by Jane Corry
‘I’ll try not to be long,’ I say. ‘Just got to talk to a few more contacts.’
‘No rush, dear. But keep an eye on the weather. According to one of my yoga friends, Storm Tanya is heading over from the Caribbean. The bad ones never seem to have male names, do they? Talk about sexist! Now come on, Daisy, it’s Melissa’s turn. See you later!’
I head back into the ballroom, keeping my distance from Matthew, who looks as though he hasn’t been able to escape from Jennifer and Doris’s barrage of questions. Part of me would like to join them and ask him a few myself. Maybe even mention Sandra. But I know that’s a really, really bad idea. I need to let bygones be bygones.
‘Hi! It’s Poppy, isn’t it?’ says a voice behind me.
I swivel round. It’s one of the new casting directors I’ve been trying to network with. They’re the ones who read the scripts and see that the storyline requires a couple snogging in a coffee bar in the background, behind the main characters. Or a grandfather feeding the ducks in the park with his grandchildren just before a body is discovered. Usually extras aren’t required to speak or have experience but directors can’t just go out and find anyone to play these parts. There are too many rules and regulations. So they use agencies like mine.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘it is.’
‘Who was that man you were with just now?’ he asks. ‘The rather striking middle-aged bloke with the scarlet bow tie?’
‘Oh,’ I say lightly, ‘just someone I trained with at drama school.’
‘Is he on your books?’
I almost laugh at the thought. ‘No.’
He strokes his trim goatee beard. ‘I need to find out if he’s available. I’m looking for some middle-aged men for a comedy that might be coming up.’
‘Really?’ I say, mentally running over my client list. ‘I think I might be able to help you with that.’
Then I reel off a list of names – including ‘Vicar’ Ronnie’s – and launch into my pitch. Frankly, it’s a relief to distract myself. But as I talk, fragments of memory come floating back. The pain when my mother left home to ‘find herself’ soon after I’d started my first year at drama school. And the unexpected comfort that had come from the stunningly handsome fellow student whose own mother had also ‘bolted’ when he was only twelve years old at boarding school.
‘I understand your pain,’ he’d told me, giving me a hug in the kitchen of my college halls of residence where I had broken down.
I can see it now as if it was yesterday. I am inside the body of the dumpy, completely overawed young girl, lying next to Matthew Gordon in bed.
‘Why me?’ I’d asked.
He’d stroked the outline of my breasts and then bent down to kiss my nipples. ‘Because you don’t know how beautiful you are.’
‘I’m not beautiful,’ I’d laughed, embarrassed.
‘Yes you are. Well, you’re pretty on the outside and beautiful underneath.’
I wasn’t sure whether to take this as a compliment or not.
‘But the most wonderful thing about you,’ he continued, ‘is that you’re different from the others. You wouldn’t kill someone to get a role. And you understand. You know what it’s like when your whole family falls apart.’
That was certainly true. My poor dad was in bits after being abandoned. He was in no state to help me. As for Mum, I refused either to take her calls on the college payphone or to open her letters.
‘My mother married again,’ said Matthew. ‘And again and again. I don’t even know where she is now and I don’t care.’ His face had darkened with anger. For a minute, I had almost felt afraid. ‘What is it with women that makes them such sluts?’
Matthew must have felt me stiffen beneath him at his words because he quickly added: ‘Now come here. I want to show you how much I love you.’
Love me? I couldn’t believe it. Nor could anyone else when it became general knowledge that Matthew and that dumpy little Poppy with the wild auburn curls were going out. Sandra, who’d been in our group and had never liked me for some unknown reason, was particularly vociferous in her disapproval. ‘I can’t think what he sees in her,’ I overheard her telling another student.
And then, almost three years later, she and Matthew had got together …
The two of them had broken my heart. And although Matthew had said he was sorry and that he felt terrible and so on, Sandra had acted as if she hadn’t done anything wrong.
Of course, that was only part of it. I’d never told Stuart the full story. I wasn’t sure he’d understand. I’m not even certain that I do myself.
‘Now, while we’re on the subject,’ continues the casting director, bringing me abruptly back to the present, ‘I was rather impressed by your profile in that write-up. I’m involved with a new production that’s going to be filmed in the south-west. It’s a sort of Mamma Mia meets Les Mis. Devon and Cornwall are becoming the hot spots. We’re looking for some extras – accommodation will be provided – and I was wondering if you might be able to help.’
He leads me to a corner and calls the waiter to give us each a glass of bubbly. I knock it back, partly out of politeness and partly because I’m still in shock from seeing Matthew. I’ve had far too much to drink now to drive home. I’ll have to take a taxi, even though it will cost a fortune.
‘Great,’ he says, when we’ve finished running through some of my clients. ‘Put it all in an email, would you? We’ll talk on Monday.’
He stands up. I’m aware that the room has emptied. ‘Looks like everyone’s left early because of the weather,’ he says, pointing at the window. I suddenly realize it’s white outside. The threatened snowfall has arrived.
There’s no sign of Matthew now. I’m both relieved and disappointed. Part of me was pleased that he’d seen the new me: the slimmer one who can get away with wearing her daughter’s black leather trousers. The woman whose ginger hair is now described as ‘Titian’ by her hairdresser. The new Poppy who runs a successful business.
The wife whose husband isn’t interested in making love to her any more.
I press Stuart’s number, to tell him I’m on my way home. There’s no signal. ‘Try the foyer,’ suggests one of the waitresses.
I make my way down to the bright, tinselled area with its glittery HAPPY CHRISTMAS banners and a giant snowman bobbing in the middle. Stuart’s phone goes straight to his messaging service. Thanks to the landscape lights outside, I can see that the snow has settled thickly. I ring one of our local taxi companies. Even though it’s not in their area, they might come out. As a family, we’ve used them a few times. ‘Sorry,’ says the man. ‘We’re up to our eyes cos of the weather.’
I google for more options but the answer is the same. If I were the swearing type, I’d make my feelings clearer out loud. But when you’re the mother of two teenage girls, you have to set an example. I’ve become used to holding it all in. Not to mention keeping my balls in the air. Doctors’ appointments; washing machines flashing on overload; client contracts; making sure Melissa and Daisy are on top of school coursework deadlines; turning up at photographic shoots to reassure nervous clients … It never stops! And now this.
A couple of other guests are talking about getting rooms for the night here. The thought of having space of my own to mull over the shock of seeing Matthew again and get my thoughts straight is tempting. Then I’ll be able to go home and continue acting out the part of wife and mother just as I’ve been doing for years. I make my way over to the young man on the desk with a sparkly red-and-green SEASON’S GREETINGS sign suspended, Damocles-like, above his head. ‘Sure – we can help.’
He quotes an eye-watering price, inflated, no doubt, by the weather and season.
‘I’ll take it,’ I say, telling myself I’ll put the cost down on my company expenses sheet. There are also, I notice, toothbrushes and paste on the counter for sale. I didn’t bring any clean underwear but what the hell. I’ll just get up early in the morning and go straight home. Armed with
my purchases, I head for the stairs. I always prefer walking to using a lift. So much healthier! But as I take the first step, I hear a voice. I look over the bannisters and see a sofa in the space below. Matthew is sitting there, his head bowed over a phone. His voice is low but clear.
‘I’m so sorry, Sandra. Like I said, it’s snowing. There aren’t any cabs and … you know I’d come home if it were possible. You’ve got someone with you. No. Don’t say that …’
I draw back. The voice sounds like Matthew’s. Yet at the same time, it doesn’t. This is a Matthew I’ve never heard before. It carries a desperate, humble, wrung-out-through-the-mangle timbre.
I stand still. Not sure what to do. Then curiosity gets the better of me and I peer over the staircase again at the figure beneath. Matthew is no longer speaking into his mobile. He is crying. I’ve only once seen him do that. I’d been crying too then – in fact, my sobs had drowned his, proving, or so I’d thought at the time, that my grief was bigger. I shiver and blank the memory from my head as I’d taught myself to do all those years ago.
I must have made a noise because he now looks up at me. I walk down to join him. It seems the right thing to do.
‘Poppy!’ Instantly an ‘everything’s fine’ expression replaces the one of horror on his face. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak more earlier on.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘You were clearly in demand.’
He looks at me questioningly, as if wondering whether I’m being sarcastic or understanding. I don’t know myself. There’s a distinct air of tension between us. I’m suddenly reminded of how hard it was to read Matthew’s mind when we were younger.
‘I would suggest we chat now,’ he says. His tone is light. Almost deliberately so. ‘But I’ve been trying to get a taxi home. Seems there aren’t any.’
‘I had the same problem so I’ve decided to stay.’
‘Really? That’s a good idea.’ He looks as though he’s going to touch my arm in a friendly way but stops. I’m both relieved and disappointed. ‘Listen – why don’t we meet in the bar?’
No, I think to myself. Absolutely not. ‘Actually, I’m a bit tired.’
‘Come on, Pops.’
Once more I freeze at the use of Matthew’s old name for me. Stuart had called me that in the early days of our relationship and I’d stopped him.
‘We’ve got so much to catch up on and …’
There’s a choking quality to his voice.
‘… and I could really use some company right now to talk about something that’s going on in my life.’
I hesitate.
‘Please, Pops.’
His hand does touch my arm this time, squeezing it lightly. His eyes are pleading.
‘One drink,’ I find myself saying, despite that Are you crazy? voice in my head. But those tears of his had shaken me. What was wrong? I have to admit that I was curious.
His face relaxes. ‘Thank you. Let’s find somewhere to sit and I’ll tell you.’
Matthew orders a couple of glasses of our old favourite white. Is that intentional? Either way, I don’t need any persuasion. There are times when one needs some Dutch courage, as my father would say. That reminds me. I quickly check my mobile but there’s no message from him. Is that good or bad? I should have rung him earlier but it’s a bit late now. He’ll be in bed.
‘It’s Sandra,’ he says, as soon as we sit down.
They’re getting divorced, I tell myself. Of course, it’s irrelevant to my own life. I’m married with two lovely daughters. This man means nothing to me. But I can’t help feeling a wicked frisson of karma shooting through me.
‘The thing is,’ he says slowly, watching my face as if he’s not sure whether to tell me that …
‘The two of you are splitting up?’ I suggest.
‘No!’ His face is horrified. Instantly I realize I’ve made one big mistake. ‘God, no.’
I don’t know where to look.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t mention it,’ he says quietly.
I’m still mortified by my gaffe. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Please do.’
He seems unsure. ‘It would help to tell an old friend. I’ve lost touch with all the others but …’
‘I’m a good listener,’ I say.
He nods. ‘I remember.’
There it is again. The reminder that this man knew me long before my husband and girls.
‘The thing is that Sandra has got MS. Multiple sclerosis. We’ve both tried to keep it quiet because she doesn’t want anyone else to know. But it’s got worse and now … well, now she’s in a wheelchair.’
I might not have liked Sandra. But I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
He puts his head in his hands, rubs his eyes and then looks up at me. ‘Life can be so cruel sometimes. It’s why I haven’t been working much, to be honest. I’ve been her main carer. Of course, I don’t mind. How could I? I’d do anything for my wife. I promised to love her in sickness and health, after all.’
I brush away that pang in my chest. ‘It’s what marriage is all about,’ I say firmly. ‘But it can’t be easy for either of you.’
He nods. ‘I knew you’d understand.’
Then his eyes go soft.
‘What about you?’ he asks. When he’d been younger, Matthew had been the kind of man who talked at you rather than to you. But now he seems genuinely interested. ‘You’re doing really well.’
I’m upset now. Not just with him but with myself. With the past that he’s brought back to me. But I can’t tell him that. ‘The agency is doing great, thanks.’
‘It’s funny, Pops. I thought you’d make it one day as an actress.’
Me too. But I’m not telling him that. ‘Well, you know,’ I say lightly, ‘one has to be realistic. We can’t all be as successful as you.’
‘I only hit the big time once. Fame doesn’t always last.’ His voice cracks. ‘Besides, you have a family. I’d have given anything for that.’
That small ball of pain in my chest that had formed when I first saw him this evening is growing bigger by the moment.
‘You know,’ he says, his eyes suddenly glistening, ‘Sandra and I tried really hard to have children. But she couldn’t.’
I’m so lucky to have Melissa and Daisy. I know that. Sometimes I wonder if I deserve them.
‘Anyway, tell me more about your husband,’ he says, waving a hand as if to shrug off the last topic. ‘Is he in the profession too?’
I detect a note of curiosity on his part, just as there had been earlier on mine. It gives me a sense of worth. That’s right, Matthew, I think. You might not have wanted me at the end but someone else did.
Again, my mind wanders back to those wilderness years after Matthew had dumped me, when Stuart and I met at a restaurant. I’d finished drama school by then and been working as a waitress. Stuart had been there on a stag do with one of his mates. The drunken groom-to-be had tried to grope my bottom (‘I like a woman with a decent arse’) and Stuart told his friend not to be so rude and apologized on his behalf. He’d then waited for me after I had finished work and asked if he could walk me home.
‘No thanks,’ I’d said, thinking that he might be trying it on too. Since Matthew, I hadn’t been interested in dating again.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of boozy louts out there. I don’t like to think of a young woman going back on her own.’
‘How do you know I’m on my own?’ I’d said.
He’d made a ‘you’re right’ gesture. ‘I’m sorry. It was a huge assumption on my part.’
Then another vodka-up-to-the-eyeballs stag party had lumbered past us. The week before, one of the waitresses had been attacked after work. The thought of walking through the dark streets to my lonely bedsit had seemed even less appealing. ‘It’s kind of you. Thanks. I would like the company.’
‘Stuart is a dentist,’ I say now, in answer to Matthew’s question.
‘Pretty d
ifferent from acting, then.’
‘Yes,’ I say, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice. At the time, Stuart’s job had been part of the attraction. Dentistry was a solid profession. Even though it has its own stresses, they are totally different from the insecurities of the acting world. Besides, I had also fallen in love with Betty and Jock, his parents. They seemed the embodiment of the stability I had never had. My mother was now in Australia with her second husband. Dad had remained resolutely single in Worthing.
When we’d started dating, I’d known at once that Stuart was a very different man from Matthew. But he was kind. What the older generation might have called ‘a real gentleman’. He brought me an armful of daffodils on St David’s Day, partly because I’m half-Welsh through my mother and also because I’d let slip that they were my favourite flowers. He always rang when he said he would. He was never late for dates. If I expressed interest in a certain play or film, he bought tickets as a surprise. And although he was different in bed from Matthew, I grew to love his more thoughtful and slightly hesitant technique. This was the man to have children with, I told myself.
And I was right. Stuart was, at least initially, a dedicated father. But his work, with its long hours, inevitably got in the way, as did mine when I started the agency. Like many young couples, we found that children and the pressures of everyday family life changed us. Almost without noticing, we began to snap at each other and then, as our businesses grew, to lead almost separate lives under one roof. Just when exactly did Stuart start to sleep on the far side of the bed? Or stop kissing me properly? I can’t put a date on it. All I know is that I am only just managing to keep on top of work and be a more-or-less good-enough mum. If it wasn’t for Betty, who had moved in with us after Jock had died, I don’t know how we’d manage.
On top of that, my father is getting older and more forgetful. I go down to Worthing to see him as often as I can, but I’m aware it’s not enough. I’m not alone. Lots of my friends are in the same position. The media call us the ‘sandwich generation’: middle-aged men and women who are feeling the squeeze of children on one side and elderly parents on the other.
