by Jules Wake
Angela came down and Carrie honestly thought she was going to curtsey.
‘Angela. How lovely to see you. You haven’t changed at all. I can’t believe you’ve got a teenage daughter. Jade was about seven when I last saw her and Peppa Pig. Now look at her.’
Jade had retreated into star-struck silence, and despite the fact that it was so normal, it was surreal. Richard acted as if he were some long-absent relative who’d flown in from foreign climes. Carrie wanted to shake her head and rub this reality out, like she would the mist on the inside of the windscreen.
‘Richard,’ said Angela. ‘It has been a long time. And haven’t you done well? It’s lovely of you to come,’ she shot a glance at Carrie, ‘when I’m sure you could have done all sorts of more interesting things this evening.’
Angela, oblivious to outraged glances, from both Carrie and Jade, carried on, ‘Did you have to travel far?’
‘Luckily I’ve got a driver, Philip. Actually,’ he leaned forward and muttered in Angela’s ear.
‘Of course. I’ll see to it. Now has Carrie offered you a drink yet? Come and sit down. We’ve got some aperitifs to start with. You’re not allergic to anything are you?’
‘Only porcupines,’ said Richard, throwing a teasing grin towards Carrie.
‘Please help yourself while I sort a few things out in the kitchen. Jade, I could do with a hand.
‘Shades of Mrs Bennett,’ commented Carrie with amusement as Angela dragged her daughter away.
‘God, I remember that production. Hellish theatre. And who was that girl that played Elizabeth? Talk about miscasting.’
‘I recall she was sleeping with the director. It helps,’ said Carrie. ‘Don’t you see a lot of that?’
‘Not much. Everyone’s much more PC these days. California’s a hotbed of litigation. That was a travesty, I recall. You should have got the part; your eyes were far livelier.’
‘I don’t think it was her eyes the director was looking at. She had other assets.’
Richard laughed, leaning back in his chair with negligent ease as if he popped in from next door every evening. ‘She gave new meaning to the words “bodice ripper”. There was serious danger of a major wardrobe malfunction every night. I worried about her bursting out of her frock, I could have been suffocated.’
Carrie hid a smile. ‘Don’t let the paparazzi hear you saying something like that, you’ll be drummed out by the PC brigade. Are you allowed to say things like that?’
‘I can say pretty much what I like here, can’t I? I’m among friends.’ He tilted his head in challenge.
It was as if the clock had been turned back and she had carte blanche to be the same as she was then.
‘Friends? We haven’t seen each other for years, don’t you think that’s a little bit on the presumptuous side? We’re both bound to have changed. You especially. There’s no reason why we might still be friends.’ Ouch, so much for her attempt to be sassy and confident. She came across as sharp and strident.
‘There are plenty of reasons we might be.’ Richard stared at her. ‘Although, I think I will fall out with you big time if you keep wearing your hair like that.’
With a swift movement, like a fencer taking advantage of her lowered guard, he swept the chopsticks anchoring her hair out and threw them across the terrace towards the swimming pool.
Like a Victorian maiden, she made a desperate grab to rescue the hair that came tumbling down.
‘What did you do that for?’ she said, gathering her hair in a ponytail, securing it in one hand.
‘Because it looks much nicer down. Why would you wear it up?’
‘It’s practical, easier to look after.’
‘And dull. I do like the frock, though. That’s very you.’
‘Funnily enough, I wasn’t seeking your approval. I don’t care what you think.’
‘And neither should you. I paid you a compliment. Please don’t tell me you’ve turned into one of those arch-feminists who don’t think men should comment on their looks.’
‘I haven’t turned into anything,’ said Carrie. ‘I’ve matured and, hopefully, become much wiser.’
‘Really? I suppose you were always the crazy one.’
‘I was crazy?’ That’s not how she remembered things.
‘Yes,’ Richard frowned. ‘Always ready with a creative idea. You got us into all the scrapes. Led me into mischief.’
‘That’s not true.’
He raised both eyebrows. ‘Charity-shop rainbow challenge?’
She opened her mouth to deny it but had to smile at the memory of him wearing a rather sickly mustard yellow tank top over a teal and white-striped shirt with bright-red boot-leg jeans, a woman’s fuchsia-pink jacket and a deep- purple scarf.
She put her hands over her mouth and started to giggle. ‘Oh God. I do remember.’
‘Now, if I’m not mistaken, Madam, I’m not the crazy one, that gem was all your idea. You came up with the budget. What was it? A tenner. We had to shop for an outfit and the person who had the most colours, not including patterns, won. But as an extra fillip, you dared me to meet everyone in the pub wearing the complete ensemble.’
‘We caused such a stir, but the landlord gave us free drinks all night.’
‘I’d completely forgotten about that.’
‘And who’s idea was it to buy Houdini?’
‘Harry, you mean. It wasn’t my fault he was an escapologist hamster.’
‘It was your idea to give him a home. Everyone needs a pet, you said.’
She bit her lips, trying not to smile. She remembered saying it too.
‘I nearly died when I woke up and he’d walked across my head, the first time he went missing.’
‘You did scream like a girl that night.’
‘So would you if you woke up with a mouthful of fluff and some creature pitter-pattering along and hauling its arse over your face.’
‘That hardly makes me crazy.’
‘Swimming in the sea in the dead of winter, taking me to a knitting club, ukulele lessons in a pub in Hoxton, kayaking up the Regent Canal.’
‘They were cultural experiences.’ And Carrie had forgotten about them. It was as if he triggered a trip wire releasing a whole load of memories, which had been tightly bound and tucked up out of the way.
‘There was nothing cultural about the “escape from a zombie experience”.’
Carrie snickered. ‘That was a job opportunity. They were paying good money for people to play the zombies.’
‘Carrie, the people that went there were nutters. There was a chance they’d slaughter the zombies.’
‘Which is why we didn’t do it in the end.’
‘Not for the want of you trying to persuade me.’
‘You enjoyed the make-up.’
‘No, you enjoyed doing the make-up.’ He rubbed his face, as if still trying to remove the grey face paint she’d enthusiastically smeared his face with one evening. ‘And that fake blood tasted disgusting.’
She winced, remembering getting a mouthful when he’d decided to go the whole hog and lurch over to her, playing a zombie hell bent on kissing her. For a moment she was back in their scruffy flat, laughing helplessly as he staggered around, shoulders hunched with a fake limp, hamming it up for all he was worth.
‘You looked hilarious.’ She laughed.
‘No, I looked scary and no wonder. The stuff you put on my teeth made me look as if I’d been feasting on dead bodies for months. That tasted foul too. I think you were trying to poison me.’
‘I don’t suppose you have that trouble with professional make-up artists these days.’
‘No, they’re much nicer to me. Show some respect.’
She sobered. They doubtless did. He was a big cheese these days.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asked softly. ‘Are you still acting?’
The question was gently put, as if he knew damn well their careers had hurtled off in cosmically different directions, but a
t least had the sensitivity to ask.
‘I gave it a good try. But … well, you know what it’s like.’ He didn’t. Once he’d got to Hollywood, his career had gone stratospheric. Not for him the constant knock-backs, the fruitless auditions and the hopeless chasing for news. ‘I’m a drama teacher now.’ She shrugged. ‘In a secondary school.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
A star winking high overhead caught her attention as she gave the question due consideration.
‘I do, although I worry about the kids. The good ones. Will they make it? What can I do to give them the very best chance when I know a lot of it is down to luck?’
‘I bet you’re a good teacher. You always wanted to help everyone. And you were very good at giving critical feedback without being so brutal it hurt. I wouldn’t have got through the first screen tests without you.’
‘Rubbish. You had the talent.’ She didn’t want to take any credit.
‘I also got the break. You were the one that made me do that play, where J.C. Rogers saw me. If he hadn’t invited me to the States, I wouldn’t be where I am now. You drilled me when we practised my audition pieces.’
‘Yeah, and didn’t you complain.’
‘Because you were bloody Attila the Hun. No, do it again. Feel the character. Did you ever think about going into directing?’
‘I do plenty of that with school plays,’ she smiled. ‘And I’ve been doing some playwriting.’
‘Good for you. What sort of stuff?’
‘I’m working on one at the moment.’ She couldn’t help boasting. ‘It’s been taken on by a director, he’s very keen.’ Her mouth turned down in frustration. ‘We’re still trying to get a backer, but he thinks it’s great.’
‘But you did win an award for it,’ chipped in Angela from behind her, as she appeared bearing a large pottery platter, the pungent scent of baked Camembert filling the night air. ‘The gold medal for best new playwright.’
Richard raised an eyebrow, cocked his head and gave her a keen-eyed look. ‘Not exactly small beer.’
Carrie lifted her shoulders ‘It’s nice to get that endorsement from people who know what they’re talking about.’
‘Have you written much?’
‘A bit.’ She didn’t like to dwell on the pile of manuscripts that she never had time to do anything with, like submitting to agents, competitions or the open submissions run by broadcasters. Lots of opportunities but so little time.
Angela snorted. ‘Her room is piled with manuscripts.’
‘Still as talented as ever and far too modest,’ commented Richard. ‘That smells wonderful,’ He gave Angela an enthusiastic smile. ‘I miss home cooking.’
Angela put the plate in the centre of the table. ‘Do help yourself.’ She watched him with hawk-eyed intensity as he dipped a slice of French bread to break the crust of the cheese, satisfaction dawning on her face as the creamy cheese oozed out. ‘I’m sure you eat in fantastic restaurants all the time. This is nothing.’
Carrie wanted to roll her eyes, because Angela had been in the kitchen doing ‘nothing’ all day. She and Marisa, who’d left at six, had left no pot or pan unturned in their determination to put on a feast worthy of a Hollywood superstar.
‘Another person who is too modest.’ He took a bite and nodded, his eyes closing as his sighed. ‘This is wonderful. Absolutely delicious.’
Jade followed suit. ‘Not bad at all, Ma.’
For a few minutes silenced reigned as they all did justice to the velvety gooey Camembert, the tea lights flickering around them.
‘And I can tell you eating in restaurants all the time palls. You only have to dribble your soup down your chin and some bugger captures it and shares it with the entire social media universe. And on location, I live on black coffee. I crave a good old shepherd’s pie or a roast beef and Yorkshire pud.’
‘Boring,’ said Jade, helping herself to another slice of bread. ‘This is yum. I hate shepherd’s pie. Too much like school dinners.’
Angela and Carrie exchanged glances. That was the first they’d heard of it.
‘If you eat in restaurants you never ever have to do the washing up.’ She gave the numerous plates and glasses on the table a disgusted look. ‘Although I guess you have servants to do all that.’
Richard laughed. ‘Not exactly. I’m rarely home. Pretty much live out of a suitcase.’
‘Where do you live? Hollywood Hills? New York?’
‘Wherever I’m filming. Usually in a hotel.’
‘Seriously?’ Jade’s voice held scathing disappointment. ‘I thought you’d have mansions and penthouse suites all over the place. I mean you must be absolutely minted.’
‘Jade!’ her mother squealed, ‘I’m sorry, Richard.’
She turned to her daughter. ‘You know better to say things like that. It’s very vulgar to say someone’s minted.’
‘Vulgar. Mum, no one says that sort of thing any more.’
Richard watched the two of them, amusement dancing in his eyes. ‘It’s fine, Angela, I’ve had far more intrusive questioning by a lot less charming people, who ought to know better.’
‘So where do you live?’ asked Jade, turning to Richard, with a hint of triumph as she placed both elbows on the table and leaned towards him.
‘I rent a place outside LA, not a penthouse suite, I’m afraid, although it is a very nice condo. And I’m thinking about buying a place in London.’
‘London!’ Carrie’s voice came out as a squeak.
‘Yes, there’s a lot of filming being done in the UK and I’ve been getting quite a lot of scripts for British TV dramas in the last year. One of which I got close to doing.’
Disquiet filled Carrie. Richard being thousands of miles away had made their separation logical and practical. Would things have been different if he’d had a base in London sooner? And now she was being ridiculous. A million different things could have happened in their lives. It wasn’t as if they were likely to run into each other but for some unaccountable reason she didn’t like the thought of him being in London.
‘What about the West End? Would you do a play? Matthew Perry did a play.’ Jade was an avid Friends fan and must have watched every last episode at least three times.
Richard paled. ‘God, no. I haven’t done any theatre for years and I don’t intend to start now.’
‘There’s not the money in it, I guess,’ said Carrie, without thinking, and then immediately blushed. ‘Sorry I didn’t mean to be …’
‘Vulgar?’ he teased with a show of good nature but Carrie got the impression she might have hit a raw nerve.
‘No, it’s a commercial reality. Sad but true, when you think how much hard work it is, having to perform and give a hundred percent every day, sometimes twice a day.’ Theatre had always been her passion. She loved the fact that every performance could be different. Once a performance was captured on film that was it, there was no sense of engaging with an audience. It was a one-way transmission. Theatre allowed you to respond to the audience. ‘I wasn’t casting aspersions on your artistic integrity.’
‘Come on, dish the dirt. Which stars have you worked with?’ Jade’s welcome interjection removed the taut line from Richard’s jaw.
‘Well I’m working with Savannah Murray at the moment. She’s very lovely.’
‘Well duh! You have to say that. Tell us what’s she really like?’
Richard paused and then leant forward and whispered. ‘Complete air head. Can’t remember a line to save her life. But she’s very sweet. Drives the crew mad because she’s always losing her phone and half way through a scene she’ll remember where it is and stop, to ask someone to go and retrieve it.’
‘What about Kathryn Derringer? We saw An Unsuitable Man …’ Jade paused and, with horrible certainty, Carrie could have predicted what came next.
‘Auntie Carrie,’ she turned to her, eyes shining with sudden discovery, ‘You never said a word when we went to see it.’ And then, as the last bit o
f the jigsaw locked into place, she added, ‘That’s why you were crying.’
There was a pause around the table, Carrie concentrated on the sound of the cicadas chirruping in the warm night air.
‘Kathryn’s a consummate professional,’ said Richard, without looking at Carrie. ‘More wine, Angela?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Angela picking up her glass and, in her eagerness, almost smashing against the bottle as he lifted it in her direction.
Conversation moved onto more general topics, with Richard showing more than polite interest in Jade’s A level choices and her views on school, boys and learning to drive. He had real charm, thought Carrie, as she listened to his gentle questioning and saw Jade blossoming and becoming more articulate and enthusiastic. She’d missed out on a male role model in her life. Alan treated her with the same casual attitude he would to any of his students. He was used to teenagers and didn’t find them particularly fascinating. He made no bones when he came round to the house that he was there to see Carrie. Richard’s interaction with the impressionable Jade was rather sweet. Not once did he show that her naïve questions were anything other than deserving of considered answers.
With the Camembert demolished, Carrie jumped up to help Angela, shaking her head slightly when her sister indicated that perhaps her daughter should be helping.
There was a strange man in the kitchen, tuned into the television, with a cup of coffee and an empty plate in front of him.
‘This is Philip, Richard’s driver.’
‘Hello,’
‘Good evening.’
‘You’re English.’ And very well spoken with it, to her surprise.
‘Well, I was the last time I checked.’ He dusted down his well-pressed navy trousers.
‘I thought you’d be a local. What, does Richard fly you wherever he goes?’
Phil laughed. ‘Good Lord no, I’ve retired out here. Very early retirement, mind you, from the police force. And a friend of a friend asked if I fancied a job for the summer. Bit more interesting than watching reruns of Only Fools and Horses on cable every night.’
‘Retired? You don’t look old enough,’ Angela said. ‘Now, are you alright for coffee? I’m just going to serve the main course and I’ll nip back with a portion for you.’ She wrinkled her face in apology. ‘I’m rather proud of this, I don’t want to slice it up until I get to the table. Is that terribly silly?’
