes a time when most men – however friendly they’ve been in the past – fall in love for real and decide they want to settle down . . .
