The Waitress (21 page)

‘Henry.’

‘Christopher Eccleston? Shit, he’s Doctor Who. Rufus Sewell maybe? Hmm.’ He went off into an elaborate daze. Jon took a breath and Dick pre-interrupted him. ‘We need
to
get going. Publishers need to know your name. Booksellers need to know your name. Broadsheets need to know your name. You know why?’

‘Why?’

‘So the
readers
get to know your name.’ He pointed at Jon and started a slow, clever laugh. ‘You beginning to get the picture?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Good man.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jon.

‘Thank you,’ said Dick Higgins. ‘You got the talent, I got the experience, contacts, know-how. Teamwork, see?’

‘I see.’

‘Call me by five,’ said Dick standing up and putting his hand out.

‘I can tell you now if you want,’ said Jon standing up and shaking the hand.

Dick paused, keeping Jon’s hand gripped in his.

‘Think about it.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘You know what they say. Act in haste, repent at leisure.’

Jon gave him a wide smile. No repenting here mate, he thought, and left the interview.

Later that day, sitting in a casting studio in the middle of a vast, dusty, echoing room on a wooden chair, her hands on a pretend steering wheel, Sukie was having less success at the Circle of Attention than Jon.

‘I want you to imagine,’ the casting director told her, ‘that you’re looking out of the window and suddenly, you see the image of your loved one. And you smile. Inwardly.’

The woman looked at her watch.

Sukie rested her hands on her lap.

‘Won’t I crash?’

The casting director looked up. ‘Hm?’

‘Well, if I’m driving,’ said Sukie, ‘and I suddenly look out of the window . . .’

‘Well just imagine you’re at the lights then.’

‘At the lights. Right.’

‘Oh and it’s raining.’

‘Raining. Right.’

Sukie turned back from the casting director. She imagined the straight-backed wooden chair was a comfortable driving seat. She imagined the vast empty space in front of her was a car dashboard. She imagined the sun throbbing into the room was sheet rain. She imagined there was a loved one in her life who phoned her regularly just to tell her he loved her. She imagined that the six-foot tall, eight-stone-heavy models sitting in the waiting room outside wouldn’t be able to smile inwardly like her. She imagined she was a successful actress at the RSC and the casting agent had bought tickets just to see her give the famous inward smile critics had been raving about. And then, to finish the picture, she imagined she wasn’t wearing a Beach Barbie outfit.

Slowly, she turned to her side, imagined seeing the face of a loved one (for some reason the image of Bo Peep popped up, which meant more acting than the casting agent would ever know) and she gave an inner smile of love, warmth, reflection and contentment, hoping to God that the inner scream of despair wasn’t peeking through. And she kept smiling. And then, she kept on smiling.

‘Can we have it a bit more inwardly please.’

She stopped smiling.

‘And now a little bit more.’

She tried to smile somewhere in the middle. She could hear birdsong in the nearby park and decided to take a stroll there after the audition. Oh, and maybe she’d do some shopping.

‘Are you thinking of your loved one?’ asked the casting agent.

‘Yes,’ smiled Sukie, inwardly.

And silence again.

‘OK,’ sighed the casting director, ‘You can stop smiling now.’

‘For good?’ murmured Sukie, but the casting director didn’t hear her and she left the audition, grimacing, inwardly, all the way home.

That evening they all met at Jon’s flat.
EastEnders
was on telly with the sound off and Katie knew she would always remember this moment. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her hand on its frame. Sukie held on to the other side, and they squeezed hands in the middle. In the living room in front of them, Jon stood with his back to them, concentrating on the conversation he was having on the phone. They watched, unmoving.

‘My only concern,’ he said into the phone, ‘is the percentage.’

They held their breath.

‘I confess,’ Jon said – and they squeezed hands tighter – ‘that 15 per cent feels like an awful lot of money.’

‘Right. Right. Right. Right.’ Jon nodded into the
phone
, treading a spot in the carpet with his left foot on every nod which made him look like a nervous chicken.

Sukie loosened her grip on Katie’s hand but Katie, the optimist between them, the café manager, held fast.

‘Right. I see,’ said Jon. ‘Obviously.’

Pause.

Sukie closed her eyes and turned into the kitchen. Katie watched Jon alone. She would not miss this. She would one day say to her grandchildren that she had witnessed the world famous novelist Jon Barrister getting his agent.

‘I appreciate it. No. I understand. Thank you.’

She joined Sukie in the kitchen. They made a cup of tea and agreed that they would be positive with him. They would show him the Blitz spirit. They would not let him get downhearted. They would get him chocolate and beer.

He walked in. They looked at him. He ran his hands through his hair and over his face, as if washing under a shower.

‘Well?’ asked Sukie.

‘I . . . I . . .’

‘
Well
?’ asked Katie.

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ shouted Sukie. ‘What happened?’

‘I’ve got an agent,’ whispered Jon. ‘Richard Miller. Richard Miller is my agent.’

Katie whooped and then cheered. Then she cheered and whooped. She hugged Jon and then slapped him on the face to make him join in. She resented doing it all
alone
. He whooped and cheered. Then she turned to Sukie, who remembered she was with people and joined in too.

‘He said everyone’s on fifteen per cent,’ said Jon, taking some of the wine Katie had just poured, ‘even Dylan Edwards.’

The girls squealed. Dylan Edwards! Would there be parties? Would they be invited? Did this mean he was now a member of Groucho’s?

This continued until Jon had to go to do his shift at the bar and the girls found themselves in the kitchen drinking their wine alone.

‘Shit,’ said Katie shaking her head.

‘Mm,’ smiled Sukie.

‘It’s unbelievable.’

‘Mm,’ said Sukie.

‘I mean I don’t mean it’s
unbelievable
, I mean . . . it’s UNBELIEVABLE.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s going to do it.’

‘Mm.’

‘He’s bloody well going to do it.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Do you think he’ll remember us when he’s famous?’ asked Katie.

‘He’ll remember me,’ said Sukie.

‘Cheers.’

‘Because I’m going to tattoo my name on his face.’

Katie laughed.

‘And then,’ finished Sukie, washing up her glass, ‘maybe I’ll get a job.’

Katie stopped laughing. ‘You know,’ she said suddenly, because the thought had only just occurred to her. ‘I never realised my twenties would be this hard.’

14

Two hours and two bottles of wine later, Sukie and Katie had put the world to rights. The reason their twenties felt hard, they decided, was because they had never had to fight political oppression, famine, drought, earthquake or flood, genocide or even very severe weather conditions. They would not live their lives in service, in poverty or pain; their lives would not be full of – nor foreshortened by – relentless pregnancies. Television would entertain them when they did not have the energy, time or money to entertain themselves. Medication would help them should they find themselves not in a constant state of happiness. Their twenties were hard because, they concluded, they were so damned lucky.

Sukie tutted and shook her head. ‘Typical,’ she said. ‘Too many choices. Too many expectations. Too much . . .’ she searched for the right word.

‘Mm,’ said Katie.

‘You know what I
really
want?’ asked Sukie suddenly. ‘To make me
really
happy?’

‘A pink duffle coat?’

‘I want life to be easy.’

‘Mm,’ smiled Katie. ‘Easy.’

‘Like it is for some people.’

‘Mm.’

‘I mean there are some people in this world who literally have nothing to worry about.’

‘Like who?’

‘The Duke of Edinburgh.’

Katie frowned. ‘He’s got family worries, and he’s not getting any younger.’

‘All right. Dan Crichton.’

Katie made a sort of growling noise.

‘Yes,’ said Sukie. ‘Life’s easy for the likes of him.’

Sukie was right. Life was easy for some. Some people had no money worries, no health worries and no relationship worries. They didn’t borrow trouble by fearing an uncertain future, they didn’t blight the present by dwelling on the past. They didn’t compare themselves with others. They didn’t ponder life’s conundrums nor regret its mistakes. They believed in fate and horoscopes and they thanked their lucky stars. They accepted whatever life threw at them and lived for the moment. And they stayed in a lot.

While Sukie and Katie drank themselves into a fuzzy blur, Dan Crichton drove himself to Geraldine’s. He parked and walked to her door without noticing. Should he ever be in the unlucky position of having to give a statement as to how he got from the car to his girlfriend’s flat, he would not be able to do it without the assistance of video evidence.

He had a key, but never used it if Geraldine was in. He pressed the buzzer and massaged his temples while he
waited
, realising that every facial muscle was tense. The entrance mechanism buzzed and he pushed open the heavy door and walked up the communal stairs. As usual, her front door was ajar and, to the sounds of her finishing off her toilette, he entered the haven that was her flat.

Cream sofas perched, as if only temporarily, amidst desert-like stretches of real oak floor, and in the background Vivaldi violins pranced recklessly as if the adult violins had left the room.

It was strange coming back into Geraldine’s life. At times it felt like he’d never left, and at others he wondered if he’d ever feel part of it. After he’d finished their relationship, during a particularly unpleasant Gerry mood which had lasted a week and had made him feel as if a metal door had slammed in his face, he’d only been to the flat once, and that was for Sandy’s engagement party. Then, when they’d started dating again, it had become the flat they spent most time in. Gerry didn’t enjoy staying over at his place and he understood. Her flat was bigger, trendier and more comfortable, and it had all her cosmetics in it.

He looked over to the far corner where a Bang & Olufsen television stood. That was where he’d met Katie. He picked up the remote lying on the sofa and turned on the set.

‘There’s wine in the fridge!’ called out Geraldine.

‘Right.’

He walked into the kitchen where he poured one glass for her, knowing his ulcer wouldn’t let him drink until he’d eaten.

She entered the kitchen and smiled radiantly at him.

‘Hello, MD!’ she greeted and gave him a big hug.

‘Hello,’ he said, wondering if an MD should feel better than this.

‘I’ve booked the table,’ she said, pulling away and finishing her hair. ‘We either had to see the film at six or eat at seven, so I plumped for the latter option.’

‘Fine.’

‘I assumed you’d be hungry first and then we could see the film later.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Right. Let’s go then.’

Switching off the television, Dan, feeling slightly lighter already, followed as Geraldine led the way.

At dinner Geraldine gave a tale of woeful budget-pinching at the large furniture store in central London where she worked as a buyer, with much dissecting of her boss Bryan, whom she admired and resented in equal measure. Dan fell asleep during the film, which in his books made it a good one. It wasn’t until much later, when they were lying in Geraldine’s kingsize bed, that the conversation turned reassuringly familiar.

Geraldine had spoken to her mother, who lived in Sweden with her new husband, earlier today.

‘It’s so funny,’ Geraldine murmured into the dark, ‘Mummy keeps going on about your intentions.’

He gave a lazy chuckle. ‘You make me sound like some Victorian suitor.’

He knew immediately that the silence emanating from Geraldine was not a good silence. She had not fallen asleep. She was not smiling. She was sending over an Active Silence, made more active by the surrounding
pitch-black
. It was a silence only Geraldine could do and it squeezed his heart with its usual icy hand.

‘It’s not like we’re in our thirties is it?’ he asked, pretending he hadn’t noticed the icy grip.

‘Hah!’ laughed Geraldine, feigning delight at this answer. ‘We wouldn’t be together in our thirties if you hadn’t made your intentions clear by then, I can tell you that for nothing.’

‘Who’s that talking?’ asked Dan. ‘You or your mother?’

‘Oh that’s me,’ said Geraldine lightly. ‘No point in wasting time if it’s not going anywhere. Not this time anyway. It’s not the same relationship, remember? Same people, different relationship.’ She repeated her mantra, and then turned away from him on to her side, her back a barricade. She couldn’t have had more of an effect if she’d whisked the mattress from under him, thrown him out of the window and left him lying on the pavement.

He thought about the months he’d spent without her. How he’d ended up on a date with someone who’d walked out halfway through. How he’d never felt so alone as that night and had actually cried before falling asleep. And how when Geraldine had phoned the next morning, completely by chance, just to say hi, he’d felt like he’d been saved from drowning.

‘I suppose,’ he whispered into the dark, still pretending he hadn’t noticed the ice and the barricade, ‘it’s nice to know how it’s all going to end.’

The sheets rustled and he felt Geraldine’s warm body curl up into him. He buried his hand in her hair.

‘Mm,’ she said, sliding a leg between his and uncurling. ‘It must be.’

‘And this,’ he murmured, as he stretched the length of his body against hers, ‘must be the perfect way to end it.’