Sail Away

by Celia Imrie

  She heard female giggling in the background.

  What was going on?

  She dreaded to think.

  ‘I’d love to have you over, Ma, really I would. But, you see, at present I’m rather in the doghouse myself.’

  Amanda waited for him to continue. She knew there was about to be a revelation.

  ‘I’m actually staying at a friend’s place just now, you see, Ma. Beginning and end of it is – Ingrid has thrown me out.’

  Amanda’s mind span. He was definitely with a woman now. So the giggling was not Ingrid.

  ‘How are the children, Mark?’

  ‘Oh, they’re fine. But you know Ingrid. She’s always so hardline about things. No doubt it’ll all settle down in time, Ma. But, as I say, I’m crashing with Jasmine now, so I’m in no position to offer you a bed.’ There was an awkward, too long a pause. ‘I’m ever so sorry.’

  ‘Mark, please don’t turn into your father.’

  More giggling. Then Mark let out a loud sigh. ‘For fuck’s sake, Mother. You sound just like ruddy Ingrid. Got to go.’

  He hung up.

  She regretted mentioning Nigel, but, at the same time, knew she had to say something. She felt awful. Now she had managed to alienate both children.

  Amanda thought through all her friends and wondered whether any of them might have a spare room she could borrow. But when she went through her address book she realised that no one really had spare rooms any more. One pal was now living in a granny flat with her family, another lived hours out of town, up in the Midlands, where, although she could lay her head, it would be impossible for her to continue house-hunting. All of her other friends lived in one-bedroom flats and studios.

  So, this afternoon, between flat viewings, Amanda would have to patrol the B&B-type hotels in the area and see if she could find one with a vacancy which might give her a good deal for at least a week.

  Her phone rang.

  The solicitor.

  ‘Your seller has phoned.’

  Amanda sat up.

  ‘He thinks he’s on the verge of changing his mind again. Whatever that might mean. But I gather that it all depends on the sale of somewhere he is after himself.’

  ‘I thought he was chain free.’

  ‘So he told us, but actually it appears that he is not.’

  ‘What does this mean for me, exactly?’

  ‘He is saying that he may still sell to you.’

  ‘May? That doesn’t sound too bad.’

  ‘It does. I’ve been on to his solicitor and they cannot affirm anything. We’re trying to get something final out of him. My advice would be to keep on looking, Mrs Herbert. Who knows, you might just find somewhere better.’

  Amanda wandered out of the sandwich bar and along Belgrave Road where she knew, from bus rides into town, that there were many small hotels and B&Bs. The first one she entered, which didn’t look all that salubrious, quoted her £2,000 a week. She moved down the road into hotel after hotel, and the lowest she found, that was not actually a dosshouse, would charge her £725 for the week.

  ‘But we only have the one room left, I’m afraid.’

  While Amanda was pondering whether to take up the offer her mobile rang.

  ‘Mrs Herbert? About your stuff …’

  The removal company. She had forgotten all about them.

  ‘Yes. I’m so sorry. You did get my message about the flat falling through?’

  ‘Yes, we did. But you haven’t told us where to go instead.’

  The signal was bad so she waved to the hotel receptionist then walked out through the front door and stood on the hotel step.

  ‘I’m just getting somewhere to stay organised now. Can I phone you back?’

  ‘We need the lorry, I’m afraid. It’s currently full of your things. If you don’t give us somewhere to take the stuff, we’ll just have to dump it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Amanda felt her spit dry up. She realised that after last night’s difficult conversation with her daughter she had forgotten to go any further with the storage problem. ‘Do you know any good storage places?’

  ‘Lots. But it’s up to you, madam. Also, as you’ve gone over the noon deadline, we have to charge you a double fee. It is in the terms and conditions.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting …’ Amanda felt panic rising. Rarely had she felt so out of control of her own life. ‘I didn’t know the flat would fall through.’

  ‘I understand, madam, but you have to see that that is your problem. Not ours. Look. You’ve got an hour to get back to us.’

  He hung up.

  Amanda sat at the bus stop in front of the hotel and googled ‘self-storage’. This was hopeless. There were too many companies to inspect on the tiny screen of a phone. All the prices seemed so variable, depending on how long you needed it and whether you wanted access, and she could see from the amount of unreadable small print that there were also all kinds of hidden charges, like insurance and late fees. She phoned the first company on the list, the idiotically named Aardvark Storage, and was greeted by a cheery Australian girl who offered her all kinds of special deals if she wanted a six-month rental.

  ‘I don’t know how long I need.’

  ‘Oh, everyone says that,’ said the girl. ‘We find that most people need them for five months.’

  ‘But you just offered me six months.’

  ‘No worries. It costs more for five months. Even more month by month or week by week. If you do month by month or week by week you’d end up paying more than twice the amount for five months. Better to take the six-month deal.’

  Amanda felt a dark fog descend on her brain as the girl continued talking balderdash in her bright cheery tone. All Amanda knew was that she needed to find somewhere right now. ‘Can I move my stuff in today?’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘I’ll phone the removal men right away and tell them to come over with it.’

  ‘No.’ The girl coughed. ‘No can do, sorry.’

  ‘What do you mean, “no can do”?’

  ‘We cannot confirm that you have the space until you have completed all the relevant paperwork and provided us with original copies of your ID. You’ll need to come in person to sign, pay up and get the key. Only then can you ask the removal men to bring your stuff.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near Wandsworth Bridge.’

  ‘When do you close?’

  ‘Well, the place is open 24/7 but the office shuts at five and we don’t allow new deliveries in after that. The whole signing-up procedure shouldn’t take more than an hour.’

  Amanda looked at her watch. There was no way she’d get all this done in time if she went by public transport.

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘No worries,’ said the girl once more, clearly ignorant of how many worries Amanda was having.

  Amanda hailed a passing cab, jumped inside, then leaned back in the seat, mentally counting all her hard-earned cash as it evaporated into thin air.

  It was only as the taxi turned into Wandsworth Bridge Road that she realised she had not gone back into the hotel to confirm her booking.

  Now that she was away from Belgrave Road she couldn’t remember the name of the hotel either, so there was no chance to phone them.

  After completing yards of forms, Amanda and the removal men spent a good hour stacking all her belongings in the tiny-looking tin room at the end of a long bright shiny orange corridor. Once they had finished, they walked back to the front office, which was now closed.

  As the men headed off Amanda searched around in her bag for a tip and pulled out her last tenner. The removal men nodded brusquely and climbed up into the lorry.

  It was only once they had pulled out of the car-park gates and turned into the main road that Amanda realised she was now standing in the middle of an unfamiliar industrial estate with no cash. To make things worse the rain had started up again while they packed and now it was positively biblical.

  As sh
e looked back towards the offices, she half expected to see Noah and his Ark appear around the corner, with two giraffe necks sticking out of the top. Everything at the storage facility was shuttered up now, and the only access was by using her key code. She got inside but all that was there was the labyrinth of long silent corridors lined with other people’s storage spaces.

  She would call another taxi and hope it took credit cards.

  She pulled out her phone.

  It was dead.

  With a shudder, she suddenly also realised that her phone charger was in a box somewhere at the back of that storage room. When she had packed it yesterday at home, she had only thought it was going into storage for one night.

  Damn.

  She turned up her collar as she left the unit and ran for it. Trouble was she had no idea which direction to run. The place was lined with two-storey buildings which all seemed deserted. Offices, garages, the Iranian Bazaar, lots of places called so-and-so ‘property services’, something-or-other ‘supplies’ or such-and-such ‘imports’.

  She rounded another corner.

  Dead end.

  She tracked back the way she had come and this time, at the crossroads, took another direction.

  More supplies, services and imports joined by an exotic sauce company. There was even the workshop of an ‘ice sculptor’. She tried pressing a few bells, but no one was at home, anywhere. She trudged onwards, in the middle of it all wishing she could lose that three-quarters of a stone she’d been promising herself to, then maybe all this might not seem quite so uphill. She was now desperate to reach a main road, preferably with a nearby bus stop.

  When she did eventually climb on to a bus, as she pressed her pass on to the scanner, feeling like a drenched lost dog, the driver actually laughed at the state of her.

  The bus took for ever but it did get her back to Victoria railway station. From there she walked briskly down to Belgrave Road and went back into the hotel she had chosen to spend the week from tomorrow night.

  A different girl was on reception.

  She saw the girl smirk.

  Amanda was still dripping wet, and knew she must look a sight.

  ‘I was in here before,’ she said.

  The girl stared up at her blankly.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I had arranged a deal on a room for the week starting tomorrow night …’

  ‘One moment …’ The girl looked down at the screen of her mobile phone and laughed. Then the hotel phone rang. She picked it up. ‘Good evening, Starbreak Hotel, can I help you?’ While she talked on the office phone she was tapping something into her mobile and smiling to herself.

  Amanda sighed. She hated the new priorities. Surely a human being standing two feet away from you merited first service, and Facebook messages and phone calls came after that.

  The girl was talking brightly into the receiver for quite a few minutes, while glancing down at her mobile phone.

  When at last she finished the call, without acknowledging Amanda once, the receptionist got up and went back into some behind-the-scenes room. At least six minutes afterwards she reappeared.

  ‘So, let me know what can I do for you?’

  Amanda started up the whole story again.

  ‘I see. This afternoon. That must have been Pixie. She lives in a dream.’ The girl flicked through the register. ‘You said £725? That seems very low for us.’

  She looked up again at Amanda. ‘No. I see it. Room 503. Top-floor attic. I realise now that I just gave that room away on the phone a few minutes ago.’

  ‘You mean while I was standing here?’ Amanda wanted to slap the grinning girl.

  ‘Yes. Seems so.’ She spoke in a cheery sing-songy voice which brought out deep rumblings of anger in Amanda. ‘Sorry about that. We’ve nothing left. Soz.’

  ‘But you have to …’

  ‘Nothing left now.’

  ‘You can’t do this to me …’ Amanda was torn between fury and tears. ‘Where will I go?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s up to you,’ the girl said, as though Amanda had really posed her a question. ‘I can’t help you with what you do with your life. Now I’m sorry but I have to get on.’

  She picked up her mobile phone, swiped her finger and laughed again.

  Amanda went out into the street.

  It was still raining.

  She trudged from door to door, trying a few more hotels.

  They were all fully booked.

  She turned a corner and saw, on a block of wood hanging in a window, the magical word: ‘Vacancies’.

  Amanda went in through the front door of a rather jolly-looking pub.

  This would be nice, sitting by the fire, then buying herself a nice glass of Brouilly and taking it up to bed. Amanda had struck gold.

  She went over to the side counter which had a row of keys behind it.

  ‘I wonder what your rates are. I’m looking to stay a week, maybe longer. Starting tomorrow night.’

  ‘A hundred and eighty pounds,’ said the young bearded man behind the counter.

  ‘I see.’ Amanda tried to do the sum in her head. This was way over what she had been expecting. ‘Might you have anything cheaper?’

  ‘I just thought …’ The young man looked her up and down and shrugged. ‘Well we do have a couple of places left at £120.’

  ‘Nothing cheaper?’

  The young man laughed and said ‘No’ in that upwardly inflected, sarcastic way which Amanda felt sure meant he thought she was slightly deranged.

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I’ll take it.’ She didn’t want to lose this. She’d seen how few and far between were the rooms to let around here. She took out her wallet. ‘Should I put down a deposit?’

  ‘At this late stage of the day that would be usual,’ said the bearded man. ‘Deposit in advance. You have till midnight tonight to cancel. After that if you cancel we have the right to withdraw the whole cost for one night.’

  Amanda handed him her credit card.

  3

  Suzy got off the plane at Zurich Airport and took the train into the city centre. The sun was shining and she was glad to be out of dismal London. The sight of the Alps, glistening in their snow-draped splendour as the flight came in to land, had raised her spirits and she felt better than she had done in weeks.

  Her digs weren’t as bad as she feared either. She’d had trouble finding the street at first because she had remembered it as Hermesstrasse, whereas in fact it was Mercurstrasse – same god, different language! The landlady’s husband had died in a car crash and she let rooms to make ends meet. She had a young family and was helping her kids to learn English, so always invited British actors to stay because they were sociable and talkative. She gave Suzy a map of the city centre with directions to the theatre and marked out some decent cafés and bars along the way.

  Suzy wrapped up and took a stroll through the cobbled Old Town and down to the lake. Frost glistened on the roofs and passers-by were muffled up in woollen pom-pom hats and chunky scarves.

  Despite being the biggest city in Switzerland, Zurich had a villagey feel.

  It didn’t take her long to find the theatre. It had a small but messy front, which still had faded posters up for the last show, a comedy by Tom Stoppard. She noted that it had finished over three months ago – so hopefully the audience would be keen for something new. She peered down through some dusty low windows at the side of the building, but, through the grime and cobwebs, couldn’t see a thing. Suzy knew that this part of the theatre was bound to be the dressing-room area. On her way to the front again she looked through the grille by the entrance. There was an old-fashioned arch-style box-office compartment, and next to that the locked doors which must lead to the foyer. She took a walk around the block, searching for a stage door, but found nothing. She’d worked in other theatres like this, with no separate entrance for the artists. She remembered the same thing somewhere she had worked years ago. Was it Perth Rep? Even at the Donmar, in London, ac
tors came in and out the same way as the audience. It looked to be similar here.

  Suzy walked down to the lake and sat on a bench, gazing out over the water, which twinkled in the winter sun.

  It was a beautiful day today. And yet she felt uneasy. She had no idea why.

  She was happy to be here in Zurich, which was much more stunning than she had ever imagined it might be. She was with a charming group of people, playing a fantastic role in a great play. What was there to worry about?

  A tram rattled past.

  Suzy looked up, holding her face to the sun, and then in the distance she saw Reg. He was crossing the bridge, heading towards her. She didn’t think he’d seen her. He was talking earnestly into his mobile phone. He looked very agitated. He was flailing his arms about, dripping sweat, purple in the face, his wisps of grey hair stuck in straight lines over his bald head.

  As he drew closer to where she was sitting, Suzy looked down and fumbled around in her handbag. She didn’t want him to see her.

  As he passed by she could hear Reg ranting.

  ‘I know you didn’t want her, but, as you know, we were badly let down at the last minute …’

  When Reg was safely out of sight Suzy got up and walked briskly in the opposite direction. Could it have been her that he meant? Was he explaining that they didn’t want her for Lady Bracknell? She was certainly a last-minute choice. If someone else had been taken ill or offered a better job and dropped out it would certainly explain why she had auditioned only two days before rehearsals started.

  So, someone was still going on to Reg about how he didn’t want her for the part of Lady Bracknell.

  Suzy felt quite sick. Ahead she saw a café with a red awning. A coffee was certainly in order, if not something stronger.

  It was only as she entered that she realised this was the famous Café Odeon, where the company had arranged to meet later.

  She took a seat in a small alcove by the window and ordered a strong espresso.

  Her phone rang.

  Her agent, Max.

  She pulled herself together. The one thing an agent didn’t want to hear on her first day here was that she was upset and depressed. Especially as she might be imagining the whole thing.