Wonderland (12 page)

“
TOTO, I’VE
a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Stella is right. This is as far from backyard, small town, redneck as it gets. The Lab. The lobby is like a scene from
Fame.
Rows of black-and-white head shots of people I recognize from TV. Catlike girls in leg warmers holding packets of cigarettes, leaning against the walls or stretching on the floor. First or second years. They all know one another, looking up when Stella and I crash through the door. Deciding who I am. What I am. I know what they’re thinking. Not even trailer-trash cool. I’m Anne of Green Gables. Wholesome. Country. I look down at my red shoes. I’m Dorothy.

“It’s like we’ve died and gone to hell. Or Abercrombie and Fitch.” Stella is shaking her head.

I poke her in the ribs.

“What? They’re a bunch of plastics. You’re way better than any of them.”

“Yeah, right.”

“God, Jude. Now is not the time to go all wallflower on me.”

But I feel weird. Maybe it’s just the king-size Snickers and two packets of crisps Stella forced me to eat on the way. I need to pee as well. Three vodka and Cokes and two bottles of Evian are demanding to be let out.

Stella glances at me. “Has to be said, you do look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.” She smiles.

“I need the loo.”

“In a minute. Come on.”

She marches me to the front desk. Stella does the talking.

“Hi. Jude Polmear. Two o’clock.”

The receptionist is all tight bun, tight mouth, and Joan Crawford makeup. A fading fifty-year-old. She’s thinking the same as the others as she types my name into the computer. No chance. I am one of thirty for three places. I want to go home. I tug at Stella’s arm but she pushes me away.

Joan Crawford speaks. “Down the corridor. Wait on the chairs on the left. You’ll be called.”

“Toilets?” I ask.

She points down the same corridor.

“Thanks so much,” says Stella. And then, “Witch!” under her breath, still smiling.

“Come on.” I am desperate now.

“OK.” Stella links arms again as we walk quickly down the corridor. “What’s she on, anyway? Anyone would think someone had appointed her Simon bloody Cowell.”

She kicks the bathroom door open.

The Lab may be all Norman Foster glass and chrome, but the toilets are regulation dive. Smell of bleach drowning out the filth and smoke. Lipstick messages on the walls. Tampons spilling out of the sanitary bins.

I lock myself in a stall and pee for what seems like an eternity, nerves eased by the sweet relief of it.

But as I pull my knickers up, I feel a wave of sickness wash over me and I drop onto my knees, staring my pee in the face. I retch but nothing comes up.

Stella bangs on the door.

“Bulimia is so last year.”

“Vodka.” I retch again, trying to heave something up. But it won’t come.

“You only had three,” she says. “You need to work on your alcohol capacity.”

The nausea subsides. I flush the toilet and open the door.

“Maybe it’s nerves.” I turn on a tap and splash lukewarm water on my face. I don’t feel any better.

“Whatever. Get over it.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

She smiles. Looks at me staring at myself in the graffitied mirror. “Well, you may not look like a nun, but you’re giving good turmoil. Very Isabella.”

I want to smile, but I can’t. My head is full of the wrong things. I try to pull Isabella’s lines out of the chaos, but they won’t come.

“I can’t do it, Stell.”

“What?”

“The audition. I’m not doing it. I can’t even remember my lines.”

“You can.
That had he twenty heads to tender down/On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up.
”

I shake my head.

“Come on. This is what you want, Jude. Don’t wimp out on me now. Don’t be him. Don’t be Tom.”

But tears are rolling down my cheeks, taking the mascara with them. Washing away the disguise.

“Right. I’ll do it, then,” she says.

I look up. “What?”

“If you won’t go in, I will.”

I don’t understand. “But you can’t . . . you don’t have an audition.”

“No. But you do.”

And I realize what she’s saying. What she’s going to do. For me. And I love her. For caring. For daring to.

But it’s wrong. It can’t work. I shake my head. “They’ll suss it.”

“How? No one knows what you look like yet.”

“What if I — if you get in? They take photos in there.”

“So? Same hair. Same clothes.” She pulls me to the mirror. “Look. I’m you.” And then she starts to sing. But it’s not her voice; it’s mine. It’s eerie. Like watching a better, more brilliant, version of myself. Like the camera on my life has focused and suddenly I’m clear.

I shiver and look away. “You can’t.”

“Just watch me.” She smiles at herself in the mirror and shakes her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m Jude, and I’m fabulous.”

The door opens and a man sticks his head around.

“Oh, sorry. Jude Polmear? Two o’ clock?”

I open my mouth but Stella’s voice rings out. “Yes, that’s me.”

“You’re next.” He nods.

“Coming.” She smiles.

The door closes.

“You see?” She hands me her bag.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say.

“Yes, I do,” she replies. And I know she’s right. Because I can’t. Because it’s my only way out. My last hope. Or I will suffocate. Like him.

“So, how do I look?” she asks. But she knows the answer.

“You look amazing.” And she does. She is beautiful. A star. How could they not want her?

“Great. Because I am so ready for my close-up.”

And she is gone.

I sit on a plastic chair in the corridor. The audition room is on another floor, but somehow I can still hear her. Or me. Hear her speaking the words I have spent months learning, practicing. Feel the gaze of the panel on her, watching the way she moves. The way Isabella moves. See them nod and take notes. See an older woman whisper something to a young guy with sideburns. He smiles, his eyes never moving from her face. From Stella. Maybe I am remembering a scene from a film. The girl from nowhere, rocking their world. Whatever it is, I am in the room with Stella. I can see they want her. And I wish it were me. I wish it were me.

Stella is breathless, face flushed. I have never seen her like this. Not cool. Not above it.

“You are
so
in,” she says as she pulls me off the chair.

“Stella, shut up!” I look around, worried someone is listening.

“What?” She grabs my arm and runs, leading me to the lobby. “Jude Polmear is a star!” she shrieks.

People watch as we fly out the doors. I am laughing now, breathless too. It is infectious. I pull Stella down the steps. “What did they say?”

“I was awesome. Well, you were. Your Isabella was”— she searches for the word —“touched. That’s what Ben said, anyway.”

“Ben?”

“Head of first year. Thirty-something. Rockabilly sideburns. Cute, really, if you like that kind of thing. Which you probably do.” She takes her cigarettes out of her bag, lights two, and hands one to me. “Totally fancies you, by the way.”

I inhale, then blow the smoke out slowly. And laugh. “Oh, my God.”

“Absolutely.” Stella grins.

“What else did he say?”

“That you’re a bit nerdy but they can beat that out of you.”

“Ha, ha. Come on. What?”

Stella shrugs. “Nothing, really. Just that you’d hear in a few weeks. But you’re in. I could tell. You’re in, Jude!”

And I want to be happy. I do. But . . . “What if they find out? About you, I mean.”

“They won’t.” She stubs her cigarette out on the chrome
L
of the Lab sign.

And she is so definite, so full of conviction, in herself, in me, that right here, right now, I believe her.

The train runs slowly. Signal failure at Newbury. Seven hours of sweaty commuter-packed hell. I sleep. God knows what Stella does. It is past ten when we get back.

Stella hugs me on the platform. “Remember me when you’re famous.”

“Totally. I’ll send you a Christmas card,” I joke.

She pulls back and looks at me. Her face has changed. Not laughing now. “I mean it.”

“As if I’d forget you,” I say.

She keeps staring. Then her face relaxes and she is Stella again. “So. I’m off like a dirty sock.”

“Wait. Don’t you want a lift?”

“What, with lover boy?” She nods at the car park.

I look. It’s Ed. I scan the parking lot for Dad’s van. But it’s not there. Just a couple of minivans. Wives picking up late husbands.
Ed must have called him,
I think.
Offered to do it.

“Oh.”

“Exactly. Have fun.”

“But . . . what are you going to do?”

“Dunno. Hitch. Call my dad. I have my contacts.” She shrugs.

“Are you sure?”

“God. Just go, will you?” She rolls her eyes.

“OK, I’m going. But he’s not my lover boy.”

“Whatever.” She laughs.

“I mean it,” I say. And I do. Ed is Ed. I look at him again, leaning against the Land Rover. He waves. I raise my hand. “Stell, I —”

“Like I said, whatever.”

“See you tomorrow, then?” She is already walking away. I call after her. “Not if I see you first, right?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

And she doesn’t look back. But I know she is smiling. I can feel it radiate out, seeping into me. And I keep it there as I cross the car park to meet Ed, like a piece of Stella inside me, ready to answer his hundred questions. Not caring that they will be lies. Because Stella is right. I am a star.

ALFIE HAS
a new fish. A black one this time, called Jude. Named in my honor, apparently, for when I go away. Harry long forgotten. I am watching her circle endlessly around her bowl as I eat toast with peanut butter. It is three days since the audition. Dad hasn’t said much, just asked if it went OK. Alfie is full of questions, though. Did I see anyone famous? Did anyone try to mug me? Were there terrorists on the Tube? I say yes to all of them. He is delighted.

Jude, the other Jude, surfaces. Gulping at the air. I wonder how long she will last.

“That your breakfast?” Mrs. Hickman pushes past me on her way to the kettle.

I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. It is half ten. I shrug. “Yeah. So?”

“You could always give me a hand on the till, you know.” She smiles. Trying to needle me. Like she’s always done. But I don’t need needling now. I have Stella.

“Thanks but . . . no.” I swill back a glass of orange juice and stand up. “See you.”

“Put them in the sink, will you, love?”

I stare at her. Then say it. Words I’ve heard on the telly. Have toyed with for years. “You’re not my mother. You don’t even live here.”

Mrs. Hickman stops. Then shakes her head, wondering what happened to nice sweet little Jude. Jude who helped her make jam tarts and Christmas crackers. Jude who never answered back, who never swore, who never got drunk and threw up in her bathroom.

She’s not here right now,
I want to say. She has left the building.

I pick up the plate and glass and clatter them into the sink, hearing the chink of breaking glass.

“Jude,” Mrs. Hickman protests.

I ignore her and go back upstairs to wait for Stella.

She smells of salt and smoke and suntan lotion when she arrives, crashing down next to me on the bed, the sand in her hair covering my sheets with a fine layer of grit.

“Stell!” I brush it onto the fading carpet.

“Sorry. Occupational hazard.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Four, maybe.”

I wonder where the hours have gone. Don’t remember falling asleep.

“Where have you been?”

“Duh. Beach.”

“Why didn’t you call for me?”

“So. I’m calling for you now.” She lights up a cigarette. Her tenth of the day, judging by the half-empty packet. “Don’t you want to know who I was down there with?”

I take the cigarette from her and shrug. “Hughsie?”

I know Stella has seen him again. Met him in a pub in town. Let him kiss her. Touch her. She says.

“Wrong answer. Gone off him. Too old. Kept talking about Oasis and Blur. And he’s got all these wrinkles around his eyes.” She exaggerates a shudder.

I am relieved. I hated knowing what she was doing. It felt dirty, to be part of the secret.

“Come on, then.”

“I don’t know. Ed?” As if, I think.

“No. Lose two hundred pounds and forfeit a turn. Think blonder. Richer.”

I hesitate. Because I don’t want it to be him. But of course it is. “Blair.”

“Ding-ding. Right answer.”

“What about Emily?” I say.

“What about her?” Stella scoffs. “She doesn’t own him, you know.”

“Tell
her
that.”

“Whatever.” Stella dismisses me. “Anyway, he says we’re invited to a party later. Matt’s parentals are away, so it’s an all-nighter.”

“Really?” I am wondering why Ed hasn’t said anything. Maybe he thinks I can’t hack it. After last time. That I’m still a schoolkid who can’t hold her liquor. Who doesn’t fit into his life anymore. His world.

“Yeah, really. You coming? Or is your social calendar too packed?”