The House of Memories (12 page)

D
ear Diary,

Hi, it’s Jess!

I’m all set! I’m leaving in three days!

I’ve already e-mailed all the London theater agents and have a long list of contacts to follow up. I’ve got all my press clippings. I’ve got references from my teachers. I’ve even downloaded a show reel onto my iPhone and I’m thinking about setting up my own YouTube channel!

I’ve Googled the UK weather and also all the main boutiques to see what the style is in London this time of year. It’s supposed to be nearly spring there but compared to here it’s COLD. And proper cold, not Melbourne-cold. But I double-checked the contents of my wardrobe against some of the other fashion sites and I think I will be right there with the look. Dad said he will give me a fashion allowance—he is SO sweet—but I said, maybe it’s time we Melbourne girls taught the Londoners about real style! He’s often said that if I wasn’t going to be a musical theater star, I could probably be a fashion designer and I think he’s right, but I’m going to give it my best shot in the West End and if it doesn’t work out—no, I can’t think like that, my counselor says I have to stop any negative thoughts coming into my head, because thoughts come true and affect everything in your life so you have to stay positive and keep looking forward, not dwell on the past or on things that can’t be changed no matter how much you want to change them. IT WILL WORK OUT.

SO!!!! My big decision now is which of my audition pieces I want to rehearse before I leave. I talked to my teacher today and she lived in London for a bit in the nineties (ancient times!!) and she said that I have a great chance there on account of my special talents, but she does say that about everyone. Still, Mum and Dad say that I have the extra something onstage that makes people want to look at me!!! The other students are a bit jealous, I know, because I also have the extra profile from being on TV with Mum. Sometimes after our concerts, everyone else just stands around while I’m there signing autographs—for the little kids especially, or sometimes their mums or a couple of times their dads. (But between you and me, Diary, the dads can be a bit creepy. One of them said, “If I put my phone number there, would you ring me?” “Why would I ring you?” I said. I really didn’t get it. “Ring me and you’ll find out,” he said, and he gave me THE creepiest wink. I was glad when Mum came up then. She flirted with him a bit but she does with everyone, I know it’s part of her act, and then luckily Dad came up too and I was actually glad to leave.)

I broke up with my boyfriend today. Well, he wasn’t really my boyfriend. We’d been out a few times and he was nice, but mostly he liked going out with me so he could tell his friends he was going out with me. I’m not being a victim here or being bigheaded, that’s just the truth of it. Mum has already given me a talking-to about “sharks” in London. She actually calls them sharks! “There are sharks out there, Jess, who would like to take advantage of a pretty girl like you.” Before I knew it, I’d told her the truth: “Mum, they already have! I haven’t exactly been a nun, even if I was taught by them for seven years!!!!!!”

Well, that unleashed a hornet’s nest, or whatever the saying is. Mum said, “Jess, I think we need to talk.” So we did. I think she was actually a bit shocked to find out I’d had sex. (Mum, I’m nearly twenty-three. Get with the program!!) [Note to self—edit this from final autobiography?? Don’t want to hurt Mum’s feelings.] I did it for the first time when I was seventeen, ages ago now. I’d thought about it beforehand and he didn’t put any pressure on me (not like Tennille’s boyfriend who told everyone she was frigid until she would sleep with him). With us—I’ll call him Mr. X (because his name was Xavier, hahahaha!)—it was actually pretty romantic, especially compared to what I’ve heard some other girls say about their first time. He was more nervous than me, I think, till we got going.

The good thing was I’ve always felt pretty good about my body. You have to, if you’re a dancer and looking at yourself in the mirror all the time, and the other thing was—this might sound a bit calculating—I really wanted to lose my virginity ASAP so I could play more roles. I could hardly audition for a sexy part in, like,
Chicago
or
West Side Story
if I’d never actually done it myself, could I?? I mean, of course I could, I’d act it, but I knew it would bring much more of a sense of authenticity to the role if I had actually experienced it. That’s why some of the best actors in the world are old ladies like Judi Dench and Maggie Smith and Meryl Streep, my drama teacher said, because they have actually experienced life and so when they need to portray an emotion all they have to do is look back through their life to a time when they actually felt like that and just copy it! Acting is amazing! It helps of course if you like people looking at you, and I do, but I wouldn’t be trying for a life on the stage as a career if I didn’t think I was doing the best I could. This all hasn’t been handed to me on a plate, either, no matter what some people might think. I’ve worked really hard for all the roles I’ve been given and I practice for hours every day and that’s what’s paying off for me now.

One of the girls at dance class was horrible today. “You’re only going to London because your parents are rich and can afford it. It’s nothing to do with talent.” She just came up and said it to me. I couldn’t believe it.

“I’ll let the West End producers be the final judge of that, not you,” I said, before I walked away haughtily. (I really did look haughty. I reenacted it in front of the mirror later!)

It’s vicious in the theater world sometimes, it really is. I know onstage we all look like we’re the best of friends and we’re all smiles and dances and hugs and bows at the end of every show, but it can be really nasty and people who you think are your friends sometimes turn on you and say the meanest things about you. Last year, after Canberra, after I eventually came back to my classes, I didn’t tell anyone about what had happened, but I found out a few weeks afterward that the head of the college had called everyone together to explain, and asked them to be understanding. And they were, most of them. At first, it made it worse. Everyone saying, “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, Jess, you poor thing,” and I couldn’t stop myself, I kept saying, “It was an accident, it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t mean it to happen,” and one girl said, “Of course it was an accident. Who would deliberately do something that horrible?” I took a couple of days off after that, and Mum went in to see the head again and it got a bit better then—no one talked about it at all and I was glad, I think. Except for one night when we were at a party to mark end of term and a few people were drinking, and this guy, he can be mean when he has too much to drink, he came up—and I think he used to have a bit of a crush on me, he asked me out a few times anyway and I always said no—and this night he came up and said, “You’ve had a pretty rough time this year, Jess,” and I said, “Yes, I have,” because that’s one of the pieces of advice my counselor gave me as well, acknowledge what has happened, and that will help you accept it. So that’s all I said to him. I thought he was being nice and sympathetic, but then he kept going on and on at me, and finally he said, “So what actually happened?”

“There was an accident,” I said.

“But afterward, I mean. What did your sister say to you?”

I interrupted him there, and said, “She’s my half sister.” I still don’t know why I had to say that. I think I just wanted to stop him saying what I knew he was going to say next.

He said, “Okay, what did your half sister say to you afterward?”

“What do you think she said?” I asked him, as calmly as I could. He wanted to upset me and I wouldn’t let him. So I acted. I acted as hard as I could, pretending I wasn’t bothered, trying to cover up how I actually felt, which was like crying and running out of there, but the others were looking over and whispering and I had an awful feeling someone had dared him to come over to talk to me to see if they could upset me.

Then he said, “She must really hate you.”

I didn’t even have to think about my reply to that. “Yes, she does.”

He was a bit shocked at how cool I was being, I know. But it was easy. I was telling the truth. Ella does hate me.

He didn’t stop there, though. “What about the baby’s father? Does he hate you too?”

I couldn’t handle any more. I told him to mind his own business. I went home early.

A week later, it all came up again. It was worse. I was in the toilet, in the cubicle, and two other girls came in and they were talking about me, saying that the gossip was I’d been having an affair with Aidan and that Ella had found out and there was a huge fight and I took their baby out in a jealous rage and—

I never knew that people could be so cruel, but they can.

I’ll be glad to leave this place. Not just the college, but Melbourne and Australia. It will do me good to have a fresh start in London. It’s really exciting. Mum and I are going shopping for clothes tomorrow and tonight Dad and I are going to sit down with Google Earth and look at a few areas where I might be able to rent an apartment. He hasn’t said yet that he will pay my rent while I’m in London but I have a Good Feeling that he might!! He’s putting me up in a hotel first, just until I find my feet. He is so proud of me. He tells me all the time. It’s SO sweet.

Time for my beauty sleep. Good night, Diary!!!

Jess xxxxoooo

I
t was two degrees below freezing in Washington DC.

Aidan O’Hanlon turned up the collar of his coat as he walked out of the Washington Convention Center and up Seventh Street, avoiding a group of elderly Japanese tourists alighting from a bus. He’d been there a month, but the changeability of the weather from one day to the next still took him by surprise. Yesterday had been like Paris in the spring, the majestic buildings, boulevards and parks bathed in sunshine, the sidewalks a jostle of tourists and locals. Today the sky was slate gray, the wind like a blade, the mood on the streets brisk, not relaxed.

His head was aching, as much from the cold as from a long day of concentration. His new job in one of the city’s largest translation agencies was well paid, but the hours were long. Since he’d arrived, he’d had to switch between French, Spanish, Italian and German, interpreting for clients in conferences, trade meetings and media interviews, on subjects as diverse as cultural exchanges, import trade agreements and international road safety.

Today’s client was from Milan, a representative of the Italian textile industry, in Washington to discuss tariffs and import regulations. After a successful day of negotiations, they’d gone for a drink. He’d realized midway through the first glass that the client, a woman in her late thirties, was interested in more than his language skills. He’d made his excuses and left.

It happened occasionally, not just to him, but to his colleagues too. There was something intimate about the interpreting process. Not during conference work, when it involved sitting in a booth above the conference room, providing simultaneous interpretation of the proceedings for the non-English-speaking delegates, who simply had to flick a switch on the desk in front of them to hear their own language. One-on-one interpreting like today involved hours of close contact with a client, working side by side, speaking softly into his or her ear, concentrating, listening, interpreting. Every word was important, finding the right meaning essential. There was no way of preparing beforehand either. He’d once spent a day with an Italian author on a promotional tour in the UK, the last-minute job a favor to another interpreter friend. He hadn’t had time to read the book, a study of Renaissance poets, but for those eight hours and six interviews, he became an instant expert, translating thoughts and theories that the author had spent more than ten years researching. He’d forgotten it all within hours.

“You’re like a butterfly,” Ella had joked once. “Flitting from subject to subject, flower to flower.”

Ella.

As always, his thoughts brought him back to Ella.

He kept walking until he was back at his apartment. It was small but comfortable, on the first floor of a house on P Street, near Logan Circle. He came in, threw his coat on the sofa, took off his tie, poured a beer. He lit a cigarette and slowly smoked it, standing out on the small balcony, shivering. He’d told the landlord he was a nonsmoker and he still thought of himself as one. This didn’t count. It was a ritual, not a habit. There was a difference.

Afterward, he walked into the kitchen. The cupboards and the fridge were almost empty. There were too many restaurants nearby offering takeout. He already knew most of their menus by heart. He had a routine that he followed after work every night. One cigarette, one beer, dinner, an hour’s writing, bed. It kept him calm. It was a way of getting through each day.

Picking up the phone to order, he noticed the light flashing on his answering machine. He wondered why the agency hadn’t called him on his cell phone. Even his mother rang him on that number these days. He pressed the play button.

“Aidan, it’s Lucas.” A pause. “Lucas in London. Can you call me?”

It was about Ella. Something had happened to Ella. There was no other reason for Lucas to phone. Aidan reached for his address book and found Lucas’s number. His hands were shaking. It took him two attempts to get the UK code right. Lucas answered on the third ring.

Aidan cut across him. “Lucas, it’s Aidan. Is it Ella? Has something—”

“She’s fine, Aidan. She’s here with me.”

“In London? She’s in London?”

“She arrived three days ago. I’ve offered her a job and she’s accepted.”

“As your researcher? Your housekeeper?”

“A bit of both.”

His heart rate began to slow. “And is she—” He tried again. “How is she?”

“She’s fine.” A pause. “No, she’s not. She’s just the same as you.”

Aidan didn’t reply. He had a thousand questions. He couldn’t ask any of them.

Lucas lowered his voice. “Aidan, I know Charlie’s been in touch with you. And that you’re meeting up. He’s going to make a suggestion, and I want to give you time to make up your mind. We both think you should come to London as soon as you can. While Ella is here.”

“Lucas, I appreciate what you’re both trying to do, but—”

“Think about it. Please. It might be different here, both of you away from—”

Aidan heard someone in the background. A woman. It was Ella. Ella had come into the room in London. She was a telephone line away. He could ask Lucas to hand over the phone. He could talk to her, say something to the real Ella, not the imaginary one he thought about every day—

Lucas spoke again. “Thank you for your call, but I’m not interested.” His tone was formal, businesslike. The line cut out.

After a minute, Aidan put the phone back in its cradle. He changed his mind about ordering dinner. He wasn’t hungry anymore. He stood for a moment, looking out the window. Then he went to his desk, opened his laptop and started writing.