Elegance and Innocence (52 page)

I nod, as if I have complete empathy for her situation. In fact, all I can think of is, did she have to change her clothes or did they simply appear on her, like a chameleon changing colour? And if we do revert to type, what would my chosen outfit for eternity be? A baggy pair of Gap jeans?

‘And were you, you know, ready for it?’

She frowns.

I try again. ‘You know, were you reconciled to the fact
that your time had come?’ (All these clichés are particularly awkward in conversation with someone who is, in fact, dead.)

‘Well …’ She takes a deep drag. ‘Thing was, it was an accident.’

‘The car came out of nowhere.’

‘Yeah.’ She stubs out her cigarette, grinding it underneath the heel of her shoe. ‘But it was more than that,’ she explains, exhaling slowly. ‘What I mean is, it wasn’t actually my time, Evie.’

She makes a ‘oops, these things happen’ face.

‘I don’t understand …’ My mind’s gone blank. ‘What do you mean, you weren’t meant to die?’

She makes the face again. It doesn’t improve with use. I’m starting to feel ill at ease, in a situation that’s more than a little uneasy to begin with.

Robbie stretches out her legs. ‘I think I was supposed to have a scare; a near death experience that was going to change my life. But then my trouser leg got attached to the front bumper and there was this terrific pull and then wham!’

I flinch.

She looks at me with curious amusement, unconnected to the impact she has. ‘Yeah, it did hurt,’ she adds, watching my face carefully. She knew I wanted to ask that, but didn’t dare.

We sit a while, watching the traffic go by.

‘Are you saying …?’ I’m not sure I really want to ask this question. I try to make it sound as casual as possible. ‘Are you saying that God makes mistakes?’

She inhales sharply. ‘It’s a little more subtle than that. He isn’t the only one in the picture. There are other factors to consider. It’s not all down to him, you know.’

I’m falling from a great height; a shocking new idea opens up before me. ‘What do you mean it’s not all down to him? Who is it down to?’

She shrugs her shoulders.

Much more disturbing than seeing a ghost is bumping into one who nonchalantly informs you that God’s a bit flaky and distracted. The feeling of panic rapidly gathers speed.

‘But God’s meant to be omnipotent!’ I sound indignant; like I’m returning a faulty item to a store. I have nothing more profound at my disposal. In the grand scheme of things, I’m little more than an irate customer. ‘That means no mistakes ever, Robbie! Nothing’s random. Everything’s been thought out and planned well in advance.’

She leans back on her elbows and laughs. ‘Jeez, Evie, where’s the fun in that?’

This is a serious conversation. She’s not taking it seriously.

My growing hysteria translates itself into a bad Maggie Smith impersonation. ‘God is not an area where I require levity! I want certainty, security. The knowledge that there’s some divine order involved in all this
chaos. I have a child, Robbie! I can’t live in a meaningless universe. Once you’re a mother, God better have a fucking plan!’

She seems genuinely unruffled, which is infuriating. ‘But God doesn’t make you do stuff, Evie. We’re not puppets attached to celestial strings. He didn’t push me in front of the car. And besides, the glory of being alive doesn’t come from knowing that everything happens for a reason (which, after all, you’re never going to be able to understand anyway so where’s the comfort in that?), or that there’s some great traffic controller in the sky. In fact, what could be more beautiful than the fact that love exists in a random universe?’

Robbie never had children, never seemed capable of serious relationships. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to live or die by another’s happiness.

‘What are you saying?’ My whole world’s crumbling inside. ‘That all my prayers are useless? Not even God can protect my child?’

She stares at me with her open, pale green eyes; small, delicate features frozen in time.

A few more cars go by.

A biker.

The girls from the queue sail past clutching brown takeaway bags; ignorant and happy.

‘How do I know you’re not actually a messenger of Satan?’ I demand bitterly.

‘Satan?’ She laughs and shakes her head. ‘God, you’re funny!’

But she doesn’t answer the question.

I stand up, too upset to sit any longer. ‘I don’t want to seem rude,’ I snap, ‘but what is it you want? Why are you here?’

She looks up at me, quite still. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

I fold my arms protectively across my chest. ‘No, I don’t, Robbie. You said something about me wasting my time which, frankly, I find offensive.’

‘I was trying to get your attention. And you are wasting your time,’ she adds, before lapsing into silence again.

A few more minutes go by.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a sandwich?’

‘No! I really don’t want a sandwich!’ I shout. ‘And you aren’t answering any of my questions and this isn’t funny, do you understand? I don’t find any of this even remotely funny!’

But she just stares at me; detached and unreadable.

A cloud passes in front of the sun. The air turns colder. I tug my cardigan tighter and check my watch. ‘My life is perfectly fine, Robbie. I have class and there are a bunch of things I’ve got to do first, so I really have to get going.’

A gust of wind pushes the cloud on.

She nods, an angel sparkling in the sun.

‘Listen.’ My voice softens. ‘I really am sorry about the funeral. I was a shit not to come. I … meant to …’ I stop.

She’s right about what happened, about the rift between us.

‘Forget about it.’ She smiles. ‘Maybe next time.’

Shoving my hands into my pockets, I turn down Drury Lane, passing the girls with their sandwiches, picnicking on the steps of their office building. They seem incredibly young and fresh; laughing a bit too loudly; hungry for attention, for something exciting to happen in the next half-hour of their lunch break.

I feel old. In half an hour, what little serenity I had has been snatched away. Now the universe is by turns bizarre, incompetent and unstable in a way I could’ve never imagined. My head aches. I feel suffocated and trapped. And on top of this, I must be hallucinating. That’s the only explanation. Alex will be taken from me and I’ll die, rocking back and forth in the corner of a padded cell without ever seeing him grow up …

The girls laugh again. I force my head down. I hate them. I hate everybody.

‘Hey!’ Robbie calls after me. ‘Do you ever regret not going to Juilliard?’

I stop. The girls look up at me.

‘Did you know you were one of only twelve girls they chose that year out of over 10,000 applications?’

I turn round.

Robbie’s leaning back on her elbows, just a whisper of a smile playing across her lips. ‘He didn’t make it easy, did he?’

She says these last words so softly, it seems impossible that I should be able to hear them at all. But instead, they echo through my head; one of the few true things I’ve heard in a long time.

Traffic whips around me; a treacherous tide of perpetual motion under a still blue sky.

What could be more beautiful than the fact that love exists in a random universe?

‘I have to go,’ I say.

‘So.’ He riffles through the stack of papers in front of him. ‘What have you got for us today?’

There are three of them; two men and a woman, sitting behind a folding metal table. The dull roar of the city is muted, somewhere far, far away. The room is stagnant; airless. With no windows, no furniture, just high white walls, an expanse of wooden floor stretching out in front of me. They tilt their heads up, chins raised, slightly expectant, but without the eagerness of anticipation.

I take a deep breath. I was terrified a moment ago; sick to my stomach and hands shaking. But now a strange stillness descends.

I look him in the eye.

Audacious acts foster confidence, Robbie says.

‘Fassbinder, the model’s speech from
Blood on the Cat’s Neck
and Isabella from
Measure for Measure
.’

They exchange a look.

‘Fassbinder?’ the man with the papers repeats. He searches through them again for confirmation. ‘Your application says
Sexual Perversity in Chicago
.’

‘I changed my mind.’ I smile.

They frown.

‘Say nothing you don’t have to,’ Robbie advised. ‘The more you talk, the more you’ll feel like a twat.’

The woman leans forward. ‘Which Isabella? “To whom shall I complain?”’ There’s a hint of condescension in her well-rounded voice; her impeccable vowels the result of years of teaching received pronunciation.

‘No,’ I correct her. ‘It’s one I pieced together from Act Two, Scene Two. “So you must be the first to give this sentence.”’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘I see.’

The third man pushes his glasses further back on his nose and folds his arms across his chest; mild amusement plays across his features. ‘Well, then. Off you go.’

I close my eyes a moment. A cool, clear calm comes over me. I savour the darkness.

‘Make them wait,’ Robbie said. ‘Most people panic and begin too soon. The moment before you speak is often the most dramatic of all.’

When I open my eyes again, something’s shifted. They’re sitting forward; looking at me with real interest. I’m not another girl from Ohio any more.

I’m an actress.

And then off I go.

It’s six o’clock. I’ve been through three rounds of auditions, including movement and voice sessions. I’m exhausted. When I come out, Mom and Dad are waiting for me in the foyer. They’ve travelled up to meet me, to help me find my way around the city and catch a glimpse of me before I fly off to London again. They’re sitting, reading books they’ve brought with them from the library at home, their coats folded neatly across their knees. And I suspect they’ve been there for hours – ever since I went in at ten this morning.

My mother smiles eagerly and they both stand up as I cross the marble floor. They seem older than before; eager to please and infinitely fragile surrounded by the aggressive pace of New York City. I’m not used to seeing them disorientated. Everything moves so much faster here and they’re slow, baffled; out of step with urban life.

‘So?’ my father asks, removing his reading glasses. They’re the kind you buy in a chemists; inexpensive fold-away magnifying frames. He never used to need them. The book he’s holding is on the creation of Israel and Palestine. Politics has always been his favourite subject.

‘I won’t hear anything for some time,’ I explain, wishing I didn’t have to speak to anyone. ‘They have four days of auditions here and then they hold more in LA.’
I yawn, leaning my head against his chest. I am grateful to him.

‘Seems a long time to wait.’ He rubs my hair. Then, noticing things in the way he does, four days after the fact, he suddenly says, ‘I remember this being a different colour the last time I saw you!’

Mom is busy tucking her historical romance into her handbag; riffling about. ‘We have a surprise!’ Her voice is gay, just bordering on hysterical. ‘Tickets to a Broadway show!’

Oh, no. Not some dreadful musical about dancing cats. Not tonight.

She’s brimming with purposeful energy. ‘We know you’ve been seeing a lot of wonderful plays in London, and you’re not fond of musicals, although it’s what New York does best,’ she adds. (This is an ongoing debate between us; I claim the musical isn’t serious drama. ‘What’s wrong with having a good time?’ she says. She’d love to see one. The last time she was here, in the 1960s, she saw Richard Harris in
Camelot
. She hasn’t stopped talking about it since.) ‘But’, she continues, a glint in her eye, ‘we’ve managed to get tickets for Glenn Close and Sam Waterston in something called …’ She refers to the tickets again. ‘
Benefactors
.’ It’s an English play,’ she says proudly. ‘About an architect. The seats are in the balcony but the man said they have a clear view.’

‘Mom! That’s so cool!’ I throw my arms round her. She
smells of Anaïs Anaïs and Vaseline Intensive hand lotion; the way she’s always smelt since as long back as I can remember.

She holds me tightly. ‘We’re so very proud of you,’ she whispers.

‘You’re crushing me, Mom.’ I pull away.

‘And after that, we’re going to go to the best Italian restaurant in the world!’ my father promises. ‘Where the waiters don’t just bring the food to your table but they sing famous opera arias as well!’

I pull on my coat. ‘That’s great, Dad. I can hardly wait.’

And, slipping my arm through his, I reach out, taking my mother’s hand. Together, we push through the thick glass door, out into the windy evening.

My father walks ahead, raising a hand to hail a cab. The cabs in New York terrify me. The one we took this morning almost made me sick.

‘In a few years’ time, we’ll be coming here to see you on Broadway,’ my mother predicts.

I smile.

‘You know, Evie.’ Her voice is suddenly quiet. ‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.’

I don’t know why she’s saying that, why she’s so serious.

‘I know, Mom.’

She pulls me close again.

And this time, too tired to struggle, I bury my face into her shoulder.

I feel unexpectedly small and frightened, like a child who doesn’t want to go on the first day of school. I want to go home. We’ve come all this way, gone to all this trouble. My parents aren’t the only ones who are lost and overwhelmed.

The wind whips around us; my father’s waving, a small figure searching through a constant sea of early evening traffic, surging all around us.

And New York, the grandest, most ambitious city in the world, rises up, scraping against the sky … pushing harder, higher, ever higher, against the fading light.

Crossing the hotel lobby, I spot her instantly.

I would’ve recognized her anywhere; with her long, Modigliani limbs and ash-white hair, it’s easy to see that she and Robbie are cut from the same, rare, delicate cloth. She’s dressed in pale-beige trousers, a cashmere twin set and soft tan ballerina slippers, custom-made for her narrow feet.