Lucky Break (35 page)

What do you mean? Dan felt all fear receding, you're still a kid? But he allowed the boy to clasp him by the shoulders. ‘That show. That meant the world to me. My Mom, she ran off too . . . and my Dad . . .' For a moment he looked as if he might be going to cry, but he pulled back and looked Dan in the eye. ‘I thought it was you. I drove round the block and had to stop. Hey,' he shouted towards the car in which sat a surly troupe of his friends. ‘It's him. It's Doody!'

‘Cool,' one of them shouted. And someone beeped the horn.

‘They know nothing. They never saw it. Hey man . . . that scene when you broke into the house.' He laughed, remembering. ‘They can't understand. It was you that kept me going.'

‘Right,' Dan made a vague gesture. ‘That's great. I'm glad. I'd better be getting on. Take care of yourself. And . . . you know what, mate . . . thanks.'

‘It's OK.' He was still smiling, wide as his whole face. ‘What a day!' And shaking his head he backed towards the car.

 

By the time Dan reached Starbucks Jemma was on the pavement, overseeing running races between Ben and Honey as if they were in a 1950s slice of black-and-white film.

‘How'd it go?' she said.

‘You know what,' he bent down to greet the twins who were strapped companionably into their double buggy, ‘I've no idea how it went. Apparently CBS can
really use me.
But the chances are I'll never hear from them again.'

Just then Dan's phone rang in his pocket. ‘Or maybe not.' It was Finola and he grinned at Jemma, his spirits soaring as he clicked it on.

‘Hey listen, Pammy's just called. Apparently you mentioned you had a real cute six-year-old daughter, well, they're looking for a little British girl for the lead in this new thing, it's a mixture between
Running with Wolves
, and you remember that Amish film? Well, she just thought . . . would Honey be available for a casting later today?'

‘Let me think . . .' Dan swallowed. ‘Actually, Finola, I'll have to get back to you about that. I'm just not sure. OK? I'll call you back.'

‘What was that about?' Jemma was looking at him.

‘Nothing.' Dan began to laugh. ‘The land of opportunity and adventure, eh.' He put his arm around her. ‘Right,' he shouted to the children who were squatting, professional as sprinters, on the pavement. ‘Ready, steady, GO,' and he watched them charge towards him, their feet pounding, their arms outstretched, each wanting to be the first to grasp at the charcoal lapels of his good suit.

The Reiki Master

When Charlie woke she couldn't think where she was. She could make out the grey silhouette of a window, offering no clues, a high-backed upholstered chair entwined with vines, and then, as she moved her head, a poster of a boy band Sellotaped to a lilac wall. She closed her eyes, and heard her father's lilting voice. ‘Charlotte? Are you up?'

Charlie, a child again, sank lower into the dip of her old bed, raising the ridge of one sharp shoulder, determined not to be disturbed. But the door eased open anyway and the sound of a teacup rattling on its saucer reached her ears. In an instant she remembered why she was here. ‘Daddy?' She sat up.

Her father crossed the room in his dark suit, his white hair startling against the blackness of his face. ‘Here,' he said. ‘Drink up.'

Charlie glanced at the bedside clock, and saw it was exactly seven. ‘Thanks,' she took a sip, imagining him, waiting, impatient to be allowed to wake her at what he considered this civilised hour. ‘I'll be down in a minute. I'll have a quick shower first.'

Charlie saw her father stiffen. The hospital was twenty minutes away. No visitors were allowed in till after nine, but even so, she could feel him fretting that she'd make him late. ‘I won't be long,' she yawned to hide her irritation, and slowly, he backed out into the hall.

The shower was new and powerful, the whole room, since she was last here, fitted out with a matching bathroom suite. Her mother had mentioned this refurbishment to her, even attempted to lure her in with a pretence of indecision over the colour of the tiles, but Charlie had refused to get involved. Now the decor made her laugh. A row of alternating limes and lemons stood out in relief around the bath. Why? Charlie could not imagine. And then, her hair swept into a turban, she leant in to try out the new mirror. From a distance the mirror looked sleek and caring, but as she leant closer it became apparent that a fluorescent tube had been set into the silver overhang, flooding the glass with unforgiving light. There were no actual spots, but one old scar was refusing to fade, leaving a patch of pigmentation that hollowed out one cheek. Shit, she cursed, reaching for a stick of concealer, and with one foot she slid the bathroom scales towards her. Several months ago she'd given up smoking, assured by everyone that this would help her skin, but instead, for the first time in her life, she'd discovered hunger. She'd always been uninterested in food, turning away, even as a young child, from the pale meals presented by her mother, so that pushing away her plate soon became a game of violent wills between them. And then at boarding school, the food really was disgusting, and by the time she left she'd already developed her passion for smoking, an activity that seemed so much simpler and more satisfying than the endless decisions about what to eat and when. What she hadn't realised was that her taste buds had been numbed by tar. Now they were emerging, snapping for new sensations, ravenous, so that in the last three months she'd put on more than half a stone. Everything tasted good. Fruit, chips, nougat – the silky vanilla taste of it as you tore it with your teeth – bread dunked into olive oil, chickpeas with cumin, even salad. Now as well as watching for her skin to flare, she had to be on guard against a constant desire to tear open a packet of pistachio nuts or heap cream cheese on to a cracker. Her stomach felt swollen, her skin was blotchy, and in panic she'd agreed to visit the homeopath whose number Nell had found for her. The homeopath, who was plump and mousy-haired, but undeniably serene, attached a wire to one toe, took a strand of hair, and after lengthy and expensive tests told her she was intolerant to wheat, dairy, chocolate, tomatoes, fried food, onions, alcohol, seafood and the orange seasoning on crisps. She typed the foods out in a long stern list.

For two weeks Charlie stuck to this restricted diet, sitting alone at home, eating vegetables and brown rice, until in a rebellious fit that included a bottle of red wine and a row over the phone with Rob, she threw away the list. Now she was smoking again, snacking on chocolate biscuits and chips, and she wasn't entirely sure that she felt worse.

 

Charlie and her father sat side by side in the hospital waiting room, leafing through magazines, staring round at optimistic prints of harvest time and sunflowers. They'd arrived too early, as Charlie knew they would, and she tried not to think of the coffee she might have brewed if her father had not already had his coat on when she came downstairs. The clocks, and there were many of them, hovered obstinately at half past eight. ‘She'll be ready for you in just a little while,' the receptionist told her father the second time he went to the desk to enquire. ‘Just take a seat and you'll be called.' She spoke slowly, patiently, as if he might not understand the language, and Charlie felt the stirrings of humiliation and rage that had dogged her as a child.

Eventually they were directed along a corridor, through swing doors, down a short flight of steps and on to a small, warm ward. Her mother was in a private room, in this private wing, but even so, with her hair brushed back, still obstinately blonde, and with a dab of lipstick on, she wasn't able to sit up. ‘Dear girl, you don't look too bad.' Her father pulled up a chair. ‘Not too bad at all.'

Not too bad! Charlie hung back. Couldn't he see the life that had gone out of her? The depleted figure, flattened in the bed, who must have been hiding all these years behind the intransigent, battling, obstinately cheerful mother that she thought she knew.

‘Mummy?' Charlie moved round to her other side. Tentatively she leant down for a kiss. Her mother smiled, surprised, and reached for her hand, and for the rest of the visit they stayed like that, Charlie's hip pressed against the bed frame, their fingers entwined.

 

‘She'll be out in a few days,' her father told her solemnly as they drove home, and although Charlie knew it was true, her mother's prognosis was good, the doctor's had assured them she had every chance of pulling through, Charlie felt herself dissolve. ‘Shhh now.' But she couldn't help it, she could feel the sorrow flooding through her, feel it stinging in the sinews of her heart and lungs. ‘Come now, come,' her father tried again as she stooped, sobbing into her hands, but her head had turned into a spongy mass of loss. Her father pulled into a lay-by where he drew out the white handkerchief he kept folded at all times, and pleased to finally have cause to use it, he pressed it on her. ‘Thank you.' She blew her nose in a satisfying stream. ‘Thanks,' and she savoured one last shudder.

 

Back in London the next day, Charlie rewrote her list. Wheat, dairy, fried food, chocolate, tomatoes, onions . . . What else? Oh yes. She threw the remaining Silk Cut into the bin, and then after a few minutes fished them out again and hid them at the back of a drawer. Alcohol.

She had an interview that afternoon for the part of a headmistress. Ridiculous, she muttered to herself, as she flicked through her wardrobe. She'd said to Maisie that she wasn't interested, surely she was too young, but Maisie had made her feel somehow that she had to go. There was a tone in her voice, a warning almost, that if she didn't go up for this, there might not be very much else around. Charlie found a narrow skirt she'd bought cheap on the last day of a TV film. She struggled into it, matching it with a silk shirt and a pair of heels that made her feel like a giraffe, so that after almost falling down the stairs, she kicked them off and swapped them for plimsolls. Now at least she could walk, and then it occurred to her that if she left early enough, she could walk into town. She had nothing else to do, and after checking her bag for make-up and enough money for a taxi in case her strength gave out, she set off for Soho.

It was May, and London was alive with sunshine. Windows gleamed, and tired men smiled, and the grime of Ladbroke Grove felt glamorous as she walked under the bridge. Even the black enamel of the funeral director's looked classic as a film. On the corner, by the pub, the flower stall was blazing. Roses in veils of spray, tulips, tightly bundled, sophisticated in burgundy and white, their more lurid, ragged cousins razor-edged in orange. Charlie stopped to admire the twists of daffodils in bud, breathe in the perfumed frills of the narcissi. ‘Can I help you, love?' the woman asked her, and Charlie sighed – she had no one to send flowers to. ‘No, that's all right,' and she walked on.

Why was she even going for this interview? she thought as she marched up the hill. She'd read the script and seen immediately there were only three decent parts – for girls, and she, of course, was grouped now with the older generation – the women. Charlie tugged down her skirt, and smoothed the already smooth surface of her chemically relaxed hair. It was five years since she'd worked with this director, and she braced herself against the shocked look in his eyes when he saw how much she'd changed. But when she arrived at the production office she was told she'd have to wait. ‘If you'd like to take a seat . . .' the receptionist said, ‘we're running late today,' and she handed Charlie a flimsy page of script. Charlie found a seat and bent her head to the lines: ‘
If I ever have to listen to such impertinence again
. . .' she read, but before she'd got any further a voice echoed back at her through the plasterboard partition. ‘If I Ever have to listen to Such Impertinence again . . .' The vowels were long, the rich tone, round, and then after a muffled interjection, they were offered again, longer, rounder, regal in their swoop.

Charlie stood up. ‘How long is it likely to be before I'm seen?'

‘Twenty minutes . . . at the least. I'm sorry.'

‘If I EVER . . .' The words were booming now ‘. . . have to LISTEN . . .' and as if to get away from the cascade of the next line Charlie nodded to the receptionist, mouthing that she'd be back, and set off at a sprint. She was still running when she reached Old Compton Street and only slowed to navigate the crush of people spilling over on to the road. She could stop for a coffee at Bar Italia, or at Patisserie Valerie for an éclair, but then she remembered the limitations of her diet, and walked on, crossing into Covent Garden, past the cheese shop with its great gourds of cheddar, and the dance studio where, before the idea of drama school occurred to her, she had once auditioned to be part of a dance troupe, entertaining passengers on a cruise. There was a health food shop at Neal's Yard she'd walked past a thousand times. Now she went in and bought herself a seed bar that looked unnervingly like dung, but which she had to admit, in her famished state, she found oddly delicious. As she chewed, she looked at her watch. If she turned round now she'd arrive back within the bounds of punctuality, but instead she found herself back inside the shop, buying a packet of dried fruit, and slowly, chewing on the hard heel of a pear, she walked on down Neal Street, passing the theatre on the corner, looking dreamily into clothes shops and hat shops and at the window display of crystals suspended on their threads of silk, splashing rainbows from their chiselled points. ‘Coming in?' A man stood in the doorway, shuffling cards, and Charlie smiled in what she hoped was a mysterious way and asked the price of an amethyst.