The Other Ida (28 page)

Without Agnes, Bridie could forget who she'd been before. She could be Ava Gardner, or a terribly high-class tart, or a minor royal at the drop of a hat. She was a good actress. Sometimes she scared herself.

She reached the start of the pier, the wide beach stretching either side of her, then walked through the pleasure gardens and the little shopping arcade, until there she was, at Beales. The window display was crammed full and in one corner were three headless mannequins dressed in a wedding dress, a cocktail dress, and a black wool suit. Everything you could need from birth to death, Bridie thought.

She checked her reflection in the glass. Today she would be her best possible self.

It had gone well. Her accent had been perfect and the girl had been so convinced by her immaculate vowels and patronising praise that she'd given Bridie a free pair of stockings when she bought the sweater. Bridie smiled but couldn't help but hate the girl, who, when Bridie could have really done with them, would have thrown her straight out of the shop and probably called the police.

People were cruel and people were stupid. She saw these two things every day of her life.

There was still an hour until Jacob's train got in so Bridie decided to go for a drink. The Royal Bath was Bournemouth's best hotel; if Sid James was staying anywhere that's where he'd be. And it was good to get in practice wherever she could.

The bar was in a ballroom with high ceilings and a chandelier, and from her table she could see the sea and the long pier, with the new, square theatre at the end. If she focussed hard she could decipher the banner they'd hung above its entrance with the name of the show and the name of its stars. Their names – hers and Aggie's – probably wouldn't even be in the programme. They were playing twins, twin French maids, whose only job was to be sexy and stupid and set up the jokes.
This isn't forever
, Bridie thought.
This is just the start.

She wondered what the theatre had been like before they'd rebuilt it, pretty but crumbling she supposed. People were sentimental about that kind of thing but she was all for knocking stuff down. Old things were disgusting.

The waiter brought her a drink and gestured behind him. “If you don't mind, madam, the gentleman over there has asked me to bring you this with his compliments.”

Bridie didn't look at the man he was pointing towards. “If he likes. Of course.”

The waiter left and she sat and sipped the gin and tonic. She was Ava Gardner, people bought her drinks all the time. She wouldn't give the man a second thought.

She felt someone walking towards her.

“Excuse me, madam, I hope you don't mind me approaching you. I'm Bryan. Bryan Irons. You're an actress, yes?”

She turned to see a small, pretty man with pale blue eyes smiling down at her and holding out his hand.

She took it. “Yes,” she said.

“I know an actress anywhere. I'm a critic you see. And a journalist. May I sit down?”

She didn't answer but he sat down anyway. He was blushing. “I'm here to interview Mr James. Sid James. If he shows up. Came down a day earlier to do a restaurant review. My colleague gets to see the show tomorrow night. You're not in it are you?”

“God, no. I work in London mainly. I'm a writer as well.”

“Fantastic!” he said.

She wasn't sure what had made her say it, but somehow it seemed to fit.

She gripped Jacob's hand as the receptionist showed them the bedroom he had booked, a large double with a child's single near the window. Three of them, three grown adults, in one small room. The receptionist stood in the doorway, unsure, confused, and more than a little bit shocked.

Jacob took out his wallet – the nice faux leather one that Bridie had bought him – handed the girl a five pound note and winked at her. She ended up doing a clumsy curtsy as she left.

Bridie was close to tears. Perhaps the digs they'd been in for rehearsals were better after all. Jacob noticed her expression and laughed. “Come on Prudie, it'll be fun. At least we'll be cosy and warm, all tucked up together. We couldn't have left poor little Aggie all on her own.”

She looked at him, with his haywire blonde hair, his wonderful wonky grin and his lanky, lazy limbs.

It was impossible to say no. She took off her hat and walked across the room. The window seemed impossibly big – its frame held so much sky she felt like she could swim in it. Below them the beach was dotted with tiny people, with the theatre – their theatre – far out over the sea.

Agnes had her forehead pressed against the pane and was blowing shapes on it like a three year old. She still wore too much make-up despite what Peter had told them – they shouldn't dress like they were on the stage all the time. How could it be that they were made of the same stuff, and looked so alike, but that Agnes found it so difficult to learn? She didn't even try. People had noticed their accents of course, Aggie's still Irish, while Bridie's perfect English only slipped when she was drunk.

This was their chance, their first proper show. What would become of her silly little sister?

Jacob was sitting on the bed, bouncing. “Come and sit on my lap baby cakes,” he said to Bridie. She smiled and sat next to him, kissed him on the mouth and put her hat on his head.

“One quick sketch of you two before we go and find some chips,” he said, taking Aggie's hand.

“Lovely,” said Agnes. “We shaved our armpits so we were ready.”

“Ag!” said Bridie.

They lay naked on the double bed together while he sat in the armchair near the window, drawing quickly – his long, thin legs drawn up to his chest. The sisters were mirroring each other, knees and palms touching, their breasts inches apart. This is the way he liked them, exactly the same, well almost – there was normally some tiny difference for the clever observer to find. Agnes began plaiting a strand of Bridie's hair.

“Right,” said Jacob. “Let's go and get some supper.”

They walked down the steep path from the hotel, each holding one of Jacob's arms. He smiled as men eyed the girls, delighted to be between them as he wound up the motor for the little movie camera. It was breezy and Agnes hadn't brought her coat down with her – Bridie knew she regretted it. She had known she would be before they had left the hotel but she was sick of having to tell Agnes what to do. She had to learn some time.

“Okay girls, you two go ahead and look lovely,” Jacob said.

Agnes began to run, laughing, reaching for Bridie's hand but Bridie stopped after a few feet. “Just a second,” she said, turning towards the camera and flinging out her arms. ‘“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep – the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.'” Then, over her shoulder she shouted, “Know who wrote that, Agnes?”

Jacob laughed as he came up beside her. “Very good, Bridie Doolittle, very good indeed. Bow for the camera. We'll make a lady of you yet.”

They crossed the promenade, paid the man at the booth and started walking down the pier. People leant against the white wrought iron railings while friends took their photos, a small boy cried as his balloon floated away. Everything was spruced up and new but under her feet, between the cracks in the boards, Bridie could see the sea, still wild and deep. No amount of paint or bloody Sid James could change that.

“It's marvellous here, isn't it? Common as muck, but good fun – a bit like you two girls. And they've been lucky with the weather for this opening,” said Jacob.

They were surrounded by families and could hear shrieks as people rode on the clunky little rides.

Seagulls swooped for discarded chips and sandwich crusts, screeching and scrapping with each other for the best bits of food.

She clasped Jacob's hand – God she loved his long fingers against hers – his magical fingers that made her look so beautiful when he drew her. If only he didn't keep asking them to pose together. She had always liked to think that it was a compliment, that he was drawing her twice. But perhaps that wasn't how it was at all.

They reached the end and stood by the railings, looking out to sea, over-arching their backs and saluting the horizon. Bridie laughed and laughed but inside she felt flat and cold. Something was happening – something was wrong – but she couldn't quite work out what.

Jacob filmed them again. The light had nearly gone and the film was almost used up. It was important to make these shots count.

“It's run out,” said Jacob. “Good job anyway girls.” He put an arm round each of them.

Agnes leant forwards over the railing. “Imagine falling in. It would be awful wouldn't it?”

Bridie clasped Jacob's hand. “Where's this food eh, Jakey? You promised me fish and chips. Then let's all go for a drink.”

That night Jacob snored in the single bed, his legs hanging off the end, while the sisters lay awake in the double.

“Are you nervous?” Bridie asked.

“A bit. Are you?”

“No,” Bridie lied. “It'll be fine. We're only there to look pretty anyway, and we're good at that.”

Agnes didn't reply.

Bridie woke in the middle of the night to the noise of rustling, and the low, hissing sound of a whisper. She turned towards Agnes and saw the shape of a man leaning over her, while Agnes giggled as quietly as she could, her back shaking against Bridie's arm.

She thanked God for all the practice she'd been doing. She was a good actress, she knew she was, and it was almost easy to close her eyes, and slowly, silently, wish herself back to sleep.

Chapter thirty-one

~ 1999 ~

For a moment Ida thought she was in her flat and that everything was normal, but within a second there was a thud in her chest and she wasn't immediately sure why.

There was the sound of birds outside and she knew it was very early. She must only have been asleep for an hour or two. She would lie still until she dozed off again, thinking about the nicest things she could imagine, trying hard to avoid remembering whatever was causing the ache in her chest. As she closed her eyes she noticed that everything slightly hurt, all of her muscles, as though she'd walked up a mountain or been in a fight. There was period pain, certainly, but something else too. The funeral – was that it?

Agnes. Peter had told her about Agnes. They had seen a film of Agnes! Or had that been a dream? She worked through the events of the evening before realising it had really happened. She had a bloody aunt. An aunt she was going to meet today.

And Elliot, of course; she could hardly bear to think about him. That fucking boy.

She knew if she saw him he'd smile and laugh, say he'd been going to tell her all about it, but without him around it was easier to see the truth of things. And the truth of things was horrible.

Since they'd started seeing each other he had cheated on her, stolen from her, called her names behind her back, and every time she had laughed it off. Acknowledging that it made her miserable would have been pointless; she knew she'd never have split up with him.

But something felt like it had changed.

Perhaps it was seeing Alice with Tom that had made things feel different. He did things for Alice, rubbed her back and bought her flowers. He was even properly interested in what she had to say, and boring photos from when she was young. Unless he was planning to sell those too.

She was finding it difficult to get comfortable, there was pain running through her, and her usual trick – lying totally still until she couldn't help but doze off – wasn't working. There was no point trying to sleep. She'd have a bath in a bit but first she needed to write a list and she reached down for her book and pen.

Cons:

Selfish (in general and in bed)

No plans for future

Crap with money and always takes mine

Steals from me

Doesn't love me

Too many drugs

Pros:

He makes me laugh

Alice doesn't like him

He's all I've got.

By the time Ida had finished her bath the others were up for breakfast, sitting round the dining table in their pyjamas. No one talked about Elliot and after downing a full cup of gritty coffee, Ida was the first one to mention their mysterious aunt. “We've got two hours before she gets here, is that right, Peter?”

“Yes,” he said shakily. “I'd better get ready I suppose.”

It was turning out to be a nice day, possibly even sunny, and Tom had walked for bread and the papers, laying the table with a gingham cloth and proper tea cups, so obviously trying to make things normal, or at least as normal as they could possibly be. Ida pulled out a chair and sat down, reached for three slices of bread and piled them onto her plate. She wasn't hungry but smothered them in butter and began to eat noisily. Alice, picking at muesli with soya milk, didn't comment and carried on reading the headlines.

Peter hummed loudly, lifting breakfast things up and putting them down again, then briefly glancing at page after page of the paper, flicking through it until he came to the end and started again.

There seemed to be so much to talk about that they couldn't talk at all, as though their throats were clogged with thoughts and unsaid words. They were full up, Alice was right. They were all far too full.

“You look very pale,” Alice said to Ida as she began to clear the table.

“I've got my period, a real flooding one,” Ida said.

Alice winced and Ida just laughed.

They had all got dressed, and Ida had done the best she could manage, wearing the black dress and heels, with a jacket that Peter had leant her. Her hair was clean and round it she'd tied a black scarf, she'd even put on some of the mascara she'd nicked from Boots. She knew she looked sallow and even her ma's ancient foundation wasn't helping. She supposed it was okay to look pale at your mother's funeral.