The Understudy

by Sophie Hannah

  I try hard not to react too strongly to the goings-on among the girls, but Ruby feels it all so deeply, and people misjudge her so much. All she wants is to be liked, to be valued, and people can turn that into something awful, like she’s some kind of villain, when she’s just human. She’s just a girl. My little girl.

  That’s when my fear is overtaken by rage. ‘They’re fucking doing it again!’ I say. ‘They’re ganging up on her!’

  ‘You think it’s the whole group?’

  ‘I don’t know! But whoever it is, they’re not getting away with it.’

  Cancer taught me to value the warrior inside of me. She showed up when everything happened with Vee. She’s always made Greg a little uneasy, and I see it in his face. He’s trying to figure out how to tamp me down.

  ‘You’re going to tell me not to worry? It’ll all be okay?’ I’m taunting him. Daring him.

  He averts his eyes. He’s never liked a fight, and mostly, I don’t either. But sometimes they’re necessary.

  ‘I do think it’ll be okay,’ he says quietly. ‘But maybe what’s needed is to just come home. Put our family back together.’

  Pull Ruby out of school when she’s on the verge of getting a lead? That could be just what she—or they—want. ‘You don’t know what we need.’

  He sighs. ‘Maybe I don’t.’

  Neither of us says I love you, though it’s our customary sign-off, whether we feel it or not. I disconnect.

  I see a flash of something in my peripheral vision, and it’s Ruby. She’s in the doorway of her room. It’s not a big flat. What did she hear?

  She’s still in her grubby T-shirt and shorts. She comes over to me and hugs me from behind. ‘I’m going to take my shower now so we won’t be late.’ I’m grateful for her change of heart but concerned about what she just heard between her dad and me, especially that last part where he talked about moving home. He’s mentioned it before, and fortunately, she never heard.

  Could it be that what she really wants—what she needs, as Greg said—is for us to go back? That she is behind at least some of what’s happened lately within the girls’ group, that it’s a cry for help or—more characteristically of Ruby—a push?

  I force a smile. ‘It’s going to be a great night.’

  She assumes a worried expression. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Believe you about what?’

  ‘That someone knows. That someone’s after us.’

  Us? ‘What do you think we should do?’ I keep my voice level. Please, don’t say go back to LA. Please, I can’t go back to the scene of the crime.

  She shrugs. As in, I’m the parent; I’m the one who’s supposed to know what to do.

  So she’s not trying to force my hand and send us back to Greg. Not consciously, anyway. But Ruby’s subconscious is powerful. On sleepless nights, it’s occasionally crossed my mind that one of these times, if I’m not her ally, I could be her target.

  Her anxiety intensifies, her face naked as a small child’s. ‘You’ll always be with me, right? No matter what?’

  As in, no matter what terrible thing she’s done now? But I have to tell her the truth: ‘Always. No matter what.’

  The first person I see in the OFA foyer is Elise. Well, she’s not the first, there are some other parents milling around, but she always stands out, with that red hair of hers and her bearing, like she thinks she owns the place. It’s a bit of schadenfreude that her daughter is the least talented. It’s no accident that I poke at that fact, all straight-faced and innocent, and sometimes it has the intended effect. When she’s rankled, she breaks character. She’s almost human.

  I don’t see the other mums. Elise has been chatting with the dance teacher, and when she spots me, she makes a beeline. It’s like she’s been waiting for me, which is unique in our relationship.

  ‘Are you on your way to the auditorium?’ she asks, a stupid question since that’s where the revue will be held and it’s fifteen minutes till showtime. It was no small feat to get Ruby out of the taxi and backstage where she belongs. ‘Let’s walk together.’

  ‘Sure.’ I try not to give her an odd look as she twines her arm through mine. ‘How are you, Elise?’

  ‘Exhausted. Jet-lagged. The usual.’ She waves her free hand. ‘But I wanted to thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For not being territorial about your husband. It was lovely to meet him in LA. Traveling can be lonely, and I so enjoyed getting to have a drink with a new friend.’

  We’re almost to the auditorium, and I’m reeling from what she’s obviously dying to tell me: that she spent time with Greg. A drink. A new friend.

  ‘He enjoyed meeting you, too,’ I say.

  Elise gives me a look like she doesn’t quite believe that—doesn’t believe I knew? Doesn’t believe he enjoyed meeting her?—and then I see that it’s more smug than that. The cat that ate the canary. My canary.

  Elise loves to flaunt her open marriage so she can prove how unconventional she is compared to the rest of us. Needless to say, Greg and I have no such arrangement. I think of how strangely he behaved on the call earlier, the way he greeted me at first, nervous and too loving. He thought I was waking him up to confront him about Elise.

  Of all the people he could have slept with, he had to pick my frenemy?

  He wouldn’t have gone looking. She picked him so she could humiliate me. That’s what she’s trying to do right now, and I can’t give her the satisfaction.

  Still, Greg’s sex life is the least of my concerns right now. Elise said they had a drink, and Greg has always been a total lightweight when it comes to holding his alcohol. A loose-lipped lightweight.

  Imogen falls; then Here lies Ruby Donovan; and finally, Elise and Greg. What did Greg tell Elise? And what did she tell the other women?

  Because Elise and I are in the auditorium now, beside the row where someone easily could have saved me a seat, only they didn’t. Carolyn is there with her husband, and Elise’s husband has a jacket across her seat, and then there’s another seat saved by Bronnie’s husband, since she’s working backstage, and then there are all of Bel’s siblings.

  ‘Sorry,’ Carolyn says, sans remorse. ‘There just wasn’t room.’

  ‘Yes,’ Elise says, ‘we needed all the seats for ours.’ As in, they all have people, and I’ve got no one, especially since Elise helped herself to my husband.

  ‘I like to be in the front row anyway,’ I tell them, and I’m sure they don’t believe me—they’re exchanging glances, but I just need to make my escape. ‘I’ll see you all later.’

  I flee to the front row, thoughts racing. Someone knows, Ruby said. They’re after us.

  It sure feels like it right now, like it’s not just Ruby. I’m not ancillary, or beside the point. Elise was waiting for me. Targeting me and my marriage. Targeting Ruby and my secrets.

  I shouldn’t be shocked that Elise would do this. It’s not like I ever really believed we were friends. Just friendly. No, cordial. No, not even that, because Elise doesn’t traffic in social niceties. This is all my fault, and now Ruby will suffer right along with me. I never should have made those digs about Sadie not being talented. When Elise mentioned her company being in the Times or the Guardian, when I would play dumb and say, I haven’t seen it, does anyone read newspapers anymore?, when I tried to puncture her ego, I never thought . . .

  I’ve been so stupid. Someone like Bronnie could get away with that, someone who’s truly innocent, but not me. When I poked Elise, I was poking a bear.

  Someone knows. But what, exactly, do they know? Even if Elise thought the best way to get information from a man was pillow talk—and I just need to push the image of those two in my bed aside for right now—Greg isn’t much of a source. He doesn’t know what really happened with Vee.

  Though the curtain is down, I can hear the backstage hubbub with the sound checks and vocal warm-up exercises. Jess pushes back the side of the curtain impishly to peek out at
the audience, and I can see her, Bel, and Sadie giggling. Ruby’s not with them, but Imogen doesn’t seem to be either.

  Ruby has the kind of clarion voice that cuts through din, and so does Jess. I can make out Jess talking about famous agents and West End producers who they hope will be in the audience, and then the excited laughter of all three girls.

  I don’t know if Ruby is isolating herself or they’re ostracizing her. Has there been a game of telephone with the mums that’s trickled down to the girls, and one of them—all of them?—wrote Here lies Ruby Donovan?

  Whatever the other mums think they know, they’re not making it easy for me to find out. When I turn around and try to catch their eyes, they’re not having it. They’re too busy laughing and talking with each other and their husbands, and I can’t help feeling like they’re performing their gay old time just like their daughters are backstage, so that Ruby and I can both feel what we’re missing.

  They’re not going to get away with this shit. Not the mums, and not their daughters.

  My anger bubbles up, and I marinate in it for a few minutes before walking up the four steps to the stage and through the side of the curtain, just where the three girls were a few minutes before. I survey the backstage. It’s the usual: girls powdering themselves at the long vanity, or vying for one of the few full-length mirrors near Bronnie’s wardrobe area (where is Bronnie?), chattering in various stages of undress, some more brazen, some more modest, the energy levels high with excitement and anxiety. But I don’t see Ruby, and I don’t see who I’m looking for.

  Then I notice that Jess and Sadie are half-hidden behind the vanity, speaking with intensity. That’s not surprising from Jess, who has some of her mother’s rectitude and bombast, but Sadie is matching her. I’m glad that I wear flats now instead of heels so I can inch closer. Not too close, the last thing I need is to be branded a creeper, but I can hear snippets. Jess is telling Sadie she needs to ‘come clean.’

  Sadie’s always been the diplomat. She’s never been cruel to Ruby that I know of. Well, not to her face.

  But I can’t linger. I don’t belong backstage, and I’m drawing stares from a few other girls nearby. I step away from the vanity and ask another girl if she’s seen the headmaster. The girl shakes her head, visibly annoyed. ‘He was here,’ she says, ‘and he needs to get back quick. He better not delay the show.’

  Like he’s her servant. These kids are so entitled. Is that how Ruby talks, too, when I’m not there to hear her?

  I’m thinking where to go next when I see Imogen. She’s alone at the barre, stretching out one leg in a languorous, sensual fashion. She gives me a heavy-lidded smile. It’s like she’s flirting, or like she’s drugged, or both.

  I smile back, but I’m disconcerted. Some instinct sends me deeper into the backstage bowels, toward the darkness where the rigging and the pulleys are, sets that are only half-painted. That’s where I find Mr. Racki.

  And Bronnie.

  She’s up against the wall and his back is to me. He’s whispering in her ear. It’s not sweet nothings, that’s apparent from her pained facial expression. Though they’re not touching, the moment has an intimate feel. I’m embarrassed to have come upon them and since they haven’t yet seen me, I could just withdraw as if I haven’t seen them. But it occurs to me that it’s much smarter to let them know I have. I might need an advantage in the conversation that’s about to commence with the headmaster, or in the ones that are yet to happen with Bronnie and the mums.

  ‘Mr. Racki,’ I say, ‘I need a word with you.’

  Both are startled, though Mr. Racki spins around and recovers quickly, gracing me with a pleasant expression, no shame in evidence. Bronnie, however, is not quite as practiced in the art of being caught in a seemingly compromised position. She scurries away, avoiding eye contact. It could be because she’s guilty; it could be because she thinks I am. Whatever rumor has spread through the mums group must have reached her, too.

  Fuck every last one of them.

  ‘What can I do for you, darling?’ Mr. Racki asks in a way that’s so very him that I think my eyes might have deceived me. Perhaps he and Bronnie had just been talking about costumes or some other school business and wanted to do it in private.

  ‘Maybe we should talk somewhere else. Out of the shadows.’ I mean it archly, but he just nods mildly in response.

  Could it actually be? The headmaster and Bronnie, having an affair?

  It’s nearly unfathomable. If it is true, though, it means Bronnie isn’t who I thought she was. None of us are.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ Mr. Racki says, ‘and watch your step.’ He leads me through a dimly lit labyrinth with wiring and cables along the floor and then we step out into the blinding fluorescence of the hallway. I guess I should have thought of this before, that OFA is a very old building and there could be little-used passages, allowing for unseen ingress and egress. Not a comforting thought, given the perilous situation Ruby and I are in.

  Mr. Racki’s office is way at the front of the building, so he takes me into an unoccupied rehearsal space instead. It must have been recently vacated by the orchestra, as all the music stands are still set up, some with sheet music splayed open.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to call,’ he says apologetically. ‘With the preparation for the revue, time got away from me. The play’s the thing, as Hamlet said.’

  I get it now, how the quoting infuriates Carolyn. This isn’t a play, it’s my daughter’s life. ‘If you’d called, what would you have said?’

  ‘The sleepover wasn’t on school property so it’s not really my domain, but with the unusual events of late, I’m having unusual conversations. May I ask what Ruby said happened at the sleepover?’

  ‘Imogen fell.’

  ‘I don’t want to speak out of turn.’ He’s obviously uncomfortable and would like to extricate himself from this conversation. Is it because of what I just witnessed between him and Bronnie? Or could they possibly have been talking about Ruby and me, with Bronnie sharing Elise’s choice tidbits?

  ‘Imogen fell,’ I repeat, though my voice is a little shaky.

  ‘I’m worried about Ruby. There’s tension again among the girls. Not as bad as last year, thankfully, but still. “We’re through with lies and liars in this house. Lock the door.” ’ I stare at him, perplexed. What lies—and what liar—is he talking about? ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.’

  ‘I’ve got a quote for you: “Here lies Ruby Donovan.” ’ That bench is on school grounds, and he didn’t call me to say anything about it. But now he’s talking about a sleepover that happened off-campus and distracting me with theatrical allusions. He’s doing damage control, that’s what this is. Britain is less litigious than the US, but a negligent headmaster can still get in a whole lot of trouble.

  I’m not about to let him wriggle out of his responsibility. He needs to protect my daughter. That’s what I came to tell him, and he’s doing a good job of deflecting. But I’m not going to let him get away with it.

  ‘We’ve cleaned the bench,’ he says, ‘and we’re looking into who might have done that. In the meantime, perhaps we could schedule another hand-holding vigil.’

  I can’t believe I’m actually empathizing with Carolyn right now. This is so aggravating. There’s a real issue here. ‘Whoever wrote that on the bench could be the same person who left the music box. It could be someone engaging in a reign of terror.’

  ‘And I thought I was the one prone to dramatics! Lovey, I assure you, I’m handling this. I just can’t handle it right this instant. The revue’s going to start late, as it is.’

  The hell with the revue. He’s not going anywhere. ‘You said you meant to call me, and I want to hear what you have to say. What you’re going to do to protect Ruby.’

  ‘It’s my job to protect all the girls at the Academy.’ He hesitates. ‘There’s been a suggestion that Imogen didn’t fall down the stairs. That she was pushed.’

  ‘Pushed?’ I gape at him. The picture i
s coming into terrible focus. Ruby was back in with the girls before the sleepover, and she’s out again now. Elise visited Greg. Here lies Ruby Donovan. ‘Are people saying Ruby did it?’

  He doesn’t want to answer.

  So yes, someone’s said it. But if they knew about Vee, couldn’t someone else have pushed Imogen to make it look like it was Ruby? To frame her?

  His eyes skitter toward the door. ‘I’m truly sorry to have upset you. I just thought that you might be able to shed light on what’s been happening, and I wanted to make sure Ruby was okay.’

  Make sure she’s okay. As in, make sure she’s not deranged. As in, not placing threatening music boxes in lockers or pushing girls down flights of stairs. Not going back to her old ways. Or finding new ways.

  Then it hits me: Elise didn’t go to the States until after the sleepover. The only person at Elise’s house that night who knew about Vee was Ruby.

  All the vigilante mom in me dissipates. I’m thinking of what Ruby whispered to me in the taxi when she’d been too distraught to stay the night: ‘Someone knows.’ I’d assumed she was talking about the past, but she could have been talking about what she’d just done. She was afraid someone saw her push Imogen down the stairs.

  I never asked her directly if she did it. I didn’t think I needed to. We were supposed to be aligned, agreed that we never wanted to go back there again. This was our fresh start. This was our bond.

  ‘I really do need to go,’ Mr. Racki says. He pauses in the doorway. It must be because I look upset, and despite my earlier irritation with him, I know he’s truly a good man, and good men don’t like to cause women to be on the verge of tears and then slip away.