You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (22 page)

But
in the event, there wasn’t any. Not that night, anyway. When we got back, many
hours and many drinks later, Mel was gone and so were all her things.

And
the next morning, when the cast list appeared and I learned that the impossible
had happened and I’d been cast as Princess Aurora, with Felix opposite me as
the male lead, it didn’t feel like a dream come true. It felt like a nightmare
that was about to begin.

Felix’s
response came just a few seconds later.

“There’s
a stranger in your bed. But there’s something waiting for you in the bed
outside.”

For
a moment I felt totally creeped out, then I realised what he meant. The old
flat, where he’d fallen asleep in my bed that first mad, drunken night. And the
flowerbeds outside the building… He had no way of knowing that I was just a few
minutes away from Covent Garden, not at my kitchen table in Battersea. I could
play him at his own game, I realised, try and catch him as he laid his clues.

I
hurried down Oxford Street, my ‘impress the salesladies in Selfridges’ high
heels impeding my progress as much as the crowds of shoppers who thronged the
pavements, even before ten on a Monday morning. Impatient to avoid the throng,
I cut down through Soho, zigzagging my way along the narrow streets, regretting
my shoes and my decision as I slipped and stumbled over damp cobblestones.

I
found the street where we’d lived unerringly – I could have found it
blindfolded. Actually, it would almost have been easier if I’d been unable to
see, because the block of flats had changed beyond all recognition. What had
been a bit bohemian and louche (and cheap as chips, and considerably grubbier)
was now gentrified beyond recognition, the brick planters that had bloomed with
empty crisp packets, discarded cans of extra-strength lager and the occasional
syringe were now filled with bright summer flowers. Flowers – flower beds – of
course!

But
with gentrification had come security. The courtyard that had been free for
anyone to access back then was now barricaded behind eight foot-high
wrought-iron gates, with a telephone entry system. I’d have to climb. Then I
looked at my impractical shoes and my skinny jeans and thought, don’t be ridiculous, Laura. If I tried climbing those railings, the only doubt about the
outcome was whether I’d be impaled, arrested or sectioned first.

I
was going to have to blag it. I rang a bell at random. There was no response. I
tried another. A woman’s voice, in a strong Eastern European accent, said,
“Yes?”

“Delivery,”
I muttered.

“Get
lost, chancer,” came the reply.

Blushing
so deeply I felt even my toes must be red, I tried another bell. A drawling,
actory voice responded, “Hello, Masterson.”

“Darling,
it’s me,” I said, attempting a breathy, distressed voice. “Please let me in.”

Amazingly,
there was a buzz and the gate sprang open. I paused for a moment, wondering
whether Mr Masterson might be watching from an overhead window, would realise
that I wasn’t the acquaintance he thought was calling on him in her time of
need, and ring the police. I had no time to lose.

I
pushed through the gate and glanced around the familiar, yet unfamiliar
courtyard. The brick planters were brimmed with pansies and petunias in shades
of pink, lilac and deepest purple, with the occasional flash of gold. But one
splash of colour stood out: a vivid scarlet. I hurried over, all my qualms
about the stupidity and recklessness of the enterprise overcome, because, God
help me, I was having real, actual fun.

Lying
in the flowerbed was a bouquet of half a dozen long-stemmed red roses. It was
the sort of thing I’d been given by the hundred when I was dancing – they were
literally strewn at my feet after a first night or a last one, and even on
middle nights they weren’t exactly thin on the ground, either. But this one
gave me a glow of pleasure I had never felt when I’d asked the stage managers
back then to bundle them up and send them to Great Ormond Street or the local
women’s refuge. This one had a note attached in Felix’s handwriting.

“I
know it’s ancient history, but think you left something somewhere,” it said.

The
words made me feel as if I’d been hit in the stomach. It was true – I had. I’d
left a whole world behind, and I had no way of reclaiming it, even if I wanted
to. For a second, the sense of loss I’d felt earlier in the morning returned in
a huge, debilitating wave. I’d left it all behind – I was leaving my thirties
behind, or I would be, in just a few birthdays. But then the excitement of the
chase filled me again, overcoming my melancholy. I’d left something behind.
What did he mean?

I
racked my brains. Felix was a total scatterbrain – he was always losing,
breaking and forgetting things. But I wasn’t. I was meticulous, a
control-freak, as Roddy used to say. My laundry was always done on time, my
pointe shoes always had their ribbons sewn on if not prettily, at least firmly.
I didn’t leave things behind – at least, I hadn’t then.

Then
I remembered. One bank holiday weekend – it must have been August, because it
was boiling – there’d been a fire, or a bomb alert, or something. Rehearsals
were never, ever cancelled, but that day, they had been. And Felix, being
Felix, rather than loafing around the flat wasting our unexpected free time,
had announced that we were going to a museum. The V&A. Where I’d checked my
bag into the cloakroom along with the cotton scarf I’d draped around my neck
when we went out, then taken off because it was too hot. When I retrieved my
bag afterwards, the scarf had been missing, and when I realised it was too late
to go back, and anyway the scarf was a hideous thing, not worth the couple of
quid it would cost to replace, and Felix promised he’d buy me another one sometime.

That
must be what he’d meant by ancient history – the museum. And us, of course. As
the memory flooded back, I found myself hurrying north towards the Tube
station. I boarded a train and was at South Kensington in just a few minutes.
I’d forgotten how long the bloody tunnel was. I dodged through crowds of
tourists, clutching my red roses, my shoes beginning to seriously pinch my
feet, then at last found the entrance.

I
barely paused to admire the magnificent marble figures that lined the gallery
on either side of me – my eyes were only focussed on the signs. Café, Gift
Shop, Roman Gallery, Ceramics, Cloakroom… There it was. Lost Property.

“I
left something behind,” I gasped to the taciturn woman at the counter.

“Yes?
When was that?”

Fuck.
I couldn’t really say it had been fourteen years ago.

“Just
the other day. It’s a scarf. My name’s Laura Payne.”

Immediately,
her face softened, breaking into a delighted smile. I didn’t know what Felix
had done, but his legendary charm had clearly been put to work on this ogress.

“Laura!
Yes, I think I have what you’re looking for.”

She
turned to the array of cubby-holes behind her, which were filled with an
assortment of random carrier bags and items of clothing. There was even a pair
of shoes in one of them. How the hell do you lose your shoes in a museum, I
wondered.

“Is
this it?”

She
handed me a tissue-wrapped parcel. My hands were shaking so much I fumbled
taking it from her, grasping a corner of the wrapping, so the paper tore away
and spilled out a square of exquisite silk brocade that ran over my fingers
like water. It was the colours of peacock’s tail – all blue and gold and
iridescent and wonderful. I gasped with pleasure.

The
scary lady beamed maternally. “Happy birthday, yes? You’re very lucky, your
husband is a charming man.”

I
felt my own smile fade. “Yes. Yes, he is,” I said. “Thank you.”

I
turned away, wondering what to do next.

The
sensible thing, of course, would be to text Felix, thank him for the flowers
and the gift, but tell him that this had to stop. It was only a treasure hunt,
though. Just a bit of fun for my birthday, a trip down memory lane. And I still
had hours before I needed to collect the children, and damn it, I was enjoying
myself more than I’d done for ages. And it was my birthday. And I wanted to
know where the next clue would take me – if there was one, of course.

I
shook out the beautiful scarf, wondering whether there was any message
concealed in its folds, but there wasn’t. I inspected the tissue paper, but that
was blank and empty, too. Then I felt my phone vibrate with another text. I
snatched it out of my bag, stabbing at the screen. There were just five words.

“Some
boys never grow up.”

I
shook my head, laughing. He’d got that right. Staging silly games like this
wasn’t something any of the grown-ups I knew would do, unless they were doing
it for their children. There’d always been something irrepressibly silly about
Felix. I’d loved that about him, but it could be infuriating, too. It never
occurred to him to get to bed early before an important performance – he’d
quite happily head out on the lash with Roddy and his other mates, and try to
persuade me to come too, and often I’d say yes, even though Mel made a
cat’s-bum moue of disapproval. And it never seemed to affect him – however
hungover and sleep-deprived he was, he always danced brilliantly, talent and
adrenaline making him light up on stage.

There
was one time, I remembered, when we were on tour in Manchester, when Felix
hadn’t actually slept in his hotel bedroom for three nights, carousing until
the sun came up before coming to my room to wake me up and fuck me until I
could barely stand.

What
show had that been again, I wondered, searching the fragments of memory. Of
course –
Peter Pan
. It was one of the few times we’d starred opposite
each other, and it had only happened because I’d been understudying Suzanne,
who’d torn her meniscus. I’d thought of it at the time as a beginning, the
first of many ballets in which our names would top the programme together. In
the end, of course, it didn’t work out quite like that.

But
that must be where the clue was leading me. A bookshop? There must be hundreds
in London. I tried to remember the name of the street where the Darling family
had lived in the original play, but I couldn’t, if indeed I ever knew. Was it
somewhere around here, near the museums and the park and Kensington Palace?

Of
course – the statue of Peter Pan was in Kensington Gardens.

I
looped the scarf around my neck and hurried outside into the sunshine.

Five
minutes later I was standing beneath the statue, willing it to give up its
secrets. It was a beautiful monument – charming and whimsical. Jonathan and I
had brought the children here once, when Owen was a baby, planning a picnic,
but it rained and Darcey cried and Jonathan was grumpy, and we ended up
eating sandwiches in Pret, dripping and disappointed in the failure of the day.

I
walked around the statue, searching for clues. Then I noticed something out of
place – a glint of silver against the verdegrised bronze of Peter’s feet. I
looked around. It was high up – I’d have to climb on to the base of the statue
to reach it. One got into horrible trouble for that sort of thing – it was
probably a crime of some kind. I imagined a posse of park wardens, or whatever
they were called, descending on me and arresting me, and Jonathan having to
come and bail me out.

But
I couldn’t stop now. Quickly I climbed and reached, and seconds later I was
holding a small silver charm in my hand – a pair of ballet shoes, attached to a
delicate silver chain. There was a tag of paper attached to it, which must once
have held the price, but now it had writing on it, in a tiny, cramped version
of Felix’s usual scrawl.

“Care
to join Lawsonski for lunch?”

I
laughed out loud. If there were hundreds of bookshops in London, there must be
thousands of restaurants – tens of thousands, even. But I knew exactly where to
go.

Felix
and I hadn’t had a first date, exactly. We’d gone from being colleagues,
acquaintances really, to spending every night together, just like that. There
was no discussion, no consideration – from the moment I walked into Studio
Eight to rehearse the dance of the cygnets that Monday morning, we were
inseparable.

It
was only on the final night of the show that Felix had said, “Let’s sack off
the cast party and go for dinner to celebrate, just the two of us.”

And
he’d swept us off to Knightsbridge in a taxi to a tiny, poky restaurant where
everyone spoke Russian, including Felix, and a bottle of iced vodka was plonked
on our table without us ordering it. After that, we went back whenever we could
afford it – the place was cheap, back then, but we were skint. Still, we
celebrated our one-month anniversary there, and our six-month one, and his
birthday and mine, and the manager knew us by name and comped us drinks and
seemed proud that his obscure little restaurant was the choice of “famous
ballet dancers”, as he said in his broken English.

Back
then, I would have been able to find the place with my eyes shut, but would I
be able to now? I left the park and wandered into the maze of streets beyond.
It all seemed different from how it used to be – there was Harrods, of course,
and Harvey Nicks, where I occasionally used to go to gaze at beautiful clothes
I couldn’t afford, before we had the children. I could afford them now, I
supposed, if I had anywhere to wear them to. Zé managed not to look like a twat
turning up for the school run in Moschino, but I was quite sure I wouldn’t be
able to pull it off.