A Fairy Tale for Christmas

by Chrissie Manby

  ‘I’m relying on you to sing out loud and clear and get everybody else going,’ she said.

  Thea felt her little heart swell with the delicious responsibility.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ Elaine called out. ‘Then let’s get backstage. Please stay in formation. No talking. Absolutely, definitely no talking tonight. Let’s go, my favourite little rodents. Break a leg!’

  This time, Thea was very pleased to hear it.

  On stage, Cinderella came to the end of her first solo song. She sighed the hefty sigh that was the signal the mice were all waiting for. There was a drum roll and Thea was the first mouse out of the wings. She skipped into position, flung open her arms, and hit the first note.

  This was it. This was showbiz. She was going to be a star.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  What the audience at the NEWTS’ theatre didn’t ever seem to realise was that the actors could hear them whispering. Especially if they were sitting in the front row and had dodgy hearing aids, which caused them to misjudge what a whisper actually was. That night was no exception.

  Two old dears in the front row had been chatting away from the opening number, as if they were in front of the telly back in the nursing home instead of in a theatre. They ignored the anguished ‘ssshing’ of the people around them as they discussed each actor in turn.

  ‘Isn’t he that one from Guys and Dolls?’

  ‘We saw her take her clothes off in Calendar Girls.’

  ‘Oh yes. She had an arse like the moon.’

  Kirsty particularly admired Annette’s professionalism as she acted her way through that one. But then Lauren came on stage for her first scene. She came on to cheers. She was a bona fide local celebrity after all. She waved and smiled. Big white teeth flashing glamour and health. Tan, er, glowing. But as Lauren started to deliver her first line, one of the old dears spoke.

  ‘’Ere, Mary. Is there something wrong with my glasses or is Prince Charming a funny colour?’

  Lauren fluffed her first sentence.

  ‘A single man in possession of a castle with rising damp must be in want of …’

  ‘… a very funny colour.’

  ‘Wife,’ Glynis hissed from the wings. ‘A wife.’

  But Lauren was miles away.

  ‘Pass me your glasses,’ Mary in the front row said. ‘No,’ she concluded. ‘There’s nothing wrong with them. The prince looks like she’s covered in Cuprinol.’

  Lauren needed three prompts to get through the scene.

  ‘Those old bags in the front row need to be removed from the theatre,’ she announced the moment she was in the wings.

  She still had her radio microphone on.

  The audience laughed far more heartily than they had done when Lauren was on stage.

  And those old bags were the mayor’s mother and his aunt.

  Jon tried to smooth things over in the interval.

  ‘Lauren meant that we needed to do a baggage check in the front row,’ he explained to the mayor. ‘It’s a health and safety hazard, you see, if people put their big old handbags on the floor in front of them … If there’s a fire alarm, people might trip and fall in their haste to get out.’

  The mayor was unconvinced.

  Jon kept smiling as the mayor muttered something about the theatre’s licence, but he lost his cool in the ladies’ dressing room.

  ‘When you’re coming off-stage, don’t say anything until you’ve got your bloody mic switched off.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ said Lauren. ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to act in these conditions.’

  ‘Act?’ Jon responded. ‘Since when have you ever bothered acting?’

  ‘Oh!’ Lauren gasped. ‘That’s it.’

  She started to take her wig off.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ said Bernie, holding Lauren’s wig in place from behind. ‘We’re halfway through a show. You’re going back out there.’

  ‘I can’t take it,’ said Lauren. ‘I work so hard for my art. I don’t need this sort of nastiness. I don’t look like I’ve been dipped in Cuprinol. I don’t.’

  ‘You’re right, the shade is definitely more Ronseal,’ said Andrew Giggle.

  ‘I don’t think you’re being very helpful,’ said Ben to Andrew.

  Kirsty was pleased to see Ben sticking up for Lauren. She added her own encouragement to her cast-mate.

  ‘You’ve just got to tune them out, Lauren. That’s what I do.’

  Which wasn’t entirely true. Part way through her scene with Ben, when they’d danced to ‘Your Feet’s Too Big’, Kirsty had heard one of the old dears say, ‘They really are and all. Doesn’t she remind you of Max Wall when she’s dancing?’ Ben must have heard it too. She didn’t ask him. He took himself off to the gents’ changing room before she could.

  Then Elaine interrupted to say that the second half was about to begin. She’d been eavesdropping in the bar and assured everyone that the general reception was positive.

  ‘I heard loads of compliments about your song, Lauren,’ she lied. ‘People really loved it. And the comments about how you’re looking in those lederhosen.’

  Elaine blew on the tips of her fingers to imply the consensus was ‘hot’.

  Thank goodness it was enough to get Lauren back in her wig. And, fortunately, the two old dears in the front row slept through the second half.

  Chapter Sixty

  At least the children were having a good performance. The applause of a real audience was more amazing than Thea had ever imagined. Her little chest swelled with pride. She could have taken curtain call after curtain call. She wanted to. It was only Elaine, yelling, ‘Come on, mice, that’s quite enough for one night,’ that persuaded the little ones to leave the stage. But there could be no turning back now. Thea was instantly addicted to the deafeningly loud feedback of raucous applause.

  As Ben helped her to take off the mouse make-up in the bathroom back home, Thea gave him a rerun of every glorious second from the moment the overture struck up to the minute the tabs came down as though he hadn’t been there taking part himself.

  It was midnight before Ben could persuade Thea to get into bed. For once, she didn’t insist on a story because she still had so many of her own. At fifteen minutes past twelve, Ben said he was going to turn in for the night even if she wasn’t. He left Thea with the nightlight on, flicking through the programme to see her name. When Ben woke his daughter the following morning, he found she had slept with the programme beneath her pillow.

  ‘Do you think we’ll get good reviews?’ Thea asked over breakfast.

  ‘Of course.’

  She insisted that Ben log onto Facebook to see the photographs Judy had posted and read the comments people had left beneath.

  ‘Everyone agrees that the mice were especially talented,’ Ben ad-libbed.

  ‘And what about you, Dad?’ Thea asked. ‘What did they say about Buttons.’

  ‘Lots of people liked my hair,’ he joked.

  ‘You’ve hardly got any,’ Thea reminded him. ‘And Kirsty? And Lauren? And the Ugly Sisters? What is everyone saying about them?’

  Ben had moved onto Twitter, where he was following both Lauren and the Giggle Twins. He got the impression pretty quickly that all was not entirely well regarding feedback on the previous evening.

  ‘What are people tweeting, Dad?’ Thea wanted to know.

  Ben showed her a tweet which said, ‘Really enjoyed last night’s Cinderella at the NEWTS.’ He didn’t show her the one which said, ‘Funniest bit in NEWTS’ dreadful Cinderella was Prince Charming’s orange face.’ Or the one which said, ‘@RealLaurenWhitwell standing out in an otherwise mediocre production. For all the wrong reasons.’ To which was appended a photograph in which Lauren looked particularly well bronzed.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Ben. ‘What does Twitter matter? Those people don’t really know about theatre. We want to see what the local paper says.’

  When it came out around lunchtime, the local paper – the N
ewbay Star – said, ‘Audience members hoping local weather girl Lauren Whitwell would bring some sunshine to the production were not disappointed, but perhaps she should spend a little more time learning her lines and less on a sunbed.’

  At least the paper was kind about the mice.

  On the other side of town, in Kirsty and Jon’s flat, Jon read the same review and started raging.

  ‘It didn’t help that you and Ben are suddenly doing your scenes like they’re something out of Harold Pinter. What’s gone wrong with you two? Has something happened between you that I don’t know about?’

  Kirsty shook her head. ‘Opening night nerves?’ she replied.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  The day after the charity rehearsal, the main cast were supposed to meet to debrief and to discuss what could be improved upon in the shows yet to come.

  Nobody expected Vince to turn up. Jon said he would rely on Bernie to pass on his thoughts on Vince’s performance – which were scathing. But everyone was surprised when Lauren didn’t show. Except for Jon, that is. He had texted her that morning and received a note in response which said ‘not feeling well’.

  ‘You’ve all been on Twitter, I take it,’ Jon said to those cast members who had come along. The tweets Ben had read that morning were the tip of the iceberg. By lunchtime, Lauren’s disastrous fake tan was actually trending.

  ‘I should drop round and see how she is,’ Kirsty said. She didn’t want to get into a discussion about the trolling. She preferred to think even Lauren was above being upset by that. ‘She lives on her own, doesn’t she? She might not have anything to eat in the house. Or any Lemsip.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s perfectly fine,’ said Jon. ‘She’s probably spent the afternoon shopping for new clothes to go with her orange face.’

  Kirsty ignored Jon’s comment. ‘If this meeting’s finished, I’ll see you later.’

  Kirsty was worried about Lauren. During the debrief at the theatre, she had texted her co-star asking for an update on her illness. Lauren did not reply. Kirsty thought that was odd. When Lauren wasn’t actually in the middle of a scene, she was always glued to her phone. She was addicted to checking her texts and emails, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. She couldn’t blink if it wasn’t being recorded in a selfie. When Jon called her out on it, Lauren reminded him that it was essential for her work as a presenter to keep abreast of what was going on in the news and also to make sure that she responded to her fans quickly. As she had explained to Kirsty, ‘You’ve got to keep on top of it all the time. If someone sends you a tweet saying how much they enjoyed your forecast and you don’t at least “like” it within a couple of hours, the next thing you know, they’re telling everyone what a stuck-up cow you are.’

  ‘It all seems too much like hard work to me,’ said Kirsty, grateful for a moment that she didn’t have Lauren’s public profile. Would she ever, she wondered. She’d received a couple of fan letters from people who had seen her perform on the cruise ship. It was lovely to get them. It was hard to imagine a day when getting messages of support and praise would seem too much.

  As she followed Google Maps in the direction of Lauren’s little house, Kirsty thought about the previous evening’s Twitter nastiness. Maybe Lauren hadn’t seen the worst of it. At the same time, Kirsty knew it was unlikely that Lauren wasn’t aware of every single horrible comment. Every clever joke at her expense.

  Kirsty texted one more time as she stood at the top of the street, to give Lauren the opportunity to tell her she shouldn’t come over. Maybe she was just holed up with a boyfriend. Not that Lauren had ever mentioned someone special. She was always alone in her Instagram photos.

  ‘I’m popping round to yours now,’ she wrote. ‘Be with you in two minutes unless you tell me otherwise.’

  Kirsty waited for two minutes, perched on the street sign at the end of the cul-de-sac where Lauren lived. No response. She was going to have to knock on the door. Kirsty carried with her a ragged poinsettia she had picked up from a garage en route. She knew that flowers always cheered her up. She hoped they would do the same for Lauren.

  There had been moments during rehearsals when Kirsty had felt distinctly chilly towards Lauren. After the time she overheard Lauren complaining to the Giggle Twins that it was ridiculous that someone as old as Kirsty should be playing Cinders while she, with her princess hair, was reduced to playing a man, Kirsty would have been within her rights not to bother talking to Lauren ever again. But Kirsty recognised vulnerability when she saw it. Even beneath all those layers of make-up and fake tan. She knew Lauren wasn’t as hard as she thought she had to be. And then there was her charity work. Her position as a minor celeb doubtless meant Lauren had to do something, but Kirsty had been learning from her fellow cast members that Lauren went beyond the call of duty. Just that week, she’d put ten more handbags on eBay in aid of Alzheimer’s research.

  Kirsty rang the doorbell of Lauren’s house. Nothing. She rang it again. Nothing.

  Maybe Lauren wasn’t in. Maybe she had decided to go to her parents’ house for the day. Kirsty knew that Lauren’s family all lived nearby. But Lauren’s car was on the driveway. Surely she would have driven if she went out. Kirsty rang one more time. As she did so, she felt a weird shiver down her spine, as if she already knew at some subconscious level than something was terribly wrong. Just at that moment, her phone began to ring. It was Lauren. Kirsty picked up the call.

  ‘I’m right outside your house,’ Kirsty began to explain. ‘Thought you might need someone to fetch some Lemsip or something.’

  ‘Help … me …’ Lauren croaked. ‘I need help …’

  Kirsty grabbed for the door handle and tried to get in. It was firmly locked. ‘Where are you?’ she asked over the phone. ‘Are you in the house?’ Lauren didn’t answer. She just groaned.

  Kirsty dropped the poinsettia and looked for another way in. There was a side gate. Kirsty tried it. That too was locked. But she couldn’t give up. Not if Lauren was in there, scared and alone. Kirsty climbed up onto the fence. She got to the top of the gate. That was easy enough. It was getting down the other side that would be tough. But she had to do it. Lauren needed her.

  Kirsty landed with a painful ‘oomph’ in Lauren’s back garden. She knew at once she had done something awful to her ankle, but there was no time to stop and look at the damage. She needed to get into Lauren’s house. The back door, like the front door, was locked. But there was a window, slightly ajar, which let onto a downstairs bathroom. Kirsty opened it as wide as it would go. Which wasn’t very far at all. She would have to try to get through it though. Which way was best? Head or feet first?

  Just before she attempted the window, she dialled 999. She explained to the man who took the call. ‘I think I need an ambulance. I think there’s a medical emergency.’ She gave the details. The controller said help was on its way.

  ‘Try to get inside and keep her talking,’ the controller instructed.

  Could Kirsty get inside?

  She decided it was probably best to go in through the window feet first. She used an old metal dustbin to give her the leg-up she needed. She got one leg over the sill. Then the other. And then she got stuck. Halfway in, halfway out.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lauren!’ she shouted. ‘Help is coming!’

  She hoped she was right for her sake as much as for her friend’s.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Thank heavens the emergency services controller was true to his word. Kirsty had been stuck for a matter of seconds – though, of course, it felt much longer – when she heard the sound of sirens outside the front of Lauren’s house. The cavalry had arrived. She heard the men shouting as they banged on the front door. She called out ‘help’ from her place halfway through the window. She heard the sound of the garden gate being broken down.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ she said when she saw the first police officer.

  ‘What on earth’s going on? Are you breaking and entering?’

  �
��Ha ha. My friend Lauren’s in here,’ she explained. ‘I think.’

  ‘You all right there, love?’ a second officer asked.

  ‘Yep,’ said Kirsty. ‘I’m fine. Save my friend first. And just promise you won’t take any photos before you get me unstuck.’

  Kirsty was right. Lauren was in the house. She was in her bedroom, with the curtains tightly drawn. She was in bed, with a bottle of tablets by her side. She was fast asleep, mouth open, dribbling onto her pillow.

  Newly released from the window, courtesy of two police officers, Kirsty watched from the door as a paramedic lifted Lauren into a seated position and tried to wake her up. His colleague examined the tablets. They were sleeping pills.

  ‘Lauren. Lauren. Wake up, Lauren. We need you to talk to us. We need to know how many tablets you took. Come on, Lauren. Wake up.’

  Her eyelids fluttered open and she started crying like a little girl.

  Kirsty exhaled with relief to see Lauren was still alive.

  ‘Lauren …’

  The other paramedic had tipped out the remains of the pills in the bottle onto the dressing table and was counting them. He said to his colleague, ‘Unless she’s got another empty bottle somewhere, I’d say she’s taken three.’

  Three it was. It transpired that Lauren had taken just one more tablet than the recommended dose, so, while it made it very difficult to stay awake, there was little danger that it would have killed her. There was no need to pump her stomach, the doctor in A and E decided. She would just be groggy for a few more hours. But because she had attempted suicide, Lauren was not going to be allowed to go home until she had seen a psychiatrist to talk about the reasons behind her unhappiness and assess any further risk. Kirsty volunteered to sit with her until that meeting could take place.

  While they waited, Lauren opened up to her cast-mate.

  ‘I wanted to take an overdose,’ said Lauren. ‘After all the horrible things people were saying about me on Twitter. But I even managed to mess that up.’