The Not So Secret Emails Of Coco Pinchard (23 page)

We have just received a couple of CVs from your old drama school Principal, Artemis Wise, and his wife. They want to audition. He heard that the show is on in a 3pm slot, so he can appear in it without violating his court appointed terms. He is electronically tagged with a 7pm curfew until he is sentenced for embezzlement in the autumn. His CV is quite good, but apart from him being on bail, he is not right for Prince Charles, or his wife for Camilla Parker-Bowles. She is much more suited to Princess Anne, but I have had to cut Anne and her talking bulldog. I’ve also had to jettison some of the other minor Royals. The Duke and Duchess of Kent have gone, along with Fergie, Andrew, Edward, and Sophie. As in real life, they don’t do enough to justify paying for them.

Tuesday 14th July  10:00

TO: [email protected]

Just spent the most hectic week writing in the shed. Adam has been visiting at the end of most days with food and wine, and then…

I keep telling myself I am a liberated working woman, who has to fit her sexual needs around her busy career, and if that means up against a gro-bag in a potting shed so be it. Adam has invited me to a work ‘do’ tomorrow evening, so that means something doesn’t it? I am not just his Allotment slag.

I finished the first draft of the play this morning, and when I got home, Rosencrantz was in the kitchen scraping mould off the last piece of bread with his Mach 3 razor.

“This is the only food in the house,” he said. Then he asked if he could audition for the play.

I have been dreading this moment. His ego is as fragile as an eggshell. What if he auditions and we have to say no to him?

He looked up at me with his gorgeous brown eyes. He was wearing his flat cap and jumper with holes in. Clutching his bread crust, he looked like a sort of Oliver Twist (be it one who has an iPhone and access to a fridge which makes ice).

“Yes, of course,” I heard myself say before I gave him a twenty and bundled him out of the door to get some decent food.

Wednesday 15th July  22:44

TO: [email protected]

Adam phoned at lunchtime to confirm he would pick me up at seven for the ‘Summer Ball.’ He had said, ‘work do,’ the other day, not formal ball! I didn’t have time to have our first argument, so I said it was great and I would see him at seven.

I had meetings with Angie and Jason all afternoon about the auditions tomorrow, and I didn’t get away until four thirty. I raced over to Oxford Street where I had ordered Rosencrantz to meet me for an emergency shopping session.

I have spent most of the last two years in jeans so I asked Rosencrantz what’s acceptable/formal summer evening wear for women now. He showed me a picture from Heat Magazine of Nicole Richie, elegant in a white maxi dress and gladiator sandals. I was wary of white, especially maxi white but he insisted I would look great. We hit Top Shop and he found as close a match as he could.

However, in a white maxi dress and brown gladiator sandals, I looked like Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur. All I needed was a shield and spear. I think my tantrum was more to do with tiredness and lack of food but I stormed out of Top Shop, refusing the other things he had picked out.

We tramped around Oxford Street for a little longer but it was packed, sweltering, and mindful of the time, we called it a day and came home.

I ended up in my faithful old outfit. The one I used to wear for summonses to see the Headmaster or parent’s evenings. A close fitting black skirt, a flower print top that showed some cleavage and knee length black boots.

I had toyed with the green skirt but I’d already worn it three times with Adam. I still hadn’t had anything to eat, but I decided not to and keep my stomach looking flat until we sat down for dinner.

The doorbell went just before seven, as I was drying my hair. Rosencrantz came upstairs,

“There’s like a dude at the door, asking for you?” he said.

“Did you let him in?”

“No. I said I would check with you.”

“Well, did you ask his name?”

“Yeah. It’s Mr. Rickard.”

“That’s Adam you idiot!” I said. “Go and let him in!”

“But he’s like fit!” said Rosencrantz.

“No need to sound so shocked.”

“You’re dating him?” said Rosencrantz.

“Yes. Look, I haven’t got time to do this, and he is standing out on the doorstep.” We rushed downstairs and I let him in. He was dressed in a black suit, no tie and a white shirt with a couple of buttons undone to show some chest; handsome as anything. I introduced him to Rosencrantz and Adam was very relaxed and sweet.

As we left for the taxi Rosencrantz whispered in my ear, “Fucking hell Mum, like, way to go.”

“That’s enough from you,” I hissed back. “Watch your mouth. And do the washing up.”

We were dropped near the London Eye and we walked along the Thames Embankment
holding hands
.

“I want you,” Adam growled in my ear. My stomach unfortunately growled back louder.

The Summer Ball was held in a boat on the river, artfully draped with flowers and paper lanterns. Twinkly music drifted towards us. The tide was out, so the boat was grounded on the shingle riverbed.

With it being a Health and Safety Department Summer Ball, you might have thought this was ideal, no water to fall into, but no. The gangplank was now at a very steep forty-five degree angle so the ladies were being asked to take off their heels, in case they slipped. I showed the man on the door that my boots only had a slight heel but I was still ordered to take them off.

Adam looked mortified. I unzipped my boots but they wouldn’t budge. My feet had swollen in the heat. After much tugging, a queue had started to form behind us. Eventually I had no choice but to hold onto the rail with my legs in the air whilst Adam pulled. It wasn’t my finest hour.

The flowers and lanterns continued inside, but there were no tables.

“Where do we eat?” I asked Adam.

“Oh,” he said, grabbing some Champagne from a passing waiter, “It’s just drinks, I thought we could eat late.”

“Great,” I said, as my stomach growled its protest.

We weren’t permitted outside deck, of course, due to Health and Safety so we were all shut in the boat. It was sweltering. Adam took me to meet his work colleagues, introducing me as ‘Coco.’ Not ‘my girlfriend’ or ‘my date’ or even ‘my friend.’ He made me sound like some avant-garde uni-named performance artist. I was on my fourth glass of Champagne when we made it round the boat to Adam’s boss, Serena. Up until now, his colleagues had been a bunch of humourless men and territorial women, but Serena, a mature blond, had a twinkle in her eye.

“You must think we’re the ultimate Heath and Safety cliché!” she said looking at everyone sweating in the heat. “If I had it my way we’d be out on deck with our feet in the water.” She asked how long Adam and I had known each other.

“Oh not long,” I blurted. “He was wary about letting me into his pants. He said they might contain nuts!”

Serena’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline as she smiled blankly and excused herself. Adam’s face clouded over and he released my hand.

“What?” he hissed. “You’re talking about my balls to my boss?”

“It was a joke,” I said. “A Health and Safety themed joke… obviously off the mark but I should get something for making the effort. They’re a tough crowd!”

“You’re pissed aren’t you?” he said. I had never seen him look angry before.

At that moment the tide began to rush in and the boat started to rock. Inside was getting hotter and the mixture of no food, no sleep, and too much Champagne weren’t helping. I suddenly realised I was about to throw up.

“I’ve got to get some fresh air,” I gulped to Adam whose indignant mouth was flapping like a beached carp. He followed me out. To my horror, as I reached the exit, I began to heave. Everyone in the shoe queue stepped back in alarm as I gave a very good rendition of a cat trying to bring up a hairball. I gave an almighty retch and threw up all over the gangplank. I turned to Adam who looked disgusted.

I felt so ashamed and ran past the shoe queue. I didn’t stop running until I reached Waterloo Station and found a taxi. When I got in, I had a long cold shower. I thought being with Adam was too good to last.

Thursday 16th July  20:35

TO: [email protected]

Thank you for being nice, but I am a screw-up. I shouldn’t have run away. There was no time to think about last night. I was up at six for auditions. Jason, our composer, had to be in college, so Chris hired his old music master from school to play the piano. Clive must be a similar age to Ethel. He was limping and unshaven in a long ragged winter coat.

“Will you be okay to play?” I said as he eased himself gingerly onto the piano stool.

“Yes, dear lady,” he said. “Doctor theatre will work its magic.”

We took our seats behind a long table and the first Actor came in. He was awful, but Clive seemed to come alive. As he thumped out a number from Les Miserables
,
I noticed a white tag on his wrist, and a blue gown protruding out from under his long coat.

“Has he come from hospital?” I whispered to Chris.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “But don’t say anything. He is very proud, and has fallen on hard times. I was glad I could help.”

The morning whipped past as actors came and went. Some were great. Lots were awful.

In a break, I told them about Adam. They said not to worry, and that they had all, at one time or another, thrown up
over
a lover without being dumped. Clive went one better and said that in 1964 he had thrown up on Princess Margaret’s muff at Ronnie Scotts. He said she was a great sport and refused his offer of dry cleaning money…

After lunch, it was Rosencrantz’s audition. I don’t know who was more nervous, him or me. I was going to wait outside, but the only things I had seen him do were the aforementioned chick in an egg in 1985 and a disco dancing Anne Frank, so I stayed.

“What a handsome lad,” said Angie, when he came in. He blushed, calmed himself and did the most beautiful speech from Henry V where King Henry is on the battlefield addressing his troops. He was so magnetic. We all gulped back tears when he’d finished.

His song - Hey Big Spender
-
was a little less impressive, but it showed off his voice, and they decided to cast him! I have just broken the news to Rosencrantz and he is so happy, which makes all of this recent slog seem worthwhile.

Friday 17th July  19:44

TO: [email protected]

I won’t be home again until late. I am working on lyrics with Jason for Queen Elizabeth’s opening number. We need to find seven words to rhyme with Regina, but we are so tired, we can only think of one. The pressure is on as we start Monday.

Please eat well. I have bought some food. Angie has also given us a load of Tamiflu; she got some on the quiet from her doctor, should we get Swine Flu. It is all in the news about it being a pandemic but I just think its media scare mongering. Remember the SARS scare? I spent a fortune on white facemasks for you, your father and me and it came to nothing.

Mum x

Saturday 18th July  18:44

TO: [email protected]

How are you love? Looking forward to a long summer holiday? I heard a school in Chiswick has had to close early, due to a Swine Flu outbreak.

I finally found time to phone Adam and say sorry, leaving a message on his voicemail. He has just replied via text;

OK THX COME OVER TOMORROW NITE WE CAN TALK.

It’s over. I know it, but would it be that bad? I haven’t had time to think the past few days. I just want to sleep… Let’s meet up soon.

Saturday 18th July  19:02

TO: [email protected]

Great. Will see you tomorrow. I am just going home for a bit of anal.

Saturday 18th July  19:04

TO: [email protected]

That was the auto correct! Not me! My email meant to read ‘I am just going home for a bit of a nap!’

I am tired, I am not, and I never have…

Anyway. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.

Coco.

Sunday 19th July  22:34

TO: [email protected]

I made an effort to tidy myself up and I bought wine and some very expensive cheese. I went round to Adam’s with an apology prepared, but there was no answer. I rang the bell several times but he stood me up!

I went to the Allotment, but he wasn’t there either. I saw his plants were drying out. I didn’t water them.

I sat on my bench, ate all the cheese, and drank the whole bottle of wine until it got dark. Len loped past behind, tapping his stick. I sank down on the bench.

He stopped at the back of my shed and I overheard a heated conversation he was having with another old guy. They were arguing over who would look after a large cutting Len had nicked from a grapevine at Hampton Court Palace.

“I’ve ad it down me trousers all day,” whispered Len. The other old guy agreed to keep it in his biscuit tin until the fuss died down.

I stayed and smoked in the shadows until they moved away. When I got home I was watching the news. At the end of London Tonight
,
they ran a piece on the oldest grapevine in England, at Hampton Court Palace. Someone had managed to give a Steward the slip in the Grape House and steal a cutting. The Steward said that the culprit must have had to be quick and quiet to outsmart them.

Quick and quiet? Len! The string holding his trousers up whistles when he walks.

Nothing from Adam, he must have deliberately stood me up.

Monday 20th July  18:12

TO: [email protected]

It was first day of rehearsals today and I am amazed at what we have achieved in two weeks. Chris had emptied his living room, apart from Daniel’s old piano, and it is now our rehearsal room. There is a big square of masking tape marked out for the size of the stage.

A stern young New Zealander called Byron, who introduced herself as the Stage Manager, greeted me at the door. Her mousy waist length hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had on a ZZ Top t-shirt. She handed over a name tag, with my name spelt as, ‘Cocoa.’