The Understudy

by Sophie Hannah

It’s cold but dry, already a hint of autumn in the air. I move from downward dog to dolphin pose, my forearms flat on my yoga mat, and my bottom high in the air. Ten, eleven, twelve . . . I tighten my core and feel the muscles in my calves tighten. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . . We had the garden landscaped immediately after the house was built, but every scraggy cat in the neighborhood used it as a toilet, so six months later I made them take everything out again. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven . . . Now we have a neat row of plastic topiary, a square of seating around a gas firepit, and this strip of artificial grass. Thirty. It’s so much better for you to do yoga surrounded by nature, instead of in a stuffy hall.

  I’m in noose pose when the doorbell rings. I ignore it—six, seven, eight—then remember that Yuliya refuses to work Saturdays now, and Sadie will still be in bed, dead to the world. I release my hands and stand up.

  ‘Oh—hi, Elise.’ Bronnie looks flustered, as though I’m the one who’s just dropped in unannounced. She takes in my outfit. ‘Sorry, did I interrupt your workout?’ Bronnie’s wearing leggings and a shapeless blue linen dress with big pockets. Unpainted toenails poke through open-toed sandals.

  ‘No problem, I’ll finish it later.’ I take her through to the kitchen. The bifold doors are open to the garden, letting in a light breeze. ‘Unless you’d like to join me?’ Bronnie’s face is a picture, like I just suggested she fly a plane, and I grin. ‘Just coffee, then?’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  We sit at the island with mugs of freshly brewed coffee from the shiny machine Nick and I had imported from the States. Bronnie would produce cake now, I think, as I look in the cupboard for biscuits. I feel the faint tug of insecurity so familiar from early motherhood, when everyone else was baking cookies and making playdough like it was easy—like they had a gene I just didn’t have. My company was in its infancy then, with a tiny team that relied on me and me alone, so I found a nanny with the playdough gene, and went back to work when Sadie was a few weeks old. I clung on to the postnatal group for a while, joining in with the emails and occasionally meeting for coffee, until it became clear we had nothing in common except our babies.

  I go to the cupboard for a bar of 99% Lindt chocolate. ‘So much better for you than all that refined sugar,’ I say, although the thought of one of Bronnie’s Victoria sponges is making my stomach rumble. Before I close the cupboard I open the jar that lives on the top shelf, and knock a tablet into my cupped hand. ‘Wellness supplements,’ I say. ‘Gwyneth Paltrow swears by them.’ I swallow it dry, then sit back down.

  ‘So . . . to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ I say when Bronnie’s mouth works but nothing comes out. It’s clear there’s something on her mind.

  ‘I’m just so worried!’ It bursts out of her like water from a dam.

  ‘What about?’ A hundred possibilities flash through my mind. Is Bronnie ill? Is her marriage in trouble? Are they in debt? My heart softens. If our daughters weren’t friends, I doubt Bronnie and I would cross paths, but she’s a sweet woman, and with a couple glasses of wine inside her she can be quite good value on a night out. God, I hope it’s not cancer . . .

  Bronnie looks at me, her brows knitted in confusion. ‘About the girls, of course.’ There’s a beat. ‘Aren’t you worried?’

  Relief that it’s nothing serious is tempered by bewilderment at Bronnie’s overreaction.

  ‘The revue, you mean?’ Personally I think Adam’s decision to use the forthcoming revue as an audition for the annual show is not only an efficient use of time, but a much needed injection of pressure. If these kids are serious about a career in performing arts, they’re going to have to raise their game.

  ‘No, the music box, of course!’

  ‘Oh—that!’ I can’t imagine why Bronnie’s so concerned—no one’s pointing the finger at Bel, as far as I can see. Perhaps her job at the school means she’s more involved than the rest of us parents. I break off a square of chocolate and let it melt on my tongue.

  ‘That twisted, broken leg . . . I can’t stop thinking about it.’ Bronnie is close to tears. ‘And that awful thing someone wrote on the bench at school yesterday.’

  ‘What awful thing?’

  ‘Didn’t Sadie tell you?’

  I cast my mind back over the last twelve hours. Sadie had cello practice, and I was working late. Yuliya made some South American concoction with way too much heat—I must speak to her about her fondness for chilies . . . ‘I don’t remember her saying anything about a bench.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bronnie looks mystified. ‘Don’t you talk to Sadie about her day?’

  ‘Of course we talk!’ I snap. ‘Not all families live in each other’s pockets, you know.’

  There’s a painful silence. I should apologize, but I’d be the first to admit that’s not exactly my strong point. Besides, I’m not taking parenting lessons from a woman who still does the laundry for boys away at university all term.

  ‘I found the missing ballerina arm in Ruby’s costume,’ Bronnie says. It’s news to me but I hide my surprise—no doubt I should have interrogated Sadie about that, too . . . It’s an interesting development, though, and more proof—if proof were needed—that Ruby planted the music box in Jess’s locker.

  ‘And now Imogen’s saying Ruby pushed her down the stairs—’

  ‘Ruby pushed her?’ I cut in. ‘No. Sadie’s adamant that didn’t happen. Imogen fell. Or she threw herself down.’ I shrug. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me—there’s something decidedly off about that girl. She unsettles me.’

  Bronnie opens her mouth like she’s about to defend Imogen, but something passes across her face and it’s clear she’s thought better of it. ‘She’s just a child, Elise.’

  I remember the way Imogen appeared in the bathroom mirror, the stare that met mine older than her years. More accidents happen in the home than anywhere else . . . An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. Alprazolam produces a spaced-out, drowsy feeling—could it have caused Imogen to fall? Perhaps she was taking some other drug, too? I remember a news article years ago, about a boy on acid, convinced he could fly, who stepped off the balcony in his high-rise flat . . .

  ‘Imogen’s dad’s dying,’ Bronnie says. ‘She needs support, not criticism.’

  I picture Imogen’s glassy blue eyes. Depressed or drugged up? Sad or crazy? Whatever it is, I’m not having her in my house again. ‘Nothing’s happened to Bel, though, has it?’ I wonder why Bronnie’s being so intense—so obsessive—about this.

  ‘Not yet, but what if she’s next?’ Bronnie’s voice rises a notch. I’ve never seen her this worked up about something. She’s normally so docile, so . . . vanilla. ‘First Jess, with the music box, then Imogen falling down the stairs, and the graffiti on the bench—it said Here lies Ruby Donovan.’ She’s speaking faster and faster, gripping her coffee mug so hard I expect it to shatter. ‘Who’s going to be next?’ It’s so loud, and so shrill, it echoes.

  I speak deliberately slowly, hoping my tone will prove calming for Bronnie. ‘I think we need to keep things in proportion.’ Bronnie’s hands are shaking, her knuckles white around her mug. I reach for it. ‘Shall I take that?’ It’s Villeroy & Boch, and they’ve discontinued the design—I’d hate to lose one. ‘Like you say,’ I continue, soothingly, ‘they’re just kids.’ I wonder if Bronnie is having some kind of nervous breakdown.

  ‘Exactly!’ Bronnie thumps a fist on the worktop, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the Villeroy & Boch is safely out of reach. ‘Children! Vulnerable children who need protection, and you don’t even care!’

  I sigh. How can I explain that this is just one of a million things I care about? Like Brexit, and Donald Trump, and my cholesterol, and what kind of job Sadie’s going to get once she’s got this musical theater stuff out of her system. ‘Of course I care.’ I try to see things from Bronnie’s perspective. She’s a housewife who makes costumes for pocket money. She doesn’t employ a hundred people, chair board meetings, negotiate deals, fire-fight fal
louts from other people’s decisions. She’s way out of her comfort zone and looking for guidance.

  ‘They rely on us for protection, and we let them down!’ She’s shouting now, shaking like she’s scaring herself with the force of her words. Poor woman. It’s sad, really. I reach out a hand to touch her arm, but she snatches it away, jabbing a finger at my chest. ‘You let them down!’

  I what? Any shred of sympathy I had for Bronnie Richardson vanishes in a heartbeat. I regard her coolly. ‘I beg your pardon? I was asleep when Imogen fell, I could hardly have—’

  ‘You plied them with alcohol!’ Bronnie sounds every syllable, her mouth working like the word itself tastes bad.

  I give a bark of laughter. ‘A can of cider is hardly hard liquor.’

  ‘They’re underage.’

  ‘By less than a year!’ I’m shouting too, now—if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em—and we glare at each other, Bronnie puce with barely contained rage. She opens her mouth to spill more crap, but before she can say anything there’s a noise behind us. We both whip round, to see Sadie standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

  ‘What’s all the shouting about?’

  ‘Hello, sweetie, how are you?’ Bronnie’s sudden reversion to her usual cloying, condescending ‘mum voice’ takes me by surprise. She smiles at Sadie. Gone is the harsh, angry tone, the white knuckles, the tremor of emotion in her cheeks—gone so swiftly that I’m left with the unnerving feeling I might have imagined the whole thing.

  ‘Yeah, all right.’ Sadie looks between us.

  ‘Bronnie just popped in to see if you’re okay with everything happening at school.’ I sigh, then parrot my own words. ‘So . . . are you okay with everything happening at school?’

  Sadie shrugs. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I move so abruptly I knock against the chrome stool by the breakfast bar, and it rocks on the glossy tiles. ‘Sorry you had a wasted trip, Bronnie.’ I begin walking toward the hall, so she has no choice but to follow me. Barely contained fury boils inside me. How dare Bronnie Richardson come to my door and lay blame at my feet! Whether Imogen Curwood fell or was pushed, my only involvement is owning the house she did it in. I realize we’re crossing the exact spot where she lay, prone, and the image of her flashes across my mind. I remember the clutch of fear as I looked over the banister at her unmoving body, hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.

  I open the door and usher Bronnie out, even as she’s trying to speak. ‘Elise, I really think that—’

  ‘They’re teenagers, Bronnie. I’m sure we were just as fucked up at that age.’ I say a cheery goodbye and close the front door, leaving her wide-eyed.

  ‘You’re so mean.’ Sadie comes out of the kitchen, eating a piece of toast. ‘You know she hates swearing.’

  ‘I couldn’t resist it. Her face. Please use a plate, Sadie—poor Yuliya has enough to do already. I’ll be in the office if you need me.’ I walk toward my study, then turn back. ‘You won’t need me, will you?’

  ‘No, I’m going shopping in town—can I borrow twenty quid?’

  ‘Take fifty. Have lunch, too.’ Perfect. An entire Saturday to work in peace.

  By midday I’ve achieved nothing aside from clearing my inbox. I’m trying to make notes on a report from my R&D manager about the ultrasound needle we’re developing, but I’m so derailed by Bronnie’s visit I have to read every paragraph three times.

  You plied them with alcohol! . . .

  What if she goes to the police? It’s precisely the sort of thing someone like Bronnie would do. I see her trotting down to the local station; picture the bored desk sergeant scribbling in his notebook, perking up as the story unfolds.

  ‘Drunk, you say? Pushed down the stairs?’

  ‘I hate to stir up trouble,’ I imagine Bronnie saying, ‘but they’re just children.’

  Could I be done for neglect? For serving alcohol to minors? If Ruby really did push Imogen down the stairs, does that make me some sort of accessory?

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Elise,’ I say out loud, as much to chase away the mental pictures as to snap me out of this ridiculous spiral of anxiety. This is all bloody Bronnie’s fault. If she hadn’t come over this morning I’d be none the wiser, and this report would be annotated and back on the desk of my R&D manager. Ultrasound needles already exist, but the imaging system BONDical is developing is of a quality far higher than anything on the market, and—more importantly—designed to be used by specially trained GPs. Imagine walking into your local surgery worrying over a breast lump, and having peace of mind—or a treatment plan—within an hour. This is going to change the world. The headlines have scrolled through my mind for the last ten years. Experts predict the BONDical smart needle will save a million lives by 2120 . . . Ultrasound, ultrasmart: BONDical’s CEO is more than a pretty face . . . Elise Bond sells BONDical for an undisclosed sum one source called ‘mindblowing.’

  And then, before I can stop it: Teenager injured after head of medical research organization plied her with alcohol.

  I run my fingers through my hair. For fuck’s sake, Elise, get a grip.

  But it’s no good. All I can think about is BONDical’s reputation. My reputation. However good our products, what hospital trust will touch us if I’m dragged over the coals?

  I take a beta-blocker and call Nick. We’re good at snapping each other out of a funk—it’s one of the reasons we work so well together. That, and the fact we’re both so driven. It’s six a.m. in Kansas City, and when Nick answers the phone his voice is thick with sleep.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  I tell him about Bronnie’s visit. The graffiti, the bullying, the veiled threat about my casual approach to drinking.

  ‘It’s only cider—don’t sweat it.’ In the background, there’s a muffled sound. Someone turning over in bed, perhaps, or reaching for a glass of water. I close my eyes and hold the phone a little farther from my ear.

  You don’t decide to have an open marriage. At least, we didn’t. Rather, it was something that evolved when it became clear that—while Nick and I loved each other—we were too independent, too selfish, to be monogamous. So we put in some rules. Only while out of town, never on home turf. Only one-night-stands—more than once becomes an affair. No photos, no personal details, no follow-ups.

  I have another rule, too. I switch off my phone if I’m with someone else. Nick, on the other hand . . . There’s a soft cough in the background and I hear the bed creak as Nick gets up and walks across his hotel room. A slight echo to his words tells me he’s moved to the bathroom.

  ‘All kids get bullied a bit. Christ, when I was at boarding school it was all floggings and buggery, and we still turned out all right. In fact, two of the boys from my house are MPs now.’

  ‘She implied I was a crap parent.’

  ‘You’re different to her, that’s all. We’ve never babied Sadie, and as a result she’s more mature than her peers—that’s their problem, not ours. Jesus, she’s been having wine with dinner since she was what—fourteen?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ I say, because fourteen suddenly feels so young, and I’m wondering what we were thinking, giving her alcohol at all. I’m wondering if we really have done this so right.

  ‘If you ban kids from something they treat it like forbidden fruit,’ Nick says. ‘Then, come eighteen, they go nuts. Bel’ll be a crack whore by her nineteenth birthday, you’ll see.’

  I laugh, which is what he intended, and the ball of anxiety in my chest eases a little. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll call you later. Love you.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  He hangs up, and I press the phone against my lips, not thinking about Nick padding back to bed, not thinking about the warm body pressed against his, not thinking about who she is, and what she does to him. I let the phone fall onto the desk and stand up, shutting my laptop. No point in trying to work when I can’t concentrate.

  I wander aimlessly around the hou
se, trying to find something to do. Yuliya has left supper in the fridge for tonight, and a bowl of crudités for Sadie to snack on, even though she’ll fill up on McDonald’s in town today. The laundry is ironed and put away. In the sitting room, every cushion is plumped, every strand of fringe on the rug smoothed out. The magazines, all aspirational glossies, are fanned out on the glass coffee table. I think about picking one to read in the garden, but there’s something untouchable about them, so instead I put on my trainers and go for a run. I think about what Bronnie said, about my not talking to Sadie—not asking her about what’s going on at school. I think about the conversations I’ve had with Sadie, about grades and parts and auditions, and much as I hate to admit it, I start to think that Bronnie has a point. When did I last talk to my daughter about her friends? About growing up? About feelings? I’m ashamed to admit that I honestly don’t know.

  Sadie doesn’t come back from town till late, and when she does she brings a friend and they squirrel themselves away in her room, venturing out only for snacks. The second time I hear them, I leave my office to make myself a coffee I don’t want, feeling a sudden urge to have some kind of interaction with my daughter. Sadie stands in front of the open fridge; her friend—a petite brunette I recognize but cannot name—shifts awkwardly by her side, as though they’ve been caught out.

  ‘Having fun?’

  Sadie makes a vague sound of agreement.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ the friend says. Amina? Adriana? Something beginning with A, I’m sure of it. Sadie closes the fridge. Her arms are piled with snacks. Plastic-wrapped pots of stuffed olives from M&S, mini chorizo bites, parma ham, cheese.

  ‘Tapas?’ I say brightly. I imagine Bel having a friend over; imagine Bronnie calling the pair of them down to supper. Tea, she’d call it. Homemade soup, perhaps, or thick-cut chips she spent all afternoon peeling. I feel again that stab of inferiority, and remind myself I’ve spent the best part of my afternoon working on research that will save lives.

  ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course, darling! Are you watching a film?’ I feel as though I’m reading a script, playing a part I didn’t cast for.