A Step In Time (23 page)

Audrey waved her arm.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘We split what we can. But I need somewhere to put all my cash. I thought I could provide the money, and you can be the headteacher.’

‘Got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ I said.

‘You’ve been thinking about teaching for ages,’ Audrey said. ‘That’s what gave me the idea.’

She paused.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s the best idea you’ve ever had,’ I said.

It took us five years, in the end. Five years of hard work, building up from evening classes and weekend lessons, finding the right building – a run-down Victorian villa in Clapham – and getting it rebuilt the way we needed it to be, finding teachers for the boring stuff like arithmetic and geography, as well as for acting, singing, dancing, stage fighting – everything you could think of. Audrey proved herself to be an excellent businesswoman, and I recruited Mr Warner to help with the promise of a never-ending stream of new talent directed to his doorstep when the first pupils arrived.

And eventually the London Academy of Theatre and Dancing opened its doors in September 1958. We threw a huge party to celebrate in the garden of the school, with Audrey inviting all her friends from the world of television – where she was working more and more by then. I went through Mr Warner’s client list and invited everyone he represented. All our pupils, and their parents, turned up. Ginny, who was almost thirteen and who’d grown into a beautiful, willowy, red-haired girl, handed out drinks, and Audrey and I stood on the terrace and watched in satisfaction.

‘We’ve done well,’ she said, looping her arm through mine.

‘We have,’ I said.

Ginny walked by, flashing us a grin over her shoulder as she went. I caught my breath. Most of the time I didn’t think about Donnie. I’d put him out of my mind and gone on with my life. But every now and then, it would catch me unawares. I’d see one of the films we’d watched together was on at the pictures, or I’d hear an American accent when I wasn’t expecting it, or Ginny would give me a particular look – like she had just then – and she’d look so much like her dad that I’d feel dizzy all over again with the hurt and the pain that was more than a decade old.

‘She looks like him, doesn’t she?’ Audrey said, reading my thoughts. ‘More so, now, than ever.’

I nodded, my lips pressed together tightly.

‘Are you ever going to tell her the truth?’

‘What, that her father was a cowardly rat who got me pregnant then ran away?’ I said. ‘Absolutely not. Let her believe in Jack Devonshire, the brave GI who loved me very much and who was killed honourably in action, right at the end of the war.’

‘She might try to find her family, you know,’ Audrey said. ‘When she’s older.’

‘Well, she won’t find them, will she?’ I snapped.

I tossed my hair over my shoulder and gazed out over the garden. On the lawn a smartly dressed, handsome man raised his glass to me and smiled. I raised mine back.

‘Niiiice,’ said Audrey. ‘Is it going well with you two?’

I shrugged. Francis was a dancer I’d met through work. He was very good looking, a wonderful dancer, and he was lovely, that was true. He treated me like a lady and made me feel like I was really special. And he had a cheeky side that I adored. And yet …

‘He’s perfect,’ I told Audrey. ‘But so was Donnie. And look what happened there.’

‘Oh, but …’ Audrey began.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I truly believed that everything I felt for Donnie, and what he felt for me, was real. I trusted him, Audrey, and he broke my heart.’

‘But Francis wouldn’t be like that,’ Audrey said.

‘He might,’ I said. ‘How would I know? I can’t trust my own judgement any more. I can’t risk that happening again. Not now I’ve got Ginny to look after.’

‘Well, I think that’s sad,’ Audrey said. ‘You’re only young. You can’t be on your own for ever.’

‘I won’t be on my own,’ I said. ‘I like men. I like spending time with men. I like Francis. But I’m never going to marry.’

Audrey looked surprised but I didn’t care

‘I just don’t want to give myself up for a man,’ I said. ‘Not again. I’m in control now, and that’s the way I like it.’

Chapter Forty

‘Amy, Amy, over here, love!’

I spun round and gave the bank of photographers a dazzling smile.

‘And one with Matty?’

Matty slid his arm round my waist and we posed together, blinking in the flashes.

‘Feels good to be back, huh? he whispered in my ear as we walked up the red carpet into the event. What the event was I didn’t know. Since Matty and I had got back together – and since I’d made it to the quarter-final of
SSD
– we’d been out every night. Life the last couple of weeks had been glittering and showbizzy and fabulous. An endless round of parties, launches, photo shoots, interviews – and rehearsing, of course, though I felt like I’d barely seen Patrick or Cora for days and days.

Matty had stayed over at mine a few times. It was strange seeing him in a place that had been just for me. One day I came home and discovered he’d replaced my flamenco dancer print with another of his blown-up canvases. This one was a photo of the two of us from a
Yay!
magazine shoot we’d done when we got engaged. It was hideous and I definitely did not want it in my lounge. So, as soon as he’d gone, I took it down – he’d managed to hang it properly – and propped my flamenco dancer back up again. Now I was in the ridiculous situation of having to change the pictures over every time he came round.

I was pleased to be back with him, though – I thought. It was nice being back in demand again, and having offers of work left, right and centre. But I’d got into a sort of quiet rhythm of dance lessons with Cora, and hanging out with Patrick, and Matty suddenly seemed too loud, too brash, too ‘on it’, for my liking.

Patrick was keeping his distance. He seemed to be spending a lot of time with Sarah-Lou, even though she’d been knocked out of
Strictly Stars Dancing
thanks to a particularly twee tango. He didn’t seem very happy about it, though. In fact, he didn’t seem very happy about anything. He was short with me and snappy and the only time we really got on was when we were dancing.

This week it was our turn to dance a tango. I was nervous about it because it seemed a bit grown-up and sexy for me, but I was keen to give it a try. So far – mostly thanks to Cora’s help – it was going well. Cora had told me to make up a story about our dance, and to play the part – like I’d done in the Charleston – and it definitely helped. Except sometimes I caught a glimpse of my fierce tango face in the mirror while we were dancing and it made me laugh. I just hoped it wouldn’t have the same effect on the judges.

‘We need to split, baby,’ Matty whispered in my ear. I looked round in surprise, lost in my own thoughts. The event – it seemed to be some sort of exhibition – was in full swing and there was lunch being served, but I had a meeting with Babs and Matty had to be somewhere else. We did this a lot – being photographed on the way in to a do and then virtually walking straight through and out the back door. It was good for our profiles, Babs said.

Feeling a bit dizzy from all the rushing about, I kissed Matty goodbye then raced round to Babs’s Soho office, where I sat on the sofa and slurped coffee like my life depended on it.

‘So these are all the job offers I’ve got for you,’ she said, brandishing a bundle of papers.

‘You shouldn’t waste so much paper,’ I said. ‘I can’t do them all.’

She ignored me, as ever.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Here’s what we’ve got.’

I listened as she went through sponsorship ideas, beauty products and food brands that wanted me to endorse them in exchange for staggering amounts of money, a celeb magazine that wanted me to write a weekly column for them …

‘I can’t write,’ I said.

Babs scanned the email.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘They’ll write it for you.’

‘Then what … oh, never mind,’ I said. ‘Put it in the maybe pile.’

Babs put it on the coffee table. So far there was a growing pile of ‘no’s, a smaller pile of ‘maybe’s and nothing in the ‘yes’ pile at all.

‘Sexy calendar?’

‘No.’

‘Toothpaste.’

‘No.’

‘Autobiography.’

‘I’m twenty-five.’

‘Hair dye.’

‘No.’

‘
Doctor Who
?’

I sat up straighter.

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Companion?’

Babs checked.

‘Alien,’ she said.

‘No.’

Babs fixed me with a stern glare. She was tiny, with short cropped bleach-blonde hair. Soaking wet she probably weighed about seven stone, but she scared the bejeezus out of me.

‘Amy,’ she said. ‘I’ve never had so many offers in on one day. Would you please consider some of them?’

‘I’ll consider them,’ I said, scared she was going to poke me with her highlighter pen. ‘But I want to act, Babs. You said getting back with Matty would give me the pick of acting jobs.’

‘I know,’ Babs said. ‘I just don’t think you should have to audition – not an actress of your calibre. I’m playing hardball.’

I was horrified.

‘Of course I have to audition,’ I said. ‘I want to audition. I love auditioning.’

Babs looked unconvinced.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I want to wear a corset, or solve a murder, or both. And if that means I have to audition then so be it.’

‘Fine,’ said Babs, sounding annoyed that I was being so forceful. ‘I’ll make some calls.’

‘Good,’ I said. I was proud of myself for not backing down for once. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and learn how to tango.’

As soon as I got to rehearsal I found myself relaxing. It was just so easy to be with Patrick, even if he was being a bit grumpy. Cora was busy today, so it was just the two of us in the studio, stomping around to the Amy Winehouse song we were dancing to.

‘You look exhausted,’ Patrick said as we took a break for a drink a bit later.

I grimaced.

‘I really am,’ I said. ‘It’s so full on at the moment, but Babs says it’s all going to help me in my quest to become a “serious actress”.’

I made what I considered to be a “serious actress” face and Patrick chuckled.

‘Cora’s worried about you overdoing it,’ he said.

‘Oh, bless her.’ I opened my water bottle and drank some. ‘She’s such a sweetheart. I’ve hardly seen her this week, actually. I must pop up and say hello later.’

‘I was hoping we’d have some news about Donnie,’ Patrick said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. ‘Actually, let me just check if it’s arrived …’ I went to the loo, and when I came back Patrick was staring at his phone, an odd expression on his face.

‘What is it?’ I said. ‘Has your login arrived? Can you get on to the archive site?’

‘Yes and yes,’ Patrick said.

‘So what’s wrong? Have you found Donnie?’

Silently Patrick handed me the phone. On the screen was the service record of Donald Jackson. And across the top was stamped ‘killed in service’.

‘Oh, no,’ I said, covering my mouth with my hand. ‘Oh, no. He died? Donnie died?’

Patrick nodded.

‘He died,’ he said. ‘Right before the end of the war, I guess. Which seems kind of cruel.’

I started to cry.

‘Oh, Patrick,’ I said. ‘What are we going to tell Cora?’

Chapter Forty-One

We didn’t feel much like dancing after that. Instead, we went back to my flat and settled down with my laptop to see if we could find out more.

Donnie pulled up the military records website again, entered the login he’d been sent and we stared once more at Donnie’s details.

‘So he didn’t go AWOL, after all?’ I said, confused. ‘That’s strange. Cora said her friend went to find him after their wedding, and no one knew where he was. But according to this he died in action …’

Patrick frowned.

‘Yes, that is kinda odd. I wonder if we can find the date he died and the location? That might help us figure it out.’

He clicked on Donnie’s name, typed in a few more details, and a new page of information came up.

‘What does it say?’ I said. We were sitting on the sofa and I was cross that I couldn’t see the screen properly. I wriggled in behind Patrick and leant on his back so I could see everything that was written down.

‘Curiouser and curioser,’ Patrick said. I gave him a quizzical look and he nudged me. ‘That’s what Alice says when she gets to Wonderland,’ he said. ‘You heathen.’

I giggled.

‘Never read it,’ I said, unashamed. ‘What does it say about Donnie?’

‘It says he died in London,’ Patrick said.

I stared at him.

‘But there wasn’t fighting in London,’ I said.

‘There were bombs,’ Patrick pointed out. ‘But not right at the end of the war, surely?’

‘Maybe this isn’t our Donnie,’ I said. ‘Find out when he died – if he died before Cora met him, then we’ll know. She said they didn’t get together until 1944. Have you got that paper?’

Patrick nodded. He bent down and pulled a sheet of paper out of the side pocket of his bag. Cora had written down all the information we needed to know about Donnie – his name, his rank, the dates he was stationed in England – and the date of their wedding that never was.’

I peered at Cora’s neat writing.

‘Yes, they definitely didn’t know each other until 1944,’ I said. ‘When did this Donald Jackson die?’

‘Oh,’ Patrick said. ‘Oh, shit. Let me see those dates.’

I gave him the paper, my heart beginning to pound. How silly to be so invested in the life of someone I’d never met. But it was someone who was important to someone I cared about, I supposed, which made it worthwhile.

‘Shit,’ Patrick said again. I poked him.

‘What?’ I said. ‘What?’

‘Cora and Donnie were meant to get married on 26 March 1945, according to her,’ Patrick said.

‘Right …’

‘But Donnie died on 25 March.’

I felt sick.

‘He died right before the wedding?’ I said.

‘Seems so.’

‘That’s why he didn’t turn up. But why didn’t anyone tell her he’d died?’ I said, bewildered. ‘Why did they just leave her standing at the church, waiting?’

Donnie shrugged.