Innocence

‘Ewww! Gross! Ugly Aussie girl germs!’ He giggles hysterically. ‘Ewwwww!’

‘No quarter, mate! Give it up! Say, “I love Allyson!’”

‘Never!’ he screams, delighted. ‘Never, ever, ever! You stinky poofter!’

I whip round. ‘Hey! Where did you learn that word? That’s not a word I want to hear again, do you understand me? Where did you hear that?’

He looks at Allyson who, in turn, stares at her toes. ‘Sorry mate. Must’ve been me,’ she admits. ‘I’m really going to try to clean up my language. Promise.’

Sometimes I hate being Mom. ‘Well, it’s not a word I want to hear again from either of you. Do you understand?’

They look at each other and giggle.

The toast pops up and Bunny breezes in, carrying a stack of old magazines, which she plops down on the kitchen table. She’s always the first to wake, the one who puts the coffee on and rescues the milk and morning paper from the front doorstep. ‘I’m off,’ she announces. ‘Allyson, please pass me a plastic bag from that right-hand drawer, will you? I’m going to drop these by the surgery. I went the other day to have someone look at my toe and all they had were a bunch of copies of Horse and Hound. Can you imagine how depressing?’

I pass Alex his peanut butter toast, carefully cut into strips rather than squares, squares being for some reason entirely inedible. ‘What’s wrong with your toe?’

Bunny pops an apple into Alex’s school satchel.

He removes it again when she’s not looking.

‘Nothing, as it turns out. It just looked odd. And that’s all I’m going to say, as you’re dining.’

Allyson and I exchange a smile; only in Bunny’s world is peanut butter toast considered ‘dining’.

‘Oh!’ Bunny swirls round, hands on hips. ‘And someone’s been smoking in the house!’

‘Smoking!’ Allyson gasps, throwing her hand in front of her face for protection. ‘This is a non-smoking household! We don’t smoke in here!’

‘Yes, but there were ashes in one of my favourite china planters; the one with the white orchids. I know it couldn’t possibly be one of you girls.’ She eyes us sternly anyway. ‘I must have another word with Piotr. Damn, the dry cleaning! I’d forget my own head, girls.’ And she darts off, her high heels clicking against the flagstones of the kitchen floor.

Allyson glares at me.

It’s my turn to feel like a child. ‘Stop it! It wasn’t me! OK?’

‘Well, someone had to do it! Probably that beast upstairs.’ She pours herself a coffee and settles down at the table. ‘It’s a disgusting habit!’ she continues, flipping through back issues of Hello!. ‘I cannot live in a smoking household! It plays havoc with your voice…God, what are these people like! Look Evie, “My Plastic Surgery Torment” by Jordan Halliwell. Jesus! Just look at the size of those tits!’

‘Ally!’

It’s too late.

‘Let me see! Let me see the tits!’ Alex bounces up and down, brandishing a piece of toast and pulling at Allyson’s sleeve.

She covers her mouth. ‘Oh, shit! Sorry, darling! I completely forgot!’

I flash her a look.

‘Oh, bugger!’ She giggles.

I’m fighting a losing battle. ‘Sit down, Alex, and finish your breakfast. We’re going to be late and I’ve got a lot of work to do this morning.’ Whatever brief authority I possessed is quickly draining away. Alex ignores me and dances around the table instead, chomping on toast and repeating the word ‘tits’ as many times as he can.

‘Listen.’ Ally’s desperate to make it up to me. ‘I’ll walk him over today. Give me one minute while I pull on some clothes!’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘Come on, Evie. Give me a break!’ she challenges. ‘What can be so difficult about walking a child to school?’

‘Well, he’s got to have his gym things today and he needs to go in the side entrance rather than the front because of the road works on Ordnance Hill, and he’s not to give any of his lunch to that little Indian boy with the nut allergy; it was a close call the last time. And he’s going to bug you about going into the newsagents for sweets but I don’t want him having any, Ally…’

She’s laughing at me.

‘I’m serious!’

‘That’s exactly why you’re so funny!’ She rubs Alex’s hair and he beams up at her. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’

She rushes upstairs with her coffee.

‘And no more swearing!’ I call after her.

‘Mummy!’ Alex yanks my sleeve. ‘I didn’t give him the sandwich, Mummy. He took it,’ he reminds me.

I rub my fingers over my eyes. ‘Yes, darling.’

She’s going to buy him sweets, I just know it. She always does.

Oh…bugger.

And sitting down at the table, I nick a strip of Alex’s toast, skimming through the abandoned magazines. These people live in another world…socialites, Hollywood actors, royalty, rock stars…

‘Mum? Mummy?’

I look up. ‘What?’

Alex is watching me, his small face suddenly serious. ‘What is it?’

I stare at him.

Another face looks back at me.

‘Nothing.’ I stand up, forcing my brain back into the present day. ‘Put your coat on, darling. It’s time to go.’

Allyson appears in a Cossack-style fur hat and long grey wool coat—as always, every inch the diva. ‘Let’s go, mate! Come on! Have you got your gym kit?’

‘I need my crayons!’ Alex bounds upstairs.

Taking a final swig of coffee, she puts her cup down on the table with a flourish. ‘And this time I promise: no sweets, no swear words and in school on time!’

‘Yes. Fine.’ I move on auto pilot, clearing the table of our breakfast things.

‘Are you OK?’

I scrape the toast into the bin. ‘Yes. Fine.’

Allyson leafs idly through the magazine pages.

‘He’s still a good-looking man. Even after all these years.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘That Jake Albery’ She holds up his picture. ‘Still handsome, don’t you think? God, I used to have such a crush on him!’

My heart’s racing, hammering in my chest. I force the corners of my mouth upwards into a smile. ‘You’re showing your age, Ally’

She laughs. ‘I know. I’m getting old. “Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, Baby Home Wrecker’s in town!’” she sings, dancing over to the door where Alex waits, dressed and ready to go. Grabbing his hands, she whirls him into the hallway. “Oh, I lock it down, I lock it down, da, da, da, da, da, da, da!’”

The front door opens and closes, sealing the world out.

Lingering at the sink, I make myself wash up the plates and mugs, slowly rinsing them under the warm water.

Then I turn the tap off.

Fold the tea towel.

And pick the magazine up again. As I knew I would.

So, he’s back.

Allyson’s right; he does look good—slightly tanned; the kind of gentle wash of colour that’s the result of a couple of weeks in Monte Carlo or Beaulieu rather than a month in Mauritius—and effortlessly chic in a dark tailored suit and crisp white shirt. But there’s that familiar air about him, even in a photograph, a slightly edgy awkwardness as if even after all these years in the limelight he still doesn’t quite fit in. He remains, as always, the outsider, one eye forever on the door.

His hand rests on the shoulder of a glamorous blonde. She has the same glowing tan, amply displayed in her sheer, strappy pink dress, and similar expensively tousled bedroom hair. But her smile is harder, more focused. The cameras are on her and it’s a moment she’s been waiting for. She looks both terrified and intensely determined. Something in my stomach wrenches with recognition. ‘Jake Albery seen leaving a private party at the Café de Paris’ the caption reads. ‘A back catalogue of songs from his hit band Raven is due to be released in May’.

Opening a kitchen drawer, I take out a plastic carrier bag and stack all the magazines neatly inside.

And then I stand there, staring at it.

If only it were as simple as that.

But it never was simple.

Right from the start I should’ve known.

‘Nothing happened.’

‘Nothing?’ Imogene frowns.

We’re waiting for our first day of classes to begin, sitting in the basement studio beneath the North London Morris Dancing Association. It’s a vast square room with wooden floors and an old upright piano in the corner. Light filters in through small round windows near the ceiling; dust particles dance in the shafts of brilliant sunlight, slicing like lasers through the hazy calm.

‘That’s right. I mean, we just hung out. Went to see the band, talked.’ My cheeks are burning. I turn away, pretending to search for something in my brown corduroy handbag. All I can find is a mouldy old mint. I pop it into my mouth anyway.

Around us the room’s filling with students.

‘You’re blushing!’ She giggles. ‘You like him, don’t you?’

I smile back at her.

Yes, I like him.

And I shouldn’t. Jake’s not my type of guy, not that I’ve ever met anyone like him before. There’s something rough about him. I don’t mean physically rough. But he has this dark undercurrent of raw energy I’m not used to; like anything could happen, any time. Besides, I’m not meant to like anyone except Jonny.

Jonny is my type; polite, clean-shaven, on time…the kind of guy who celebrates the anniversary of your first kiss with flowers, even when he doesn’t have any money.

But if I love Jonny, why do I keep thinking about Jake?

I wish he’d kissed me good night. Not just a peck on the cheek but one of those full-on face-devouring sessions that don’t stop with kissing. But I can’t tell that to anyone.

Robbie, on the other hand, happily disappeared with Mr Chicken for ages.

‘Enough about me.’ I’m determined to rein in these thoughts. ‘Show me which one of these fine gentlemen is Lindsay Crufts.’

Now it’s her turn to blush. ‘Where’s Robbie?’ she skirts my question. ‘You guys got back so late last night.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I heard her alarm go off.’ I check my watch. ‘And I pounded on her door before I left. She should be here.’

A slender young man with soft, ashen hair walks in. He smiles at Imo and her whole face lights up. This must be Lindsay. But he takes a seat on the other side of the studio, folds his legs neatly over one another and fishes a worn copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets out of the pocket of his tweed jacket. He reads intently, brow furrowed, nibbling away at his nails.

Imo gazes at him with unrestrained longing. I give her hand a gentle squeeze.

Soon the studio is full; there are about twenty of us and still no sign of Robbie.

At ten o’clock precisely, the door swings wide and Simon enters, wheeling expertly into the centre of the room. ‘Good morning!’ he bellows. ‘Welcome to the beginning of the spring semester! I’m Simon Garrett. I’ve spoken to most of you, and shall, no doubt, speak to you again. However, if you have any questions or problems, either my assistant Gwen or I will be available to help you. Gwen!’

Gwen appears behind him, clutching a stack of papers, which she begins to pass around the room.

Simon whips one from her hand and raises it high. ‘Here are your schedules for the next three months. As you can see, we expect a great deal from you—in addition to your regular classes there are masterclasses, workshops, private tutorials, and plenty of opportunities to see the greatest living actors of our generation in live performances. You’re in London now, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to seize the day! If this is your chosen profession then you’ll need discipline, determination, the ego of a dictator and the stamina of a decathlon athlete! We’ve provided you with the most extraordinary professional actors, actresses and directors as teachers. In return we expect you to be prompt, prepared and, above all, professional.’

There’s an awful hacking sound on the other side of the door; a kind of retching cough, followed by a long, woeful moan: ‘Jesus! Fuuuuuck!’

The door opens and a dishevelled, overweight man, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and sixty, stumbles in, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lower lip. His thinning brown hair is scraped back across his scalp, and he’s wearing a wine-coloured pullover, grey suit trousers and a pair of well-worn black sneakers. He looks like a tramp. Standing just behind Simon, he pulls a gold lighter out of his back pocket. The cigarette fizzes into life. He inhales deeply.

‘Greetings.’ His voice is deep and resonant: the rounded, poignant timbre of a fallen hero. ‘Pardon me. Have I interrupted your St Crispin’s Day speech, Simon? Once more unto the breech and all that? “O! for a Muse of fire,’” he roars, ‘that would ascend the brightest whatever-the-fuck-it-is of invention!’

‘Not at all, my dear man!’ Simon’s all warm authority; they shake hands. ‘Just giving them an idea of what to expect.’ He turns his attention to us. ‘I’d like to introduce Boyd Alexander, who will be your principal acting instructor this term. Boyd has just returned from Russia where he’s been working with members of the Moscow Art Theatre on a new production of The Cherry Orchard.’

There’s an audible gasp; the Moscow Arts Theatre is legendary; the company Chekhov himself favoured.

‘He’s also due to direct the Wars of the Roses next season at the RSC, so we’re very, very lucky to have him.’

Boyd executes a little half-bow, nearly scorching himself with his cigarette in the process.

‘Right!’ He pulls a chair up and collapses into it. ‘Enough about me. Run along, Simon! Now’—he glowers at us—‘what I really want to know is, can you people act? Or are you just poncing about in London on your parents’ credit cards for a few months?’

Gwen and Simon exchange a look.

Boyd waves them on. ‘Off you go, you two! And Gwen, a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. Trust me,’ he purrs placatingly ‘I am, after all, a professional!’

They leave. The rest of us are left clasping our schedules, the way that lost tourists cling to maps.

‘You were meant to prepare an audition speech. So, which one of you has the balls to go first?’

All eyes hit the floor.

He groans, inhaling again. ‘Fine. Shall we do it like this, then? How many Juliets do we have with us today?’

Three hands go up.

‘Of course. Let’s start with the Juliets. And how many of you have prepared balcony scenes? Please rise.’

Two of the girls stand up; a small brunette with glasses and a rosy-cheeked redhead.

Boyd leans forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, my dears.’ His voice is sinister. ‘I want you to do the speech together at the same time.’ He points to the brunette. She’s biting her lip. ‘You take one line and you’—he turns to the redhead—‘you take the next, do you understand?’ She nods, tugging at her skirt nervously. ‘And yes, my darlings, this is a punishment because no one should have to sit through the balcony scene more than once on any occasion and also, as actresses, you should know better. Juliet has some stonking speeches filled with lust, death, suicide, ghosts, the whole bloody lot and you guys have chosen the naffest one of them all!’

They blink at him. The small brunette with glasses looks as if she might cry.

Boyd swivels round to the rest of us. ‘The first rule of being an actor is to grab the limelight. Make the most daring choices you can. Wherever you are, find a light bulb and stand under it! If you don’t want to be looked at, if you don’t want to be noticed, then you’re in the wrong profession. And for fuck’s sake, do something worth watching! Now that you’ve got our bloody attention, keep it! Right! Off you go!’

They stand, huddled together in the centre of the studio. The brunette starts, hands shaking.

‘“Romeo, Romeo.’” Barely audible, her voice is brittle and choked with tears. ‘“Wherefore art thou Romeo?’”

‘Stop!’ Boyd barks, jabbing his cigarette out on the floor. He strides over, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘Are you going to cry?’

She nods her head, unable to form the words.

‘Brilliant! Use it! Channel it! Feed it into the language! Finally! I’ve always wanted someone to do something different with this speech! What’s your name?’

‘Louise,’ she whispers.

‘Speak up, girl!’

‘Louise!’ she shouts back, suddenly irritated.

And he smiles. A great, wonderful, warm, open smile.

His eyes gleam. Bouncing into the centre of the room, he flings his arms wide, throws back his head and shouts ‘Louise!’ until the windows shake. Grabbing her hands, he whirls her round. ‘LOUISE!! LOUISE!!’

And she’s giggling, laughing. ‘Wherefore art thou Louise?’

He catches the redhead’s hand. ‘Go on!’

‘“Deny thy father and refuse thy name!’”

‘“Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,’”

The redhead spins round. ‘“And I’ll no longer be a Capulet!’”

They’ve caught the rhythm; we can feel it.

“‘’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;’”

‘“Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.’”

‘“What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot.’” They take each other’s hands. ‘“Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man!”’

And so they dance, turn, vault around the room, throwing the words back and forth, volleyball in iambic pentameter. It becomes in turns breathless, urgent, fanciful—laced with longing, then drenched in desire; everything a young girl with her first crush would be, standing in the moonlight of her own private garden.

‘I want you to remember this.’ Boyd pulls both his Juliets in closer. ‘I want you to remember what it’s like to be alive, to be young; to have the most wonderful language ever written rolling about in your mouth—the flavour of the words on your tongue and this rhythm, driving you. It’s a sensual experience. Acting’s all about the senses. Well done, both of you.’ He releases them.

They stagger, elated, back to their seats.

‘So.’ He stretches his arms high above his head and yawns. ‘How many Hamlets do we have today?’

Tentatively, I raise my hand.

Imo looks at me.

‘I see.’ Boyd gestures for me to stand up. ‘So, a bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, are we?’

I knew this would be tricky.

‘And what, exactly, is your difficulty with the traditional women’s roles?’

‘They’re boring.’ I’m pretending to be more confident than I am. ‘I’m not good at being young and pretty and…well, that’s all they are; young and pretty’

He grins. Even sitting, he gives the impression of looking down from a great height. ‘Well, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

It’s strange standing in the middle; quite different from how I imagined it. All eyes are on me and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, the adrenalin races through my veins. What is it he said? Make the most daring choices you can? Do something worth watching? Scanning the room, I suddenly spot the old piano. And a brilliant, bold scheme forms in my mind.

I push it towards the centre on its creaking wheels, then sit down and start to play, plucking out the tune to Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’. I’ll slowly build in speed and intensity, a macabre reference to Gertrude and Claudius’s incestuous wedding, and then whirl round and hit them with the first line.

Da da dada…da da dada…

My hands start to shake.

I haven’t played a piano in years.

The tune is only barely recognizable. In fact, it sounds more like the Captain and Tennille than Mendelssohn. But the longer I play, the harder it becomes to break off and swirl round.

I’m stuck.

Shit! I have to stop playing the piano! I have to stop! I’m panicking! I have to stop panicking and I have to stop playing the piano!

I twist round and nearly fall off my seat. A sea of bewildered faces greet me. I feel like a lounge singer. ‘“To be or not to be,’” I shout, sounding remarkably like the guy who sells the Evening Standard outside Baker Street tube station. ‘“That is the question!’”

OK. Calm down. I’ve begun. That’s the main thing.

Only now I’m trapped behind the piano. I try pushing the bench back dramatically. But it makes a hideous, spine-crunching, scraping noise. The whole room gasps in agony. Once up, I attempt to recover by leaning nonchalantly against the side of it. The lid slams down and I end up screaming like a girl.

Sadistically, Boyd allows me to work my way all the way through. And when I finish he just looks at me, arms folded across his chest. ‘Thank you, Miss…?’ He pauses, waiting for my name.

‘Miss Garlick,’ I mumble.

The speech had seemed a lot more impressive in my room last night.

‘Yes, well, Miss Garlick, I believe you’ve given everyone a valuable lesson about props.’

There’s a twitter of laughter.

I want to die.

‘So, what’s a nice girl like you doing wrestling with a piano?’ He leans back in his chair.

I stare at the floor. ‘I don’t know…I thought it would be…a good idea.’ I sound like an idiot. Why doesn’t he just let me go? Why does he have to keep torturing me?

‘How old are you?’ he asks.

I pause. Is this a trick question? ‘Eighteen,’ I admit.

‘And what do you like to do?’

‘Uh, well, going out, being with my friends…’

‘You like boys?’

I flush. ‘Yeah.’

‘So pretty much the same stuff Hamlet likes: girls, hanging out with friends, being at school and away from home…normal student stuff. Only, of course, Hamlet isn’t eighteen, he’s thirty’

‘Oh.’ This is obviously important. I only wish I knew why.

He looks at me, tilting his head to one side. ‘Doesn’t that seem strange to you? You see,’ he continues, not waiting for my answer (perhaps already knowing that there isn’t one), ‘long before the play begins, way before his father’s murdered, there’s already something wrong with Hamlet. He enters, fucked.’

I’m not really getting this.

‘That’s what’s so interesting. The hero of our tale is a loser. The most famous play in the world is about a guy who can’t pull himself together, doesn’t have a job, can’t get the girl and who takes four hours to accomplish something he was told he needed to do in the first twenty-five minutes! And then he dies!’

I nod as if it’s all starting to make perfect sense.

It isn’t.

He leans forward eagerly. ‘To be or not to be isn’t about indecision—it’s about failure. He goes through the whole speech, thinks about every angle of the question and then ends up back where he started. So why does the world love Hamlet, Miss Garlick?’

I shrug my shoulders, inwardly kicking myself for not learning Juliet instead.

‘Because’—he speaks with sudden intensity, his face illuminated with feeling—‘very few of us relate to what it’s like to be a hero. But everyone understands what it’s like to fail.’

Boyd stares at me, searching my face for some flicker of recognition.

He’s lost me. I avert my eyes, concentrating on the worn surface of the wooden floorboards, hoping he’ll release me soon. I can sit down and be anonymous.

‘Of course, there’s a lifetime between eighteen and thirty’ he concedes quietly.

‘OK, right!’ he shifts gears. ‘Let’s get this speech moving.’ Standing up, he fishes around in his pocket and throws me a coin. ‘Forget the piano, OK? Let’s keep it simple. Heads you live. Tails you die. Go on—toss it.’

I throw the coin into the air, slapping it down on the back of my hand. ‘Tails.’

‘Is that what you wanted?’

‘I don’t know’

Boyd goes over, pulls Lindsay Crafts to his feet. ‘Here’s the deal,’ he tells me. ‘You can either kill this guy or kill yourself!’

I blink at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Go on, flip the coin! Heads, you kill him. Tails, you kill yourself!’

Reluctantly, I flip the coin again. ‘Heads.’

‘Brilliant!’ He gives me a shove. ‘Off you go!’

I look at him, horrified. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Go on! Kill him!’

I turn to Lindsay. He smiles politely.

‘Come on! What’s wrong with you!’ Boyd claps his hands. ‘Time’s ticking! Let’s go! Stab him! Strangle him! Hit him over the head with a chair! Do something!’