The Understudy

by Sophie Hannah

  ‘So what was in it for you?’ I say.

  Bronnie chews the corner of her bottom lip. ‘You’re right: Part-time wardrobe mistresses don’t get paid a lot. I got something extra in my pay packet.’ I’m about to ask another question when Bronnie lifts her head, suddenly defiant. ‘We needed the money. We’re not like you.’ She looks at us all. ‘I stayed home with the kids when they were young, Carl doesn’t earn much, and we have a huge mortgage. I did what I had to do!’

  Bronnie stops talking, and it’s like someone let the air out of a balloon. I wonder if Carolyn and Kendall feel like I do, that this might have mattered a year ago—before Imogen, before the notes and the threats and Ruby lying in hospital—but it doesn’t matter now.

  Is fraud better than popping pills, or worse? Better than drinking a bottle of wine a night? Better than letting the housekeeper handle your daughter’s first period? I’m hardly in the running for mother of the year myself.

  ‘Bingo.’

  We spin round to look at Carolyn, and whatever might have happened next is swept away by that single word, soft but jubilant. Bingo.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Have you found something?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  The three of us speak at once, and Carolyn looks at us in turn, a theater program in her hand, and a triumphant look in her eyes. The brochure is closed, Carolyn’s finger marking a place, and the act is tantalizing, almost mocking. She’s enjoying this, I realize. She likes knowing something we don’t—the performer with a final act to go—and for a second I think she wants to keep whatever it is to herself. But she doesn’t—of course she doesn’t. We’re all on the same side, after all. I think. Gradually, she lowers the program until it’s resting in her lap. Her fingers flirt with the pages but still she doesn’t open it.

  ‘Well?’ Even Kendall is starting to lose patience with Carolyn’s theatrics.

  ‘Snow White,’ sighs Bronnie. ‘Christmas 2013. The boys didn’t want to come, so Bel and I went on our own, and—’

  ‘Is it the tattoo?’ I put an abrupt stop to Bronnie’s jaunt down memory lane.

  Carolyn looks up. She grins, and opens the program so slowly it’s all I can do not to snatch it from her hands and do it myself. We crowd around her like kids about to be read a story. The brochure is cheaply made; the show itself a second-rate affair somewhere between am-dram and fringe. The page Carolyn marked is the cast list, their headshots taking up more space than the accompanying list of acting credits.

  We all see it at the same time. Long hair, twisted over one shoulder. A smoldering look with the hint of a smile. Chin, cupped in one hand, the elbow resting on something unseen. And there, on her exposed wrist . . . sky above me, earth below me, fire within me.

  Snow White, reads the caption above the actress’s name. Lisa Daisley.

  ‘Who’s Lisa Daisley?’ says Bronnie.

  The name feels familiar—it nags at me like a child tugging at my hand. Lisa Daisley . . . I can’t place it.

  ‘It’s the same tattoo,’ Kendall whispers.

  ‘It’s the same girl.’ Carolyn smooths a crease from the page, holds up the photo to the light. The hair’s different, but Carolyn’s right. The girl in the photo is undoubtedly Imogen Curwood.

  ‘Maybe she uses a stage name for professional work,’ Bronnie says. Carolyn raises an eyebrow, and Bronnie looks between Kendall and me for support. ‘Lots of actresses do.’

  ‘Of course they do, but this,’ Carolyn brandishes the cheaply made brochure, ‘is hardly Broadway!’

  I catch the hurt in Bronnie’s eyes. I think about her and Bel, planning their girls’ night out, picking their outfits, queuing for tickets, buying ice cream at the interval as a treat they can’t afford. Poring over this same program that Carolyn is so quick to dismiss, then storing it carefully away in the trunk in the kitchen. Making memories. ‘Bronnie’s right,’ I say. ‘Lisa Daisley could be a stage name.’

  But just as the words leave my lips—just as Carolyn narrows her eyes at me, with a look that says, Since when were you in Camp Bronnie?—I have to take them back. Because suddenly I remember where I’ve seen that name before. ‘It could be a stage name . . . but it isn’t.’ I shoot Bronnie an apologetic look. ‘Lisa Daisley is the name on the prescription pills I found in Imogen’s makeup bag.’

  ‘Now you tell us!’ Carolyn explodes. ‘Could you not have shared that information with us before?’

  Typical Carolyn—foisting the blame onto me. ‘I told you I’d found pills—’ I color at the mention of pills, wondering who else knows, who Bronnie has told. But when I catch her eye she gives the tiniest shake of her head. No one. I haven’t told anyone.

  ‘You didn’t say they said “Lisa Daisley” on the label—’

  ‘I didn’t think it was relevant! I thought they were her grandmother’s, or she’d nicked them, or bought them on the internet. And anyway,’ I raise my voice before Carolyn can open her mouth again, ‘I’m not the one on trial!’

  There’s a moment’s silence, while Carolyn and I stare each other down, neither of us willing to break away first. It’s Kendall who defuses things, albeit unwittingly.

  ‘It says here that Lisa Daisley is seventeen,’ she says, pointing at the actress’s bio. ‘Which would make her . . .’ She counts off the years on her fingers. ‘Twenty-one now.’ Outraged, her voice rises a notch. ‘I can’t believe she’s been lying to us for all this time!’

  Bronnie flushes, her own shady dealings all too recently exposed. I see Carolyn’s eyes widen, and her mouth twitch.

  ‘Pots and kettles,’ Carolyn says. Kendall looks blank.

  ‘People in glass houses?’ I offer, but the sarcasm is lost on her. Surprisingly, it’s Bronnie who takes charge.

  ‘I think what they’re trying to point out, Kendall, is that you’ve been more than a little economical with the truth yourself.’ It’s Bronnie’s turn to feel awkward—from one liar to another—and I shoot her a look of solidarity. Who’d have thought it—Bronnie Richardson and me, with something in common?

  I didn’t know it was possible for a person to go so red. A deep crimson flush floods from inside the collar of Kendall’s shirt and makes its way to her hairline like high tide. She opens her mouth, closes it again, then repeats the motion. A fish out of water.

  ‘Right, enough pissing about.’ Carolyn slaps the theater program against her thigh, letting Kendall off the hook, and snapping us all back into action. ‘Imogen Curwood—or Lisa Daisley, or whatever the fuck her name is—has been playing us all for fools for the best part of a term, and now it’s time to turn the tables.’ She gives a slow smile. ‘And I know just how to do it.’

  ‘How?’

  But Carolyn ignores Bronnie, instead pulling out her phone and tapping furiously at the screen, cursing whenever her fingers find the wrong key. I see the familiar screen of a search engine, but as I lean across to see more, Carolyn angles the phone away from me. She winks. ‘All in good time.’ There she goes again: hogging the limelight . . .

  Bronnie puts the kettle back on, and Kendall fills up the milk jug, and while Carolyn taps at her phone, the three of us sit around Bronnie’s pine table and drink tea and eat scones. We gloss over the lies we’ve told, like politicians burying bad news. We talk about the school, and I grudgingly agree that yes, perhaps BONDical could sponsor a production to raise money for the new roof, and then we drift away from school stuff and onto clothes, and why it’s so completely impossible to find shoes that are both practical and stylish.

  ‘Shhhhh!’ Carolyn says suddenly. The three of us look up, startled. She’s pressing her phone to her ear, one finger of her other hand held up in warning, and a mischievous smile on her face. Silence falls. ‘Oh hell-ooooo!’ Carolyn’s voice has changed. Down an octave, deep and throaty, like she smokes forty a day. ‘Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Lisa Daisley’s agent?’

  Kendall and I exchange glances. Bronnie claps a hand to her mouth, as thou
gh if she didn’t, something might escape.

  ‘How absolutely marvelous, I’m so thrilled to get hold of you,’ Carolyn purrs. ‘Now, listen, I’ve got the most darling part I know Lisa will be perfect for, but it’s horribly short notice. Musical, big budget, West End, long run, Leo Douglas directing . . .’ There’s a beat as she listens. ‘Wonderful! Today at . . .’ Carolyn checks her watch. ‘Midday?’

  I hold my breath.

  ‘Really? You don’t need to check with Lisa?’ Carolyn’s face is deadpan—I could use someone like her in the boardroom. ‘That’s simply marvelous, sweetie. Do you know the Mews Studios? Oh, she’s rehearsed there before? Wonderful! We’ll see her then.’

  Carolyn puts down her phone, drops her head to her chest and holds out both arms like a leading lady anticipating her curtain call flowers. ‘Boom.’ She looks up. ‘As I believe the kids say.’

  ‘You didn’t . . .’ Bronnie is in awe. Carolyn’s eyes sparkle.

  ‘I bloody did.’

  ‘Where are the Mews Studios?’ Kendall asks. The flush has disappeared, and she’s leaning forward, anxious to be involved, to be included. It crosses my mind that if it weren’t for Ruby being in hospital, we might not have glossed over her actions as easily. She has, after all, lied to us for an entire academic year—as has her daughter. But right now dealing with Imogen Curwood is more important than anyone else’s dramas. Lucky for Kendall, I think, and for Bronnie. And, I guess, for me. I wonder idly what Carolyn’s secrets are.

  ‘It’s a rehearsal space in Camden—a friend of mine owns it. It won’t be a problem to borrow it for an hour or so.’ She stands up. ‘Well, what are you all waiting for? We’ve got work to do.’

  The Mews Studios are housed in an unprepossessing building in the heart of Camden, which could easily be mistaken for a home for accountants rather than performers, were it not for the inspirational stickers adorning the otherwise plain front door. If you never jump, reads one, how do you know if you can fly? Carolyn enters a series of numbers into a keypad, and the door clicks open.

  Unlike the Orla Flynn Academy, where leg-warmered boys leap down the hallways, and pockets of girls in low-slung yoga pants harmonize in stairwells with irritating frequency, the corridor that greets us is stark and cold. Four glazed doors are marked Studio 1, 2, 3, and 4 respectively, and I look through the door of number one to see a square, unfurnished room. A barre runs along one side; the opposite wall is entirely covered with mirrors.

  ‘She sublets to teachers,’ Carolyn says, leading us toward the end of the corridor. ‘Ballet, tap, modern . . .’ On a noticeboard to my left I see a clutch of flyers advertising classes and pointe shoes for sale, as well as a reminder that all students wishing to enter the southwest regional hip-hop contest MUST REGISTER BY FRIDAY!!! A pair of double doors stretches across the short wall at the end of the hall, flanked on either side of the corridor by two narrow doors marked Stage left and Stage right.

  Silence beyond this point! reads a stern notice on each of the side doors, printed in bold font and underlined in red marker pen.

  Carolyn pushes open the double doors, and flicks a series of lights on a panel to her left. One by one, the house lights switch on. We’re in a theater. A small theater—there can’t be more than a hundred and fifty seats—but a theater, nonetheless. At the back of the banked seats, bang in the center, is the lighting desk. Carolyn walks toward it and runs a hand over the switches. For a moment she’s lost in thought, but then she looks round and focuses on us. ‘We’ve got an hour. Kendall, find some paper and pens, and knock up some signs. “Auditions here,” that sort of thing.’ Carolyn checks off the tasks on her fingers, and Kendall nods eagerly, no doubt keen to re-ingratiate herself into the fold. ‘We’ll need a sheet with audition times—make up a bunch of names so she thinks we’ve been here all day—and something directing all auditionees to stage right. Or left—it doesn’t matter. And a big sign on those double doors that says no entry.’

  Kendall scurries off, and Carolyn looks at me. I lift my chin a fraction. Go on, then, I think. Try bossing me around like that. See how that goes down for you . . . As though she can read my mind, a hint of a smile plays across her lips, and her shoulders relax a little.

  ‘I think we need a dress rehearsal,’ she says. ‘How do you fancy playing Imogen Curwood?’ She gestures to the stage.

  ‘I’d be delighted.’

  ‘How about me?’ Bronnie says, like a kid left out at playtime. ‘What do you want me to do? Should I help Kendall with the signs? I used to do a lot of arts and crafts with the kids, I could—’

  ‘There’s something much more important I need you for,’ Carolyn says, cutting in, and I swear Bronnie grows an inch, right there. Carolyn gives a sly smile. ‘Lisa Daisley’s an actress, and actresses deserve an audience.’

  ‘You want me to round up some people?’ Bronnie’s confidence wavers. I have a sudden image of her standing on Camden High Street wearing a sandwich board and carrying a giant foam arrow. This way to the free theater show . . . I stifle a laugh and make my way to the front of the auditorium for my ‘dress rehearsal.’

  ‘Not people,’ Carolyn says, enigmatically. ‘A person.’ She puts an arm around Bronnie and leads her out of the theater, briefing her in a low voice that disappears completely as the double doors swing shut behind them. I roll my eyes, even though there’s no one here to see it. Carolyn is in her element, orchestrating this plan. Directing her minions (I’m obviously not including myself in that), drip-feeding information, keeping everyone on tenterhooks.

  There are no steps at the front of the auditorium, and the stage comes to just above my waist. I pull myself up—all that yoga has done wonders for my arms—and walk to the center of the stage. A pair of black curtains covers the rear half of the stage; more curtains screening the entrances stage left and right.

  I was a tree, once, in a school production of The Wizard of Oz, in which my sole responsibility was to turn to my left and block Dorothy’s way with the branches I held in my outstretched hands. Only, as Dorothy and Toto—a vicious cairn terrier belonging to the French mistress—approached, I caught sight of my father in the audience, looking at his watch. This had better be good, he’d said earlier that evening. I turned down dinner at the Groucho for this. I froze.

  Dorothy coughed. She nudged me. She cast a desperate glance stage right, to where the prompter sat with script in hand. But still I didn’t move. In the end Dorothy spun me round and lifted my arm herself.

  ‘The tree’s alive!’ she cried.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ came a shout from the audience. ‘Looks a bit wooden from where we’re sitting!’

  I fled the stage to the laughter of two hundred people tickled by my father’s joke.

  I jump as the double doors open and Carolyn strides in, looking pleased with herself. ‘The trap is set!’ she says dramatically. ‘Now let’s see what it’ll look like for Lisa.’

  ‘She’ll see us the second she comes in.’ I cross the stage, then immediately turn round, as though entering from the wings. I take in the rows of seats, flipped up like at the cinema; the lighting desk, Carolyn . . . ‘She’ll make some kind of excuse, or just run out, or—’ I break off as Carolyn flicks a switch and plunges us into darkness.

  It is the sort of blackness you can feel; the sort of blackness that touches your skin and envelops you so tightly you daren’t take a single step. I try to remember how far I am from the edge of the stage; I try to remember what direction I’m facing. My pulse races. ‘Carolyn?’

  Silence. Where is she? Fingertips run down my spine, and I twirl round, my hands in front of me, clutching at nothing.

  And then: light. Hot, white, bright. So intense I have to hold my hand in front of my face.

  ‘Can you see me?’

  I look toward Carolyn’s voice, to the middle of the auditorium, where I know the lighting desk is, where I know she is standing. There is nothing. Nothing but a bright white spotlight, trained on the ce
nter of the stage.

  ‘I can’t see anything at all,’ I say. My voice sounds thin and reedy.

  ‘Then we’re ready.’

  At eleven forty-five there’s a commotion on the other side of the double doors. They burst open, Bronnie falling into the auditorium with a look on her face that is part panic, part relief. Behind her, keeping up an angry commentary, is Adam Racki.

  ‘For the last time, Bronnie, will you please tell me what is going on? I’ve got choreography at one fifteen.’ He takes in his surroundings, his brow creased in confusion, then looks between Carolyn, me, and Kendall, whose posters and signs have been carefully affixed to their relevant doors. ‘Ladies,’ Adam says, manners superseding his frustration. ‘This is a surprise indeed! “Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.” ’ He laughs as though he’s made a joke, looking around expectantly for someone to explain, but Carolyn only smiles.

  ‘Shall we take our seats?’ she says.

  Perhaps it is her quiet confidence that stops Adam asking questions, or perhaps the bubbles of anticipation that are currently fizzing and popping inside me have somehow escaped into the atmosphere. For whatever reason, Adam doesn’t resist. He follows Kendall and Bronnie to the row of seats directly in front of the lighting box, where Carolyn remains standing. There’s a rustle as we take our seats, and I half expect an announcement to turn off our mobile phones and be aware that there will be no flash photography or recording devices, please.

  ‘Quiet . . .’ Carolyn whispers. From the other side of the double doors comes a muffled noise. A door swinging closed. Footsteps. Is it her? Is it Imogen? Carolyn takes down the house lights and turns on the spotlight, creating a perfect circle in the center of the stage. There are more footsteps, a fluttering of the black drapes that hide the wings, and then Imogen Curwood steps onto the stage. Beside me, Adam makes a sound—the beginnings of an exclamation I cut off with an elbow in the ribs.