Lucky Break (6 page)

‘No, it's fine. Sorry.' And they turned away from each other and tried to block out the moans and cries of Charlie and Rob as they crashed about in the room below.

The next day Charlie's door was firmly closed when Nell and Dan got up for college, and later when she arrived home – having endured a day of searing headaches and accusing looks from Jemma, and Jemma's closest friends – Charlie was lounging, smoking, on the sofa. ‘Can you believe it?' She tossed over her pack of cigarettes. ‘He's back for good! I hope you don't mind, I mean you can stay till the weekend, of course, but then, you're going to have to find somewhere else.'

Nell stared at her. ‘But . . .'

Charlie crawled across the carpet to her. ‘He's dumped her. Isn't that great? He's said he's sorry.' She grinned. ‘Said it about ten times in fact. But anyway, how was last night?'

‘Last night?'

‘Dan? How was it?' Her face was starry with expectation.

‘Great.' Nell gathered herself. She even smiled. ‘Really good.'

‘So aren't you going to thank me?' She put her head on one side. ‘For getting you two together?'

‘Oh yes. Of course. Thanks.' Hurriedly, Nell got up and went into her room, where, unsure what else to do, she kicked her foot so hard against the fire that the cracked pieces fell out on to the floor, leaving nothing but the gas pipe and two camel humps of wire.

The Festival

It was hot in London, dense and languid, but in Edinburgh the sunshine was glassy, spiked with ice. Nell shivered in her summer clothes, her sandals clacking against cobbles as she scrutinised the festival map. She turned it round, traced the emerald oblong of the park, the straight avenue of Princes Street, the Royal Mile in narrow parallel above it, and then, no clearer, she folded it into her pocket and prepared to climb the steep grey hill that led up towards the castle. By the time she reached the top the breeze had turned her legs to goosebumps and her heels were nicked and torn. She pulled the map out again, puzzled over it, attempted to fill in the missing, theatre-less streets, even asked directions from a passer-by, a man in a tartan beret, who turned out to be Danish. ‘It's all right, don't worry,' she called, as he began to unfurl his own unwieldy map, and she hurried on, cutting between the houses, dragging her bag down a steep gulley of steps and then hauling it up again until she emerged in a crescent of tall houses. It was cooler than ever amidst so much stone, and the air smelt sweet and bitter as if something were being brewed up in a giant pot. Below her fell another flight of steps and from here she could see the gauge of the railway line she'd left behind, with trains like glinting streams, the rails as sleek as silver. Carefully she made her way towards it, thinking she'd start again, and found herself unexpectedly in the road that she'd been searching for, and there, halfway along, was the venue – MacDillons.

MacDillons looked closed and shabby, its neon sign switched off, but when she leant against the door it opened. Inside were shapes and shadows, and the pale moon of a woman's face, rushing towards her as the door fell back. ‘Shhh,' her hands flew up as wood and metal crashed, too late, and then noticing her bag, the woman softened. ‘We're about to start the run-through. You must be Nell. Come in. Sit down.'

 

There were four actors in the play, two men and two women, and they were all American. They circled around each other, flirting, worrying, caught up in lies and misunderstandings and occasional simulated acts of sex. There was a tall, lolloping actor and a short neat one, and each time they stood beside each other, it was impossible not to laugh. The women regarded these men with pity, confiding in each other that they might have married the wrong people, but all the same, when one woman tested out this theory with the other's husband, it led to a mighty scene of retribution which involved the small actor huddling naked in an oversized bed, while the two women hurled objects at each other, and then, when he tried to intervene, at him. A cushion, a book, and a lethal-looking stiletto, which he managed to dodge before being rescued by his friend – a frilly pink nightie hiding his vanity as he was carried swooning from the stage.

‘Well done. All of you. Well done!' The beaming director stepped out of the shadows, the lights came on, and applauding people uncurled from the darkness.

Nell stood beside her bag and clapped, and when that no longer seemed appropriate she pretended to be transfixed by the set. ‘Aha, can this be Nell? Our budding actress?' The director had spotted her. He was a short, balding man, with a warm handshake. ‘I'm Dominic, we spoke on the phone.'

‘Yes.' Nell imagined he was comparing her to Hettie, who'd had this same job the year before. Handing out leaflets, running the box office, charming them all, Nell imagined, with her filthy sense of humour and her brazen smile. They'd asked her again, but Hettie's mother was ill and she'd gone back to Leeds to help take care of her.

‘So . . .' Dominic looked round. ‘You haven't met your partner in crime yet, have you?' and he called to a pale blonde girl, tall, in sneakers and white jeans, talking to the lolloping actor. ‘Cath. Over here a minute.'

The two girls greeted each other, and even while they smiled, Nell felt a pang of fear that she and Cath had not a single thing in common.

‘Right.' Dominic rubbed his hands. ‘This man here will tell you what to do.' He pointed to the stage manager, who nodded gruffly. ‘If you listen to him, you'll get along fine. We need you to drum up business, hand out leaflets, put up posters, walk the streets, sell your bodies if you think it'll help.' He gave a snorting sort of chuckle. ‘Basically, do whatever it takes to get bums on seats.'

Nell and Cath both nodded. ‘So . . .' Nell began, but Cath had turned away.

 

The actresses had changed out of their costumes, and now they moved breezily across the room, their long boots swishing under skirts, their arms weighed down with bags. ‘Sorry we can't stay and have supper.' They embraced their director – so self-assured and professional, and neither of them in fact American. ‘But we're going back to our digs to work on that monster of a bloody scene.'

‘You'll be marvellous.' Dominic kissed them both. ‘You are marvellous,' and once they were gone, he looked round for the men. ‘Snakeskin should be here in half an hour,' he told them. ‘Once they arrive we'll go and find somewhere to eat. Make them feel welcome.' He eyed Nell and Cath: ‘I hope you girls will come along too, but in the meantime, if you could stack the rest of those chairs, and if there's a broom somewhere . . . this place turns into a nightclub in an hour.'

The stage manager handed Nell a broom and went back to his clipboard, checking items off with a pencil as he collected up the props. She and Cath glanced at each other and together they trailed the room, gathering up the scattered chairs, stacking them into the corner, sweeping the dust-black floor. Dominic and the short, neat actor, Kyle, sat at the bar and opened wine. They hunched together and talked in great earnest about what worked and what didn't about the play, while Nell wondered what training Kyle had had and if he knew about the six basic character types, the conscious and unconscious states, and why so far at Drama Arts, no one had mentioned the importance of learning to do an American accent.

‘Girls,' the tall actor, Richard, was calling to them, ‘if you're finished, come and have a drink,' and so they went and stood over by the bar while Dominic poured out warm white wine. ‘Here's to us.' He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.'

Snakeskin didn't arrive till late. They'd called in from a service station to say their engine had overheated not far from the border. If they were careful they'd most probably make it without having to stop again.

‘Where will we eat?' Richard asked, concerned. ‘They're bound to be starving.' But Dominic waved his glass and said they'd find somewhere. ‘There's a little Italian on the corner. We can go there.'

They opened more wine and waited, perched on red velvet seats, watching as the nightclub staff arrived and adjusted the lighting, bathing the room in pools of pink. They tested the strobe above the dance floor, dimming the spots around the bar, so that finally, when the music blasted on, Dominic conceded defeat, and heaving himself up, bustled everyone out.

It was freezing on the street, the sun long gone, the sky grey with fading light. ‘Smell the sea air.' Dominic pointed his nose east, and they all turned to stare into the distance where the sea apparently lay. Nell shivered. All she could smell was the baking of potatoes from a Tasty Tatty booth at the end of the road. Her stomach contracted with hunger. ‘Shouldn't be long now,' Dominic said, and Nell wondered if she should unzip the bag at her feet and pull on a jacket and a pair of socks. I'll hold on, she decided, and she tucked her hands under her arms for warmth.

 

The mini-van hooted as it turned the corner. It rattled slowly over the cobbles, its windows rolled down, heads and hands stuck out. ‘Yoohoo,' voices called. ‘We're here! We made it.'

‘Well done!' Dominic strode towards the van. ‘Welcome,' and he yanked open the door. A tall boy staggered out, his legs stiff at the hips. He stood for a moment, grinning, and then he leant back in and pulled out two grey crutches. Next came a girl, delicate, in a delicate pink shirt, pushing a white stick before her, its fine end feeling for the pavement, sending small vibrating messages up to her white hand. The driver was unpacking a wheelchair from the back, and when he had it ready, he lifted out a man. The man seemed older than the others, with a proud dark face, long arms and huge, strong hands. The driver lifted him under his arms, and as he swung free of the van, Nell saw he had no legs. Instead of legs there were two bare feet protruding from a rolled-up pair of shorts. The feet were twisted, set at an odd angle, their soles turned upwards like palms.

‘Anish, my friend,' Dominic exclaimed. ‘Good to see you.'

Anish swept the welcoming party with his large black eyes. ‘Good to have finally fucking arrived.'

‘Are you all starving? What a journey that must have been.'

The driver was unpacking another wheelchair, and this time Dominic helped him as they shifted an older girl on to the stretched seat. ‘Helen,' he said. ‘Welcome.' And white-faced with exhaustion Helen nodded her thanks.

Now everyone was out they set off along the street, the driver pushing one wheelchair, Dominic the other, the tall boy lunging forward, the girl beside him, nosing her stick over the stones.

 

‘Shit.' Dominic held open the door to the Italian restaurant, behind which was a steep flight of steps leading into a basement. ‘Wait one minute. I'll see if there's any other way in.' He appeared a moment later. ‘Sorry, folks. Onwards. No wheelchair access here.' The party rolled downhill, craning their eyes for somewhere open. They found a bistro, its menu up in the window, and they crowded round, reading it for the blind girl, Amelia, and for Anish and Helen, neither of whom could see that high. ‘Anything vegetarian?' Amelia asked, but when they pushed open the door, a waitress hurried out to say that no, it was impossible, they were about to close, and anyway they didn't have the . . . amenities. She drew back, appalled, her eyes swerving away from the huddle of figures, taking one more look, despite herself, as she caught sight of Anish's bare brown flipper feet resting on the canvas seat of his chair.

‘Don't feel bad.' Anish shrugged as the door chimed shut. ‘We're used to terrifying the non crips,' and he spun his own wheels in his hands, and led the party on. They attempted two other places, a pub that was already full, and a fish and chip restaurant, the door of which was too narrow to fit a chair through.

‘Anyone fancy a baked potato?' Dominic asked, embarrassed, but Anish screeched to a stop. ‘Now you're talking!' And he began to heave back up the hill, while the others, heady with enthusiasm, hurried along beside him, chatting, laughing, telling jokes, flanked by the members of Dominic's company, mindful of the tangle of grey metal, the wheels and the thin white stick. ‘On me, on me, ladies and gentlemen.' Dominic was the first to arrive at the counter. ‘Whatever filling you like. Don't hold back, caviar, foie gras . . .' An air of supreme satisfaction settled over the party as, warm from their hike, they ate out on the street, scooping prawn cocktail and egg mayonnaise, cheese and beans, salad and tuna out of the hot buttery baked potato cases.

 

Nell's flat was up by the castle, on the top floor of a house whose front door opened, sideways, on to a sheer drop of steps. It had an unlived-in feel – with bare boards, cheap, undersized furniture, and in the sitting room, a row of curtainless windows facing the castle ramparts, through which shortly after eleven a burst of fireworks exploded into the sky. It was the culmination of the Edinburgh Tattoo, a spectacle of Scottish military might, kilts and sporrans, and bagpipe-players, marchers and drummers and flag-wavers, which took place every night. Nell stood at the window and watched the night sky crack open with a volley of rockets, their red and green flares ascending, the sparks falling into the ravine below. New flares went up, silver and blue, leaping like fountains, hissing and whirring, and then the rockets cracked again, shivering the window panes, echoing in the near empty rooms.