Elegance and Innocence (53 page)

It’s just 2.30 now. But she’s already neatly ensconced in one of the overstuffed armchairs, legs crossed, jogging her foot up and down impatiently and working her way through a long black Sobranie cigarette.

Her grey eyes dart around the room. When I step forward, she doesn’t look so much as catalogue me, taking me in from top to toe before wrinkling her face into a quick smile.

She stands. ‘How nice of you to meet me. Pamela Hale,’ she introduces herself, squeezing the tips of my fingers; her version of a handshake. There’s a faint trace of a New England accent; a hint of girls’ schools and debutante seasons in the controlled, even cadence of her voice. A yellow diamond, easily the size of a marble, sends beams of light shooting around the foyer, with each movement of her flawlessly manicured hand.

‘So nice of you. Really.’ And then she’s looking at me again; a thousand bits of information gleaned, processed and indexed before I even sit down.

‘So, are you enjoying New York? Have you been here before? Did the audition go well?’ And inhaling deeply, she tilts her chin upwards, watching me closely while I do my best to answer her questions. She nods again and again, her eyes never leave my face.

‘Yes, I think it went well. You never can tell. And no, I’ve never been here before. It’s so big, isn’t it?’ I ramble on, my nerves getting the better of me.

‘So nice of you to meet me,’ she smiles when I’ve finished.

And I’m suddenly aware she’s heard nothing. She’s just been biding her time, keeping company with her own thoughts until my mouth stopped moving.

Sliding an enormous Saks Fifth Avenue bag out from behind her chair, she pushes it across to me. ‘Would you be so kind as to take this back for Alice? It’s just a few things. Some shirts and a few trousers. Ralph Lauren.
Casual,’ she adds quickly. ‘Nice pieces. She doesn’t like the things I buy her. I know. But … but she should have something nice to wear. In case she goes somewhere … nice.’ She weaves her fingers together, pressing them down and up, down and up.

I stare at the bag in dismay. When she asked if we could meet so she could give me something to take back for Robbie, I had no idea it would be so large. There’s no way it will fit into my suitcase. I’ll carry it back with me on the plane.

‘And how is she?’ Her eyes bore into me.

I shift away from her as discreetly as possible. ‘She’s great! She’s been a huge help to me – coaching me for my auditions.’

Opening her Chanel handbag, she takes out a gold cigarette case and lighter. ‘She’s had enough practice,’ she snaps, forcing another Sobranie between her lips.

I watch as she lights it, flicks the lighter shut, closes her handbag. I’ve never met anyone like her – so beautifully put together, so naturally extraordinary-looking, so agitated. We sit for quite a while in an uncomfortable silence.

I wish she’d stop staring at me.

‘Was the traffic bad?’ I’m desperate to fill the void with conversation. ‘I mean, is the Village very far from here?’

Her eyes narrow. ‘What would I be doing in the Village?’

I blink at her.

‘Is that what Alice told you? That we live in the Village?’
She manages to make the word ‘village’ sound as if it were a venereal disease.

‘I … I may have got it wrong,’ I stammer.

She inhales slowly, calculating in her head. ‘I wouldn’t believe everything she says if I were you. I certainly don’t.’ She crosses and recrosses her legs. ‘So, how is she really? Has she been arrested? No, I guess I’d hear about that.’ Her voice is hard, drained. ‘Any abortions? Drugs? Black boyfriends?’

She’s glaring at me as if it’s all my fault.

‘She’s fine. I’m sorry.’ I stand. ‘I really have to go.’

She’s looks at me. Then turns away.

Pamela Hale has examined me thoroughly.

I cannot help her.

She sighs and, opening her purse again, thrusts a thick roll of bills at me. ‘Please make sure she gets this.’

I start to speak but she flashes me a look. ‘Just take it.’

So I fold the money into my palm, afraid to be seen in the hotel lobby with so much cash. She stands up, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray; grinding it down furiously with her thumb. For a moment, it looks as if she may say something. Her brow furrows and her lips part. But she thinks better of it, presses her mouth shut.

Taking my fingers again, she squeezes them, just a little too hard. ‘So nice of you to meet me. So nice.’

I watch as she leaves, struggling through the large double doors into the street. Suddenly she’s all awkward angles,
too long and too thin; like an exotic seabird – a flamingo or a crane – extraordinary to look at but clearly never made for life on dry land.

‘Meet me.’

‘Where?’

‘In Brighton. We’re playing a place called the Cave.’

I press my back against the wall. ‘I can’t. I have rehearsal.’

Silence.

It’s 10.30 on a Thursday night. I’m standing in the hallway, leaning with my head against the payphone, watching as my credits roll by. I’ve been rehearsing all day for our end of term showings; Imo and I are doing a scene from
The Maids
and then I have a love scene from
Uncle Vanya
with a very short boy from Boston named Michael, who’s just a bit too fond of onions. He’s like a very smelly Kennedy. It’s been a long day. I haven’t seen Jake in weeks; first I was in New York and now he’s been touring with his band, playing the wilds of Doncaster, Sheffield and now the jewel in the crown, Brighton.

‘You could if you wanted to,’ he says.

I’m the one who’s silent now. I’m already behind on my work, thanks to all the preparation that went into the audition. That was two weeks ago and, although I made it through to the final rounds, I still haven’t heard anything. Every day I wait for a letter and as each day passes, I have a growing certainty of failure and all the anxiety that
accompanies it. I stare up at a damp patch in the ceiling; at the peeling wallpaper and the hall light, which never seems to have a working bulb in it.

Everything’s falling apart.

Jake and I are far away from each other. The weeks are racing by; the course will be over and I’ll be back in the States – a fact which steals the sweetness out of every encounter with him. Soon we’ll be permanently separated.

‘Have you spoken to him yet?’

This is our other favourite topic: the Have You Broken Up With Jonny Yet conversation.

‘No, not yet.’

‘Fuck, Evie!’ I can hear him breaking open a beer; he takes a long swig.

‘Jake, I can’t just break up with him over the phone!’ We’ve done this a thousand times. ‘We went out for two years! The least I can do is speak to him in person. When I get home.’

‘Why didn’t you do it when you were in New York?’ he demands.

‘They’re not that close together; New York and Pittsburgh. I didn’t have time.’

More silence.

‘Come to Brighton.’

‘Jake …’

‘Come to Brighton, Evie!’

I’m so tired I could collapse.

‘I can’t, baby! I just can’t,’ I whisper. ‘Please …’

‘Fuck this!’

The line goes dead.

I hang up the phone and drift back into the flat. I want to cry; I need to cry. But I’m even too tired to work myself up to tears. I stray into the kitchen and pour a glass of water from the tap.

There are roses on the dining-room table; white roses, sent to Imogene from Coffee Carlo. He sends them every Friday; tomorrow there’ll be a fresh bunch, with a simple card that just says, ‘When?’ Robbie and I tease her about it: when what? He’s already taken her out several times, so the obvious conclusion is more carnal. But Imo just smiles, arranging the roses in the vase she bought specially from a crystal shop in Burlington Arcade. ‘I’m still in love with Lindsay,’ she claims staunchly. But there’s a soft, sensuous light in her eyes now, a cooler self-assurance that’s blossomed in the warmth of Carlo’s enthusiastic attention. When they’re together, the chemistry is unmistakable. ‘When?’ is the only question. Robbie and I bet it won’t be long.

There’s also an arrangement of red roses, wilting in their cellophane wrapping, shoved into a spare water pitcher and crammed into a corner of the kitchen counter. They’re from Jonny. I still talk to him, still go through the charade of being boyfriend and girlfriend, all because I can’t bear to break up with him over the phone. He knows
something’s up. That’s why he sent the roses. Our conversations are brief, non-committal; all a little too bright, a little too eager … hollow, unfelt noises. It’s hideous and I hate myself for it. But surely it would be wrong simply to announce that it was over; I’d met someone else. I don’t know any more.

My head aches from trying to figure it out.

I go and sit on my bed in the dark, staring at nothing. How can Jake and I be together? How can I break up with Jonny without breaking his heart? How can I make it all all right when it isn’t?

Of course there’s a solution. An easy solution.

I should break up with Jake.

I’ll never see him once I’m back in the States. It’s hardly as if we’re going to fly back and forth on the weekends.

Jonny would never need to know.

I bury my head in the pillow. If I get into Juilliard, I’ll be too busy for boyfriends.

If I were smart, that’s what I’d do.

But I’m not smart.

I’d rather die than leave Jake.

And yet there’s no hope it will ever last.

I feel desperate.

It’s half past two in the morning when the door buzzer goes.

I come to with a start, grope my way to my bedroom door.

The buzzer rings again; louder, longer.

Robbie sleeps through anything but Imo and I meet in the hallway. She’s wide-eyed with terror. ‘Who can that be?’

‘It’s OK,’ I try to reassure her – and myself. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

‘Hello?’ I shout into the entry phone.

‘Let me in!’ the voice demands.

‘Go back to bed,’ I whisper to Imo, my heart hammering in my chest. ‘It’s OK.’

She’s baffled.

‘Really,’ I say.

Long buzzing. Again; insistent.

Imo returns to the comfort of her bed.

I step out into the hallway and open the front door.

Jake’s standing on the doorstep, head bowed, leaning against the frame. He looks up at me, a fierce, somehow fragile expression in his eyes. In the cold blue light of the street lamp his aquiline features and long hair look like they’re carved from marble.

No matter how well I think I remember, the reality of him is always devastating.

‘What are you doing here?’

Is he high?

The icy air enfolds us in a black embrace.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ His voice is challenging.

I look away.

He grabs my wrist.

‘Do you want me to leave, Evie?’

His black eyes are unblinking; his grip tightens. He pulls me closer. I smell the wind in his hair, the damp heat of his skin.

‘What do you want? Do you want me to fuck off and leave you alone?’

He steps forward into the dark hallway. He’s so tall; the street lamp casts an ominous shadow across the floor.

And then the door swings shut.

In the thick, close blackness of the narrow corridor, he envelops me, his warm breath on my face. ‘You’re all I think about … all I want …’

I could pretend to struggle, to pull away. But I don’t want to. He presses me against the wall.

‘Tell me to leave.’ His lips are pressed against my ear. ‘Tell me to fuck off and leave you alone!’

I open my mouth.

His hands slide underneath my nightgown. I twist away, words catching in my throat.

He forces me backwards. ‘I’m in love with you …’ His mouth brushes against mine.

I shut my eyes.

His touch is certain, sure.

He’s tracing the curve of my neck with his lips.

‘Go on, tell me to leave!’

I throw my head back; all the air has escaped from my lungs; I can’t breathe.

‘Say it …’ he whispers, pulling me up.

I can’t say it.

I’ll never say it.

The nightgown floats, ghostlike, to the floor around my feet.

‘I’m taking you,’ he murmurs. ‘There’ll never be anyone else.’

Applause thunders through the hall. Allyson, resplendent in a gold sheath dress, turns and takes another bow. ‘Bravo!’ we shout, cupping our hands over our mouths. Even Piotr, beaming broadly, looking smart in his dark suit and tie, joins in, shouting ‘Brava!’ louder than all the rest.

It’s her third encore. She turns to Junko and gives her a little nod. A hush descends and the familiar opening bars of Mimì’s aria ‘Sì, mi chiamano Mimì’ from Puccini’s
La Bohème
fill the air.

Bunny squeezes my hand. ‘Oh, this is my favourite!’ she whispers. ‘There’s nothing better than a tale of doomed love!’

We sit, transfixed. Ally’s voice soars, singular and bright, unfolding like the petals of a rose, filled with love, hope and the promise of spring.

The evening’s a terrific success. And there’s a private party afterwards in the cellar restaurant below the hall. As the audience drains out, Allyson’s surrounded by a crowd of admirers, laughing and chatting. She’s clutching half a dozen bouquets from friends and students; her agent Clive
sweeps her from one VIP guest to another, glowing with pride. Several important casting directors were in the audience tonight and now they’re lined up, full of praise. Piotr’s talking with Junko, towering above her and Bunny flirts with a man in a bow tie I’m fairly certain she’s only just met, patting his arm and laughing gaily as if they’ve known each other for years.

I stand near the door; waiting. It’s unusual for me to be out in the evening like this; wearing a proper dress, make-up and hair done. I toy with the fringe of the emerald pashmina stole I borrowed from Bunny. She was so keen for me to look pretty tonight. And yet here I am, in this elegant building, dressed in a pale-green silk dress I haven’t worn in years, wishing I could vanish into thin air. I’ve lost the knack for social situations; it’s like a muscle which, if you don’t exercise, shrivels and dies.

Bunny catches my eye across the hall; she walks over. ‘Come on, Evie. Make an effort,’ she commands, pushing me forward. And, linking my arm through hers, she introduces me to the bow tie man, who turns out to be a reviewer with the
Sunday Times
. And then to a couple of Allyson’s students.