by Brigid Coady
Annie who tried to fill the gaping hole left but didn’t quite manage: sister, daughter, and caretaker. Her mum’s stand-in, but she didn’t fill the gap quite well enough no matter how she squished or pulled herself.
Annie wasn’t sure she wanted to do it any more but what was she without it? Maybe eight years ago there had been an alternative but now … She shook her head. Annie wouldn’t think about it. She’d lost her chance and now she had to get on with the choices she’d made. Maybe she could at least start looking at moving out. If she could put some distance between them maybe things would get better.
Suddenly the taste in her mouth was too cloying, less like a hug and more like a vice.
She put the lid back on the hummus tub, only just remembering to put the tub in the fridge and the crisps in the cupboard as opposed to the other way round. She turned off the TV and felt guilty for the sense of relief from wiping Marie’s face out with the press of a button.
Annie wondered if she could get a remote that did that in real life.
That was harsh. She felt a shiver of guilt at the thought but then a bigger swoop hit her stomach when she had to admit it was true.
Slamming the front door of the house a few minutes later, she clattered down the steps, noticing the replacement tiles she’d ordered when she’d realized some cracks were showing. She looked back. The house was shone and the brass was sparkling on the door. It was always camera ready in case Immy was papped leaving it.
The house overlooked a part of Clapham Common that, when her parents had bought it, had been down at heel. A house with four floors and a back garden had been a steal. Clapham had pulled itself up by its bootstraps in the past thirty years. Now their house, which had always looked a bit too polished and slick for its neighbours, almost fitted in.
But Annie knew that the other houses had interior-designed kitchens, fittings that would cost her a year’s salary. Whilst their house was a façade, with everything inside stagnated and crumbling. She was glad Mum couldn’t see it.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered as she pulled her jacket round her, trying for protection from the chill February wind, and rushed up the street to Clapham Common station. But she wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to or what for.
Chapter Two
Annie breathed out and felt the tension leach from her body as soon as she clattered down the steps and through the front door of work. The Northanger Agency office was in the basement of a terraced house on a road parallel to Notting Hill Gate. Three rooms, a toilet, and a small kitchen, and not another Elliot in sight, bliss.
She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the rickety hat stand that leaned lopsided just inside the door.
‘Crap,’ she said as it fell into the wall and took another small flake of paint off the wall. She rubbed it as if that would make a difference, instead merely managing to spread the red plaster underneath.
‘Are you taking chunks out of the office? You know the boss will take that out of your wages?’ Annie smiled when she heard the dry voice coming from one of the offices.
‘She’s such a slave driver,’ Annie replied as she walked through to the kitchen and flipped the switch on the kettle. She turned and leant against the counter, smiling at her boss who was now leaning against the doorjamb. The only reason Annie had a boss was Annie had enough responsibility without adding in running their tiny two-person agency. And Annie didn’t trust her family not to get their fingers into the firm’s finances.
‘I know. I mean if she didn’t chain you to the desk you’d never do any work.’ Cassie grinned. Cassie Steventon was all of five foot and with her mass of curls, dimples, and curvy figure most people dismissed her as a pretty doll. Which she was, if the doll had a spine of steel, a mind that ran rings round everyone else’s, and the ability to deal with the financial running of a production with the ferocity of a honey badger. So, yes, a really scary doll.
‘Speaking of which, isn’t today your day off?’ Cassie came and perched on the counter next to the kettle.
Annie cringed inside. How sad was her life that she had only one place to escape to when home got too bad? There was only work and home and if she had to choose, she chose work.
‘You know … I wanted to make sure everything was in order for that meeting you have with Sam about Romeo and Juliet.’
‘Annie, you had that all tied up yesterday. And we both know that Sam will be like putty in my hands.’ She fluttered her eyelashes as she said it. ‘Are you hiding out here again? It isn’t like I don’t enjoy having you round the place but really how can you be the kick-ass person at work who doesn’t take any nonsense and then at home …’
Annie quickly interrupted her.
‘I know, Cassie. I promise to get a life. Soon. It’s just …’ How could she explain that it was as if as soon as she came into contact with her family her backbone dissolved to mush? It was like that acid that even with a brief contact could burrow into your skin and then start leaching the calcium from your bones. No amount of washing would take it off. Maybe she should be wearing a HAZMAT suit when she was with her family?
‘Okay, I’ll leave you be. But one day they truly will drive you mad,’ Cassie said as she made a twirling motion with her finger against her temple. ‘Anyway enough of this, I have news. Big news. I thought I was going to have to keep it to myself till tomorrow but now you’re here …’
Annie relaxed. She was off the hook with the nagging for a little while. ‘Spill,’ she said.
‘Maybe we need cake for this particular piece of news?’ Cassie said.
‘Just tell me.’
‘No, I really think I should get us some of those cupcakes from the bakery across the way.’
‘If you don’t tell me, Cassandra Steventon, I will personally squash every cupcake within a mile radius with my fist. You know how I feel about them, evil foreign interlopers that have endangered our native fairy cake. It would be a pleasure … and stop distracting me. Tell me!’
‘I don’t know why I employ someone with such heathen taste in baked goods,’ Cassie said.
‘Number one, you “employ” me because I’m the best. Two, I’m the one who is pushing ahead with expanding into production. Oh, and three, I own part of this company too.’ Annie counted off the reasons and summoned up her best withering look. It was one she’d learned from Imogen and her dad. She knew it was a mere shadow of theirs but it worked a treat on non-Elliot people.
‘Okay okay, I’ll tell you,’ Cassie said. She put her hands up in surrender. Then she dropped them to her thighs and leant forward on the counter.
‘I’ve had it from Les Dalrymple’s assistant that he’s got the funding for his TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. It is going to have a quick pre-production and then they’ll be filming it on location …’ Cassie leaned even closer. ‘It turns out he got the money from one of the big US networks because he bagged a brilliant Mr Darcy.’
Annie could feel herself lean forward. Cassie was weaving her magic again. Her heart accelerated as she realized that if they hadn’t cast the rest of the production she knew exactly who she would put forward. This was it. This was what she could use to shoehorn her father and sister into gainful employment and put some much-needed cash in the family coffers. And then she could have the peace of mind to go and get a place of her own.
‘Fantastic. Please tell me they still haven’t cast Mr Bennet and Caroline Bingley.’ She crossed her fingers. She could almost see the rental listings she would be looking at.
‘I’m sure we can pull a few strings,’ Cassie said with a wink. Annie wanted to pay her the fifteen per cent that an agent would take. Cassie waved her hands as if it were taken as read. ‘Now shut up and let me tell you who the big star is.’
Annie mimed locking her mouth.
It was going to be Benedict Cumberbatch, she thought. He hadn’t done much Jane Austen yet.
Annie was wondering what the Cumberbitches would make of their hero in breeches when cutting thro
ugh her thoughts she heard: ‘Can you imagine it, Austen Wentworth in breeches?’ Cassie’s words echoed in her head.
What?
It reverberated round and set neurones firing.
Suddenly her mind was producing images of exactly what Austen Wentworth, voted People magazine’s sexiest man, looked like in breeches. She knew. She’d seen it. Truth be told she also knew what he looked like out of breeches.
She shook her head to dislodge the pictures of her past.
‘You what?’
She felt a burn on her shoulder blade, where ghostly tattoo needles made themselves felt, seven years after she had been inked. The tattoo that she always kept hidden, that no one knew about. Then Annie could feel a shaking start in her hands and gradually move up her arms to join the burn. As if she was having an attack of the chills. She clenched her teeth to stop them chattering.
‘Yes, Austen “phwoar” Wentworth. I mean he is the hottest property around. And when I say hot, I mean it in all possible ways.’ Cassie waggled her eyebrows as if Annie needed it underlined.
Suddenly Annie thought the sugar from a cake would come in very handy. Even if it was a cupcake.
‘Just think – weeks of being on set with Austen Wentworth. I think Les Dalrymple will need our services, yes?’
‘Well I don’t know. As long as Dad and Immy get parts, I’ll be happy.’
‘Yeah, right, we’ll sort them out otherwise. Now think about yourself. This is perfect for you. This is what you’ve dreamt about since I met you. Production. All that solving problems and getting things moving: your forte. Such great exposure for you working with the best in the business. You’ll get seen by some serious TV producers. Eric Cowell is the lead. Hollywood, baby. This is where you swoop in and move into production like we planned.’
Cassie punched the air.
Eric Cowell. If Annie’s body hadn’t already been dealing with the Wentworth bombshell, she would be tingling with excitement instead of going into shock.
Yeah, suddenly Hollywood was looking good. It was a place that she had actively avoided, turning down work so she didn’t have to go. Great for her sanity, not so great for her career.
But now, for the first time in eight years, it would be Austen-free. Even sitting in the kitchen in the office she could feel the UK shrinking round her just with the thought that he was in the same country. A few miles between them instead of thousands and the likelihood that she could turn any corner and he’d be there had exponentially increased.
Annie wasn’t stupid. She knew that he had been back in the UK sometime in the past eight years. But she wouldn’t have known when that was; she had been oblivious.
‘So what do you reckon?’ Cassie was looking at her expectantly.
A shudder went through her.
What did she reckon?
She reckoned it was the worst thing that had ever happened.
She reckoned that it would be hell on earth.
She reckoned that if she didn’t get her dad and sister parts she might be flayed.
‘It’ll be interesting,’ she croaked in understatement.
The kettle clicked off and Annie turned away, reaching to grab a mug, her hand shaking.
‘Tea?’ She was surprised her voice came out so steady.
‘Sure,’ said Cassie. ‘And cupcakes later, yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ Annie said not capable of restarting the cupcake debate. Even the mention of his name had her almost giving in.
Was getting Immy and Dad jobs worth pulling the scab off her wounds? Maybe she could pull in other favours to find other jobs for Immy and Dad? Some other high-profile production, which also had literary merit, and was far far away? If only someone would do a production of King Lear in Iceland. Then she would have a viable alternative.
Of course, it would be cold and there was always the worry of volcanic eruptions. These weren’t things that bothered her. It sounded like a regular week at home.
There had to be another way, but how did you turn down Pride and Prejudice?
Slopping tea over the side of her mug, Annie tottered into her small office across from Cassie’s. She collapsed at her desk and acting on automatic she turned on her laptop.
Eight years should’ve been enough time to move on. Annie knew this in her head but she wished her heart would get with the programme. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. The first few years had been okay. Austen had popped up in bit parts on US crime shows, his American accent getting better each time. It was easy, in between those occasional shocks, to pretend that he didn’t exist.
But then the Google alert she had set up on his name started going wild. He became the British actor who went from obscurity to stardom the night after the first episode of his Netflix show Ten Peaks was released. And suddenly every woman was staying in or hosting parties with her friends to binge-watch the show when the whole of the first season had been released in one go.
He was everywhere: chat shows, internet memes. It wasn’t until the alert led her to a small article online about him dating a US TV star, that she’d taken off the notifications and signed up to a dating site. But he was always there like Banquo’s ghost. She shuddered at the memory of the few blind dates Marie had set her up on. Paunchy merchant bankers who thought John Donne was the new signing for Chelsea.
And really, it wasn’t as if she had any spare room for a half-hearted love affair in her life. Every part outside of work – and sometimes in it – was occupied and furnished by her family and their problems. Manoeuvring through the cluttered junk shop that was her life would take a lot more than most men would like to try. That or they would have to smash through the walls and clear out the detritus.
He could have done that. If she’d let him.
He, Austen Wentworth, written about as the ‘one to watch’ by TV and film journalists everywhere.
But for her, he’d always been the one to watch.
She took a sip of her tea, not caring that the heat was almost too much, revelling in feeling pain somewhere else than the centre of her chest.
The first time she’d seen him was in Stratford-upon-Avon in the doorway of a dusty rehearsal room. He was propped against the wall, the script dangling from his hand as he leant his head back, eyes closed. His lips moving, muttering his lines, and even before he opened his eyes she’d been hooked. The legs, that now had fan fiction written about them, had been a bit ganglier then. When she’d tried to step over them to get into the room they’d tangled with hers; she’d started to fall. He’d caught her round the waist.
‘Oops,’ he said as she landed on his chest.
‘Hi,’ she whispered. His eyes were so green. She’d spent days afterwards trying to find an exact match for the shade. She’d had to settle for bottle green glistening in the sun.
He was playing Lodovico to her dad’s Othello. A small part but it was with the RSC, and Austen was fresh from drama school and bouncing on his toes to get somewhere, to prove to his parents that being an actor wasn’t a complete waste of time. Annie had gone to act as Dad’s assistant, knowing that if he was left on his own who knew what nonsense he would get up to or what scandal could come from his indiscretions.
And because they were the youngest ones there, they had naturally stuck together.
Annie remembered those months as if it had been constructed and lit by an Oscar-winning cinematographer. Golden days and nights, vignettes of Austen and her locked in their own world.
‘We’ll get married and go to Hollywood and rent a little apartment. I’ll audition; you can be free to do what you want to do. And then when I make it big …’ His smile was wide as the world, as he hugged her to him. Admittedly his teeth had been a little less white in those days.
Her heart clenched even now and more tea spilled. All those dreams that had died and dried up and blown away.
Who got married at twenty-four to a penniless actor who only had his looks to recommend him? she heard her dad say, echoed by Aunt Lil, her mum’s
best friend who was also her godmother. It was stupid beyond words, Lil had said. Didn’t she know how fickle the industry was?
And what would she do in Hollywood except become some housewife? It wasn’t as if she could do anything, was it? And why would she want to be away from her family? Hadn’t she made that promise? And once the idea was planted in her head, once it got its roots in her that she would be disposable again, could be disposable again … that she would be breaking her promise …
Her mobile rang and half the cup of tea ended up on the desk. Cursing quietly she grabbed some tissues and tried to mop it up at the same time as taking the call without checking the caller ID.
‘Hello.’
‘Annie, where are you? You should be here by now. You know it’s Angelique’s day off and I need to get ready for the awards show tonight.’ Marie’s voice ran out the last of her Austen Wentworth memories for the moment. It had an edge to it that cut through most things.
Bugger. She’d promised to babysit. So much for hiding away at work.
‘I’m on my way.’ Annie hung up and then briefly rolled her forehead on the desk, not caring about the dampness and the faint aroma of tea she was now carrying. Sighing, she pushed herself up. Pastries would have to wait for another day.
***
Standing rocking in the Tube she held on to the strap and wondered whether she should’ve picked up a bag of Haribo to bribe the kids with. Marie had done a whole segment last year for Easy Ladies on the dangers of sugar. Ever since then sugar was treated like a class A drug in her household.
Annie came off the Tube at Pimlico. The wind had picked up and whirled round the exit. She pulled her scarf further up over the bottom of her face. Before she headed up Tachbrook Street to Marie’s house, she popped into the corner shop. Annie grabbed the largest bag of Haribo she could see for the boys and a bar of Lindt chocolate that she would slip to Charlie. Ever since she discovered him in her kitchen looking guilty with a tell-tale smear of chocolate by his mouth, she’d kept him in chocolate. He might be a successful investment banker but in his own house he was definitely the second-class citizen.
