It’s never too late to follow your dreams …

Forty-year-old air stewardess Emily Forsyth thought she had everything a woman could wish for: a glamorous, jet-set lifestyle, a designer wardrobe, and a dishy pilot boyfriend. Until he breaks up with her …

Catapulted into a midlife crisis she wishes she’d had earlier, she decides to turn her life upside down, quitting her job and instead beginning to chase her long-held dreams of becoming an actress!

Leaving the skies behind her, Emily heads for the bright lights of London’s West End – but is it too late to reach for the stars?

Don’t miss this heart-warming and uplifting debut, perfect for fans of Colleen Coleman and Cate Woods!

The Start of Something Wonderful

Jane Lambert

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Jane Lambert 2018

Jane Lambert asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Excerpt from Three Sisters by Anton Chekhov, translation by Peter Carson, is reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.

The extract from Miranda by Peter Blackmore is used by the express permission of the publishers, Creselles Publishing Company Limited, Colwall.

Lines from On Golden Pond by Ernest Thomson by kind permission of Earl Graham at The Graham Agency, New York.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 978-0-00-828390-2

Version: 2017-12-12

JANE LAMBERT

taught English in Vienna then travelled the world as cabin crew, before making the life-changing decision to become an actor in her mid-thirties. She has appeared in ‘Calendar Girls’, ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time’ and ‘Deathtrap’ in London's West End. The Start of Something Wonderful is her debut novel.

This book is dedicated to

my mum, who believed I could write,

and to my dad, who told me to get on with it.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Acknowledgements

Endpages

PROLOGUE

Reasons for and against giving up the glitzy, glamorous world of flying:

Pros:

No more cleaning up other people’s sick.

No more 2 a.m. wake-up calls, jet lag, swollen feet/stomach or shrivelled-up skin.

No more tedious questions like, ‘What’s that lake/mountain down there?’ and ‘Does the mile-high club really exist?’

No more serving kippers and poached eggs at 4 a.m. to passengers with dog-breath and smelly socks.

No more risk of dying from deep vein thrombosis, malaria, or yellow fever.

No more battles with passengers who insist that their flat-pack gazebo will fit into the overhead locker.

No more wearing a permanent smile and a name badge.

No danger of bumping into ex-boyfriend and his latest ‘I’m-Debbie-come-fly-me’.

Cons:

No more fake Prada, Louis Vuitton, or Gucci.

No more lazing by the pool in winter.

No more ten-hour retail therapy sessions in shopping malls the size of a small island – and getting paid for it.

No more posh hotel freebies (toiletries, slippers, fluffy bathrobes etc.).

Holidays (if any) now to be taken in Costa del Cheapo, as opposed to Barbados or Bora Bora.

No more horse riding around the pyramids, imagining I’m a desert queen.

No more ice-skating in Central Park, imagining I’m Ali MacGraw in Love Story.

Having to swap my riverside apartment for a shoebox, and my Mazda convertible for a pushbike.

‘Cabin crew, ten minutes to landing. Ten minutes, please,’ comes the captain’s olive-oil-smooth voice over the intercom. This is it. No going back. I’m past the point of no return.

The galley curtain swishes open – it’s showtime!

I switch on my full-beam smile and enter upstage left, pushing my trolley for the very last time …

‘Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard? Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard?’

Have I taken leave of my senses? The notion of an actress living in a garret, sacrificing everything for the sake of her art, seemed so romantic when I gaily handed in my notice three months ago, but now I’m not so sure …

Be positive! Just think, a couple of years from now, you could be sipping coffee with Phil and Holly on the This Morning sofa …

Yes, Phil, the rumours are true … I have been asked to appear on Strictly Come Dancing. God only knows how I’ll fit it around my filming commitments though.

Who are you kidding? A couple of years from now, the only place you’ll be appearing is the job centre, playing Woman On Income Support.

This follow-your-dreams stuff is all very well when you’re in your twenties, or thirties even, but I’m a forty-year-old woman with no rich husband (or any husband for that matter) to bail me out if it all goes pear-shaped. Just as everyone around me is having a loft extension or a late baby, I’m downsizing my whole lifestyle to enter a profession that boasts a ninety-two per cent unemployment rate.

Why in God’s name, in this wobbly economic climate, am I putting myself through all this angst and upheaval, when I could be pushing my trolley until I’m sixty, then retiring comfortably on an ample pension and one free flight a year?

Something happened, out of the blue, that catapulted me from my ordered, happy-go-lucky existence and forced me down a different road …

‘It’s not your fault. It’s me. I’m confused,’ Nigel had said.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, almost choking on my Marmite soldier. ‘What’s suddenly brought this on? Have you met someone else?’

‘No-ho!’ he spluttered, averting his gaze, handsome face flushed.

‘But you always said we were so perfect together …’

‘That’s exactly why we have to split. It’s too bloody perfect.’

‘What? Don’t talk nonsense …’

‘I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s like I’ve pushed a self-destruct button and there’s no going back.’

‘Self-destruct button? I don’t understand. Darling, you’re not well. Perhaps you should get some help …’

‘Look, don’t make this harder for me than it already is. It’s time for us both to move on. And please don’t cry, Em,’ he groaned, eyes looking heavenward. ‘You know how I hate it when you cry.’

I grovelled, begged him not to go, vowing I’d find myself a nine-to-five job so we could have more together time, swearing that I would never again talk during Match of the Day – anything as long as he didn’t leave me.

Firmly removing my hands from around his neck and straightening his epaulettes, he glanced at his watch, swigged the dregs of his espresso, and said blankly, ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I’ve got to check in in an hour. We’ll talk more when I get back from LA.’

‘NO!’ I wailed. ‘You know very well that I’ll be in Jeddah by then. We’ve got to talk about this now. Nigel … Nigel …!’

For three days I sat huddled on the sofa in semi-darkness, clutching the Minnie Mouse he’d bought me on our first trip to Disneyland, as if she were a life raft. I played Gabrielle’s ‘You Used to Love Me’ over and over. I wondered if Gabrielle’s boyfriend had dumped her without warning, leaving her heartbroken and bewildered, and the pain of it all had inspired her. If only I had a talent for song writing, but I don’t, so I channelled my pain into demolishing a family-sized tin of Celebrations chocolates instead.

Cue Wendy, my best friend, my angel on earth. We formed an instant friendship on our cabin crew training course. This was cemented when she saved me from drowning during a ditching drill. (I’d stupidly lied on the application form, assuming that it didn’t really matter if I couldn’t swim, because if I were ever unfortunate enough to crash-land in the sea, there would surely be enough lifejackets to go round.)

‘Look, hon, this has got to stop,’ she said in an uncharacteristically stern tone, a look of frustration on her porcelain, freckled face. (As a redhead, Wendy has been religiously applying sunscreen since she first set foot on Middle Eastern soil as a junior hostess twenty years ago; whereas I would roast myself like a pig on a spit in my quest to look like a Californian beach babe.) ‘Okay, so it’s not a crime to scrub the toilet with his toothbrush, but who knows where that could lead? You’ve got to stop playing the victim before we have a Fatal-Attraction scenario on our hands.’

‘Eight years, eight years of my life spent waiting for him to pop the question, and now he’s moving out to “find himself”. I think I’m entitled to be a little upset, Wendy.’

Prising Minnie out of my hands and hurling her against the wall, she straightened my shoulders and looked deep into my puffy eyes.

‘I promise you that, in time, you will see you’re better off without that moody, selfish, arrogant …’

‘I know you never thought he was right for me, but there is another side to him,’ I said defensively. ‘He can be the most caring and sweet man in the world when he wants to - and I can’t bear the thought that we won’t grow old together,’ I sobbed, running my damp sleeve across my stinging cheeks.

‘Come on now; take off that bobbly old cardie. I’m running you a Molton Brown bath, and you’re going to wash your hair, put on your uniform and high heels, slap on some make-up and your best air hostess smile, d’you hear?’ she said, pulling back the curtains. ‘And while you’re in Jeddah, I want you to seriously think about where you go from here.’

‘But I want to be home when Nigel …’

‘You always said you didn’t want to be pushing a trolley in your forties, and how you wished you’d had a go at acting. Well, maybe this is a sign,’ she said gently, tucking a strand of greasy hair behind my ear. ‘It’s high time you did something for you. You’ve spent far too long fitting in with what Nigel wants.’

‘It’s too late to be chasing dreams,’ I sniffed, shielding my eyes from the watery sunlight. ‘I just want things to go back to how they were. Where did I go wrong, Wendy? I should have made more effort. After all, he’s a good-looking guy, and every time he goes to work there are gorgeous women half my age fluttering their eyelashes at him, falling at his feet. He can take his pick - and maybe he did,’ I whimpered, another torrent of tears splashing onto my saggy, grey jogging bottoms.

‘Get this down you.’ Wendy sighed, shoving a mug of steaming tea into my hands as she frogmarched me into the bathroom. ‘And don’t you dare call him!’ she yelled through the door.

Perhaps she was right; she usually was. She may be a big kid at heart, but when the chips are down, Wendy is the one you’d want on your flight if you were struck by lightning or appendicitis at thirty-two thousand feet.

For the last year or so, hadn’t I likened myself to an aeroplane in a holding pattern, waiting until I was clear to land? Waiting for Nigel to call, waiting for Nigel to come home, waiting for Nigel to propose, waiting until Nigel finally felt ready to start a family?

Yes, deep down I knew she was right, but I was scared of being on my own. Did this make me a love addict? If so, could I be cured?

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

‘Hayyaa’ala-s-salah, hayya ’ala-l-falah …’ came the haunting call from the mosque across the square, summoning worshippers to evening prayer. It was almost time to meet up with the crew to mosey around the souk – again. Too hot to sunbathe, room service menu exhausted, library book finished, alcohol forbidden, and no decent telly (only heavily edited re-runs of The Good Life, where Tom goes to kiss Barbara, and next minute it cuts to Margo shooing a goat off her herbaceous border), so the gold market had become the highlight of my day.

Donning my abaya (a little black number that is a must-have for ladies in this part of the world), I scrutinised myself in the full-length mirror. No wonder Nigel was leaving me; far from looking like a mysterious, exotic, desert queen, full of eastern promise, it made me resemble a walking bin liner.

I read the fire evacuation drill on the back of the door and checked my mobile for the umpteenth time, then cast my eyes downwards, studying my toes. I know, I thought, giving them a wee wiggle, I’ll paint my nails. It’s amazing what a coat of Blue Ice lacquer can do to make a girl feel a little more glamorous, and less like Ugly Betty’s granny.

As I rummaged in my crew bag for my nail varnish, there, stuffed in between Hello! and Procedures To Be Followed in the Event of a Hijack, was an old copy of The Stage (with another DO NOT PHONE HIM!! Post-it Note stuck to it). Idly flicking through the pages, my eyes lit up at the headline:

DREAMS REALLY CAN COME TRUE

Former computer programmer, Kevin Wilcox, 40, went for broke when he gave up his 50k-a-year job to become a professional opera singer. ‘My advice to anyone contemplating giving up their job to follow their dream is to go for it,’ said Kevin, taking a break from rehearsals of La Traviata at La Scala.

That was my life-changing moment: an affirmation that there were other people out there – perfectly sane people – who were not in the first flush of youth either, but were taking a chance. That’s what I’d do. I’d become an actress, and Nigel would see my name in lights as he walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, or when he sat down to watch Holby City, there I’d be, shooting a doe-eyed look over a green surgical mask.

‘What a fool I was,’ he’d tell his friends ruefully, ‘to have ever let her go.’ Hah!

But revenge wasn’t my only motive. Faux designer bags and expensive makeovers were no longer important to me. I wanted the things that money can’t buy: like self-fulfilment, like the buzz you get on opening night, stepping out on stage in front of a live audience. Appearing through the galley curtains, proclaiming that well-rehearsed line, ‘Would you like chicken or beef?’ just wouldn’t do any more.

Inspired, I grabbed the telephone pad and pen from the bedside table, and started to scribble furiously.

Apply to RADA/CENTRAL any drama school that will have me.

Hand in notice.

Sign up with temping agencies and find part-time job.

Sell flat, shred Visa, store cards, cancel gym membership, and Vogue subscription (ouch!).

Ever since I’d played Bill Sikes in a school production of Oliver! I’d wanted to act. Being tall at an all-girls school meant I never got to play Nancy, Maria, or Dorothy. But I didn’t care. Even having to kiss Kirstie McCallum who played Fiona opposite my Tommy in Brigadoon hadn’t deterred me.

I’d write my own shows, which I’d perform for Mum, Dad, Sammy the dog, and the neighbours. I loved to tell stories; to share, to feel, to emote. I was a shy, gawky kid with a vivid imagination and acting allowed me to disappear into a role.

My bedroom walls were plastered with posters of Breakfast At Tiffany’s, Pretty Woman, Doctor Zhivago, and Dirty Dancing.

I’d dress up for the Oscars and pose on the red shag pile, tell the interviewer what an honour it was just to be nominated, rise slowly from my seat in disbelief, and accept my award, fighting back the tears as I thanked my parents, my friends, and God for making this possible.

So what got in the way?

‘Drama school?’ spluttered Miss Crabb, my head teacher. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Acting’s not a career! What about university?’

‘You need to wake up, Em,’ Mum said despairingly, rolling her eyes. ‘I should never have let you go to Saturday Showstoppers when you were ten. It’s put silly ideas in your head. Now, what about the Foreign Office? You’re good at languages …’

Persuaded that teachers and mums know best, I packed my dream away and scraped through university, where I spent more time acting in and producing plays than studying stuffy old Schiller or fusty Flaubert. I wisely left academia behind and joined Amy Air. If I wasn’t allowed to be an actress then I would at least pay off my student debt doing something fun and adventurous.

New York was my favourite route. While the rest of the crew would spend our brief stopover snuggled up in the hotel with room service and a movie, I’d dash along to Times Square on West 42nd Street and buy a ticket to a Broadway show. Jet lag miraculously forgotten, I’d be transported to a magical world far from turbulence and sick bags.

When the curtain came down, I’d skip along the shimmering streets of The Great White Way back to the hotel, reliving the performance in my mind, imagining the scene backstage: the post-show euphoria, the drinks, the conversation. And a bit of me regretted that I hadn’t believed in myself enough to ignore the naysayers and pursue the one thing I felt truly passionate about. Secretly I never stopped hoping though, that someday, somehow …

Then I met Nigel and the dream was buried once more. Charming, charismatic, athletic, sophisticated, dashing-in-uniform Nigel, a modern-day superman, in control of a 747 – and of my future happiness.

Now in my thirties, time was running out if I wanted to have children, and though he didn’t say as much, I knew Nigel and I were destined to be together for ever.

Fast-forward eight years, and here I am, forty, heartbroken, childless, and soon to be homeless.

But through all the despair, there’s a little voice deep down whispering to me, telling me to turn this crisis into an opportunity; to have the courage this time to follow my intuition, to listen to my heart, take responsibility for my own happiness, and not allow others to dictate the course of my life.

Okay, so it’s taken nearly a quarter of a century to reach this place, but this time nothing and no one is going to hold me back.

CHAPTER ONE

Finding my Inner Dog

January – new beginnings

WHERE THE HELL AM I? Blinking, I prop myself up on my elbows and slowly take in the swirling, green, psychedelic wallpaper, and the assortment of quirky knick-knacks that clutter every surface.

Three months have passed, and yet sometimes I still wake up expecting to be back in our king-size bed, in our White Company-esque bedroom, and for him to be lying beside me.

My watery gaze lands on Diana, Forever In Our Hearts. I smile as I remember the day I viewed the room when Beryl, my landlady, had proudly shown me her extensive collection of china figurines, which she guards as fiercely as The Crown Jewels.

‘This was at a high point in her short life,’ she’d told me mournfully, clutching Diana to her ample bosom. ‘The moment when she took to the floor with John Travolta during her state visit to the White House.’ There followed a moment of respectful silence, then pulling a hankie from her sleeve, she gave Di a little dust and returned her to her spot, next to the limited edition Smurf family, the matador, resembling a camp Action Man in white tights and cape, baby Jesus in swaddling clothes, and the Eiffel Tower snow globe with built-in music box.

Oh, how I long for my minimalist IKEA!

My throat tightens and hot tears prick my eyes. Come on now! Remember what the lady at the self-storage said: ‘You’re allowed access at any time,’ she’d explained in a sympathetic tone of voice, as if consoling a distraught mother who’d just lost custody of her children. That’s all right then, I tell myself, swallowing hard. Whenever I’m feeling low, I can pop along to the self-storage for some home-comfort therapy.

I swing my legs out of bed and Beryl’s burnt-orange shag pile tickles my toes. How I miss the cool, clean feel of polished wood underfoot.

I tiptoe along the landing to the bathroom and there, lurking in the shadows, like a feline Mrs Danvers, is Shirley, Beryl’s sluggish, obese, spoiled-rotten cat. Those speckled, almond-shaped eyes bore through me unflinchingly. Ever since I refused to open the back door for her and forced her through the cat-flap, I’ve had a chilling suspicion she’s been plotting her revenge.

I enter the avocado-green bathroom and tease the mildewy, slimy, plastic shower curtain across the rusty rail. I turn the tap full on, and the shower head – about as much use as a watering can – emits a trickle that would leave your petunia bed gasping. A startled spider tries to make a break for it up the side of the bath, but slithers back down, leaving me to do a kind of naked Riverdance as it swirls around my feet.

What I’d give to be languishing now in my sparkling-white, Italian-tiled bathroom, complete with walk-in power shower and scented candles.

Hey, don’t be such a wuss! Stay focused. This evening’s drama class will reaffirm that all this hardship is going to be worth it. It will. It will.

* * *

DRAMATIC AR S CENTRE

I peer through the driving rain at the shabby sign tilting dangerously in the wind, many of its bulbs burnt out.

As I chain my bike to the rack, a rush of feverish excitement and anticipation sweeps over me.

I run up the shimmering steps two at a time, my holdall containing new jazz shoes, sports bra, leotard, and leggings, swinging from my shoulder.

The heavy wooden door creaks as I push it open.

I make a dash for the loo, past a group of excited, young beautiful things who look like they belong on the TV series Glee.

I tie my soaking-wet hair into a high ponytail and put on some lippy.

‘Here we go,’ I say, high-fiving my Lycra-clad, slightly lumpy reflection. ‘You can do this.’

Putting on my air-stewardess smile, I bounce out of the door to the noticeboard.

Portia Howard’s method acting class for the over thirties takes place in the basement of this former church. As I enter the room, my springy gait quickly disintegrates into an apologetic tiptoe. Seated on benches at opposite ends of the room are other nervous newbies of all shapes and sizes, some staring at the floor, others checking their phones in absolute silence.

‘Hi,’ I whisper, squeezing in between a serious-looking chap in trackie bottoms, striped shirt, and tie and a mousey, bespectacled woman with frizzy hair. They both nod without making eye contact.

‘At my audition I had to imagine I was a plastic bag,’ I say eventually, in an attempt to break the ice. ‘In a force-ten gale.’

They both smile weakly. Why do I always feel it’s MY responsibility to fill awkward silences?

The door flies open and Portia, taller than I remember from the audition, enters centre stage, her black maxi skirt swaying, a red vintage shirt, and fingerless gloves complementing her boho-chic style.

‘Welcome, everyone. Whether you’re here with a view to becoming an actor, or simply to build your confidence, I hope by the end of the course you’ll leave with a better understanding of who you are, what you’re capable of, and a self-belief that will drive you forward in your personal life and career. So, let’s start by getting to know one another. Have any of you ever been speed dating?’

There’s a sharp, collective intake of breath.

‘Don’t worry,’ continues Portia quickly. ‘I don’t expect you to answer. What you do in your spare time is your affair.’ The room fills with air once more. ‘But this exercise works on the same principle. Let’s move the benches closer together with ten of you on either side. When I ring the bell you have two minutes to find out as much as you can about the person opposite you. When the bell rings again, the people on side A stay seated while those on side B slide along a space.’

The bell rings and the nervous, icy atmosphere of earlier melts away as the room is filled with noisy conversation and splutters of laughter, culminating in chaos when, in true Laurel and Hardy style, one of the benches tips, depositing two speed daters onto the floor.

Exercise over, Portia waits for everyone to settle down. The only sound is heavy breathing.

‘Breath control, projection, and body language – essential tools whether you’re addressing an audience of theatregoers or clients,’ she purrs in her resonant, velvety Joanna Lumley-esque voice, beckoning everyone to stand up. Placing her palm just below her breastbone, she continues, ‘Take a deep intake of breath, fill your lungs with air, like a balloon. Now, pushing the diaphragm in and out, I want you to pant like a dog.’

Pant like a dog? Oookay. Well, if I can successfully portray a plastic bag blowing in the wind, then a panting dog impression should be a breeze.

‘No, no, no!’ Portia says, gliding over to my side, her dangly earrings tinkling like wind chimes. ‘I don’t want to see any movement here.’ She firmly taps my shoulders. ‘It must all come from down here,’ she continues, as she prods my diaphragm.

‘Now try again. Fill those lungs … that’s it, and let out short, sharp breaths. I want my hand to feel that diaphragm bouncing. There, you see, you’ve got it!’

I’m chuffed I’ve got it, but all the same, I can’t help feeling I sound like a cross between a chat-line hostess and a woman in labour.

‘This strengthens the diaphragm, loosens the facial muscles, allows more air into your lungs, helps your voice to develop, and improves your posture,’ says Portia, as if reading my mind.

‘The next exercise is a good warm-up before an audition or performance. It’s called The Wet Dog Shake. Okay, everyone, let’s imagine you’ve just come bounding out of the sea, and now you’re going to shake yourselves dry,’ she says, as she drops to her knees, her long, tapered fingers splayed out in front of her on the grimy floorboards. ‘Let’s start from the top with the nose (she starts wiggling her nose), now the head, tongue, the shoulders (she shimmies her shoulders), legs … come on … bark if you wish … go for it … release your inner dog!’

James, Mr Respectable-Bank-Manager by day, catches my eye, and we exchange an incredulous look. Sally, the mousey, bespectacled, hitherto rather timid accountant has hurled herself into the exercise with rather more gay abandon than is necessary, tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth, resembling not so much a shaking dog, as someone having stuck a wet hand in the toaster.

‘Come on, you can do better than that!’ pants Portia. ‘Instead of huddling together like a pair of sniggering school kids – James, Emily – follow Sally’s lead. Let yourselves go! What are you afraid of? Making fools of yourselves? If you want to be actors, you have to learn to let go of your inhibitions. I want to see those tails wagging. I want to feel that sea spray flying off your coat. Wag that tail. Shake, shake, shake yourselves nice and dry. Wag, wag, wag. Come on …!’

A few nervous titters echo around the room, but then slowly, tentatively, like lemmings, we all follow Portia’s lead, and our class becomes less Glee, and more Geriatric Gym.

‘See, that’s not so bad, is it? Now roll onto your backs and kick those legs high in the air!’ she cries, her pewter bangles clinking like rigging against a sail mast.

As the Evening Standard’s Most Promising Newcomer of 1980 (I googled her), Portia Howard obviously knows her stuff, but is this what real actors do? I can’t quite picture Dames Judi or Helen kicking their legs high in the air and panting like a dog before a performance.

‘This is ridiculous,’ blurts out Poppy, whose every sentence ends with a question mark. ‘Basically, I don’t hold with all this horseshit.’

Her strained, cut-glass tones echo around the room as we all stare at her bug-eyed, legs suspended in mid-air.

Rising to her feet and smoothing her skinny jeans, she continues, ‘Release your inner dog? What has all this pretentious rubbish got to do with being an actor? I don’t believe for one moment that Keira Knightley has ever had to crawl around a filthy floor on all fours, pretending to be a dog, so I don’t see why I should.’

‘Good point, Poppy,’ says Portia calmly. ‘Keira has probably never done The Dog Shake, and you certainly don’t have to if you don’t wish. But exercises like this teach you to be more fluid in your movement, to release blockages in energy, so that you can express emotion through your body – as well as build up the stamina to cope with eight shows a week, without …’

‘Yah, but I’m basically not interested in theatre. I plan to go straight into TV and films. I don’t know about the rest of you,’ she says, scanning the class, perky nose in the air, ‘but I want to learn about camera technique, about close-ups and continuity, and … giving the director exactly what he wants …’

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ says Portia, holding up her hands. ‘My class isn’t about showing you a shortcut to fame and fortune – if I knew that, do you think I’d be here now?’ she says with a half-laugh.

‘Obviously not,’ Poppy fires back. ‘But I have no intention of ending up a fifty-something has-been, teaching drama in a damp and dreary basement for the rest of my life.’

Catching her breath and her composure, Portia replies with a little, enigmatic smile, ‘Good for you. But what this “fifty-something has-been” can teach you is how to bring truthfulness and honesty to your storytelling. I can arm you with the right tools to survive in this dog-eat-dog, heart-breaking, wonderful business; talent alone is not enough. You need humility, patience, harmony …’

With an unabashed toss of her bouncy, shampoo-commercial hair, Poppy Hope-Wyckhill collects her D&G tote bag, places her jacket carefully around her shoulders, and struts out of the grubby basement on her patent wedge boots, in search of celebrity and riches elsewhere.

‘So if there are any more of you who are here just because you want to see your faces on the big screen or the cover of Hello! and are not willing to commit to hard work, sacrifice, and to embracing new challenges, then this is not the place for you,’ says Portia, directing her words at each and every one of us in turn. ‘Don’t be afraid to speak up.’

The clock ticks loudly, a distant underground train rumbles below, feet pound the floor above, as the muffled strains of some big musical number vibrate through the cracked ceiling.

According to Wikipedia, Portia has worked at The Royal Shakespeare Theatre, The National, and even been in a Merchant Ivory film. So why is she here? Is it the case that after a certain age the parts dry up? What hope is there then for me? I’m a bit ashamed to even think this, but is there an element of truth in Poppy’s outburst?

But there’s too much at stake now to even contemplate giving up, so I must put my trust in Portia and the great Stanislavski’s theory, that to be a successful actor you sometimes have to make an eejit of yourself.

‘Okay, we have just ten minutes left,’ says Portia, rummaging in her well-worn, Mary-Poppins bag and producing a small coloured ball. ‘Let’s see how many of those names you can remember. As you throw the ball, say the name of the person you’re throwing it to and if you’re right, the person catching the ball has to reveal to the group a secret about themselves – the deeper, the darker, the better. Aaand, Emily!’

It seems like everything is moving in slow motion, including my brain. The ball is heading this way … ooh, I can’t think straight … Oh, God, oh, God, this is so embarrassing … What am I going to say?

‘Correct. My name is Emily and … and … I once spent a night in a Middle Eastern jail.’

* * *

Being a Monday night, The Dog & Whistle, opposite Dramatic Ar s Centre, is deserted and we all pile around a long wooden table. Drinks in, we raise a glass to new adventures.

‘So, Emily. Spill the beans,’ says James, splitting open several bags of crisps to share. ‘You can’t leave us in suspense. How on earth did you end up in jail in the Middle East, for Christ’s sake?’

I’m not entirely comfortable recounting the sorry tale as it’s not something I’m proud of, and to this day I have never told my parents. The painful memory has been locked away for many years, but tonight, due to panic and a desire to impress, it was unleashed.

‘I’d really rather not …’

‘Come on!’ they chorus, eighteen wide-eyed faces looking at me expectantly.

Even the barman is taking an unusually long time to wipe the table next to ours.

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I was fresh out of cabin crew training school. My second long-haul trip, in fact. I’d never travelled to such an exotic land before, and instead of lying in my air-conditioned room, I wanted to explore the narrow streets of the old heart of Saudi’s capital; to smell the spices, the coffee, check out the colourful carpets and the ostentatious jewellery.

‘Hey, girls, are you all nurses?’ came a British voice behind us.

I don’t blame them – the young expat geologists who invited us to their compound that night – nor do I blame my fellow crew who weren’t strangers to Saudi and should have known better.

‘Isn’t alcohol illegal?’ I’d asked feebly over the blaring music at the party.

‘Yeah, but you’re on British soil here,’ replied our host, handing me a glass of home-brewed wine. ‘Cheers!’

What we naively and stupidly didn’t bargain for was being stopped and breathalysed by the police on the way back to the hotel.

I don’t blame the authorities either. We knew the laws of the land and we broke them. We were lucky we didn’t end up being incarcerated for years, being lashed, forbidden from entering the country again, or fired from our jobs.

I learned a hard lesson that night – to trust my own judgement and not be pressurised into following the herd.

If there was a prize for Most Shocking Secret of the Evening, then I can confidently say I would have won, but I feel cross with myself for having shared that most shameful of events with a bunch of strangers in order to be accepted, to be liked.

But then maybe daring to lay bare guilty secrets, disappointments, and desires is the key to being a good actor as opposed to a mediocre one.

Who knows, one day I might find myself tapping into the fear I felt on that terrible night to bring truthfulness to a role.

* * *

It’s 1 a.m. by the time I turn off the light, having shared tonight’s events with Beryl over a Babycham.

It’s early days, but tonight something shifted I think, and I got a tiny glimpse of where I’m headed – a fleeting confirmation that all of this will be worth it.

T. S. Eliot was right; it’s all about the journey and not the destination.

Warning:

Babycham may cause over-sentimentality.

* * *

I step off the crew bus, uniform, hair, and make-up immaculate. A bag lady is huddled in the doorway of the hotel.

‘Big Issue, Big Issue!’ she cries. I open my purse and lean towards her, looking into her eyes. Aargh! The bag lady is me.

I awake with a start to the blare of the alarm clock, hauling me out of my slumber, back to the real world.

It doesn’t require a psychoanalyst to work out the meaning behind this recurring nightmare.

I simply cannot carry on living off the paltry proceeds from the flat Nigel and I shared. This is supposed to be my emergency money, to support me after the course, during those ‘resting’ periods, in between theatre and TV contracts, daahling. Huh.

There’s rent to pay, food, my Visa bill, and drama class fees.

How naive I was to think I could just sail into another job.

This afternoon’s interview at Trusty Temps Agency is one of the few options left to me now …

* * *

‘Do you have PowerPoint?’ lisps the girly recruitment consultant, running her French-manicured nail down my brief CV.

‘No.’

‘Excel?’

‘Excel? Yes … I mean no.’ (Lying = v. bad idea, Emily.)

‘Minute taking?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Not to worry. Which switchboards have you used?’

‘Erm … none,’ I whisper, biting my bottom lip.

Uncrossing her long, slim legs, she lets out a heavy sigh, and forcing her glossy lips into a smile, says with a hint of superiority, ‘I’m afraid most of our positions are for people with these skills – but we’ll keep you on file.’

‘Sure,’ I say with a careless toss of my head, trying to look self-assured and unconcerned, whilst inside I feel like a technophobic old bat.

I stuff my CV in my bag, pull on my coat and beret, then take the walk of shame from the back office, through the reception area, past all the busy, busy consultants, furiously tapping their keyboards, whilst holding terribly important conversations on the phone.

It’s dawning on me with scary clarity that two decades of working in a metal tube have not armed me with the necessary skills to survive in the business world. I’m a dab hand at putting out a fire, boiling an egg to perfection at altitude, or serving hot liquids in severe turbulence without spilling a drop, but what use is all that in the wired-up world of desktop, data entry, and mail-merge?

Oh God, what is to become of me? Am I destined for a life of Pot Noodles and Primark? What am I going to do? What in God’s name am I going to do?

I trudge along the rain-soaked street. I can’t face returning to Knick-Knack Corral just yet. I turn the corner, and there, like a safe harbour in a storm, are the twinkling lights of Starbucks beckoning me in. Yes, I know, I know I shouldn’t be splashing out £3.20 on a caffeine fix, but I am in the grip of a major confidence crisis, and a large caramel cream Frappuccino is cheaper than therapy.

Sinking into a squashy sofa, I take a sip of my coffee, draw a deep breath, and take out my notebook and pen.

Potential Job List:

P.A./Receptionist/ Switchboard Operator?

Waitress?

Shop assistant?

Tour guide?

Cleaner?

Telesales?

Dog walker?

Market researcher?

Hmm. None of the above fills me with inspiration, but in my current financial state, I’d gladly don a baseball cap and serve greasy burgers from a catering van at a football stadium.

‘Are your gums sore, my angel, is that why you’re a grouchy girl today? Mummy make it better. Mwah, mwah.’

My gaze is drawn to the next table, where a group of yummy mummies in Cath Kidston, accessorised with matching designer tot, sip cappuccino and cluck and coo …

‘I was just warming his milk, and I swear I heard him say “Mama”. Didn’t you, Toby? What a clever boy! Yes, you are. You’re Mummy’s special boy.’

My eyes mist over, and I am consumed by a sudden yearning to belong to that members-only club; to have a little person to dress up in spotty dungarees, to romp around the park with, and to read Peppa Pig to.

Next to them is a table of young, svelte businesswomen, sipping their skinny lattes.

‘Let’s go in there and show them what we’re made of, girls. Here’s to new clients!’

‘New clients!’ they all cheer, chinking coffee cups and giggling.

Busy people with busy lives … children to pick up from school, meetings and post-natal classes to attend, deadlines to meet. And me? No job, no prospects, no daily routine …

Wife and mother

High-powered businesswoman

The soft lyrics of Adele’s soulful voice filters through the speakers.

Well, I can either sit here crying into my coffee, or take hold of the reins, buckle down, and find myself work.

I know I’m hardly a suitable candidate for The Apprentice, but surely there must be a vacancy somewhere for a well-travelled waitress with first aid and fire-fighting skills, who can say ‘Welcome to London’ in six different languages?

The earlier drizzle has now turned to torrential rain, so I dive for cover under the candy-striped awning of Galbraith’s The Jewellers. Row upon row of diamond rings blink at me through the glass. My chin starts to quiver and a huge tear sploshes down my cheek. Will I ever experience the thrill and romance of someone proposing on bended knee, before I reach the age of Hip-Replacement-Boyfriend? I had such high hopes when I was five, dressed in my mum’s white nightie and high heels, clutching a bunch of buttercups in my grubby fingers, an old net curtain and crown of daisies on my head.

Through the blur of my tears I squint at a sign in the window:

RETAIL CONSULTANT REQUIRED

APPLY WITHIN

Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I press the buzzer …

Miss June Cutler, manageress of Galbraith’s Jewellers, leans across the gleaming glass counter and peers at me over her half-moon glasses.

‘Ideally, we are looking for someone with retail experience in the jewellery trade, as many of our items are very, very valuable,’ she whines in a Sybil-Fawlty voice.

‘I may not have worked in a shop as such,’ I retort, ‘but I have sold duty free goods, and so I am … au fait with handling money and expensive items.’ (Working in the first class cabin taught me to always have a little, posh phrase up my sleeve – preferably French – when dealing with supercilious, la-di-da people.)

‘A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?’ she says, with a taut smile of her thin, red lips. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.

‘We didn’t just sell perfume and alcohol, but luxury goods as well – like gold and silver necklaces and designer watches: Cartier, Dunhill … and … and …’

Bloody typical! There was a time when I could have won Mastermind with ‘The World’s Leading Designers’ as my specialist subject, but just when I’m under the spotlight, the names escape me.

Miss Cutler, meanwhile, is scrutinising me as if I’ve just stepped off the set of some Tim Burton scary movie; then I catch sight of my reflection in the antique, gilt-framed mirror opposite, and do a double take. What the …? I have blood-red rivulets trickling down my face. Oh my God, the heavy rain must have caused the dye from my beret to run! (£3 from Primark, what do you expect, Emily?) I pull out a length of loo paper from my pocket, and a chewing gum wrapper falls to the floor.

There’s a stony silence. Here it comes, another helping of ‘I’ll keep you on file’ – not sure I can handle two rejections in one day.

‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh, holding out my damp, crumpled CV, like it’s a snotty hankie. ‘I have been left in the lurch rather, so you can start tomorrow at nine – sharp.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, vigorously shaking her hand, sending the charms on her bracelet jingling.

Giving me a final once-over, she says pointedly, ‘Just one more thing – dress code here is smart.’

I resist the temptation to tell her to stuff her job and her precious things, and head out onto the bustling street. I jump astride my bike, leaving drizzly, grey commuterville behind, and pedal towards the bright lights of Dramatic Ar s Centre.

* * *

The next morning

‘You bastard!’ I mutter. ‘How can you let me down like this?’ As fast as I pump the air in, the faster it is released with a loud hisssss. I knew I should have caught the bus this morning. Fired on my first day. Great!

I fumble in my voluminous bag for my mobile and dial Galbraith’s number.

You have used all your calling credit, comes the unsympathetic, recorded voice. Heavy rain starts to pound the pavement. Shit! Right, that’s it! Wielding the pump, I unleash my pent-up anger and frustration on my bike, much to the sly amusement of early morning commuters, as they scuttle to the station, clutching their takeaway coffee, ears wired to iPods and hands-free.

Squelching and wheezing my way up the hill, I make a mental note to a) learn how to mend a puncture and b) invest in waterproofs.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Miss Cutler,’ I pant. ‘I would have got here quicker if I hadn’t had to wheel my bike and I wanted to call you, but my mobile was out of credit and …’

‘You’d better clean yourself up,’ she says, her steely gaze resting on my oil-stained hands. ‘And may I remind you, Emily, you are on probation. If you are serious about working here, then you had better pull your socks up.’

Blimey, I haven’t felt like this since fourth form, when I was hauled up in front of the headmistress for not wearing regulation knickers at gym.

‘The stock room looks like a bomb’s hit it,’ she snarls, giving me a death stare. ‘Health and Safety are visiting next week, so I’d appreciate it if you could tidy the place up, and ensure the fire exits are kept clear.’

‘Sure,’ I say in a sugary sort of way, jaw clenched.

(Another tip gleaned from years spent bowing to the whims of rude passengers: whatever verbal abuse flies your way, DO NOT rise to the bait. Respond in an overly polite manner, and it will annoy the hell out of your antagonist.)

‘“A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?”’ I mutter, giving my best JC impression from the top of the stepladder, as I fight with piles of slippery plastic bags that are refusing to stay on the stock room shelf. Huh! I’ve sold Rolex, Raymond Weil, Piaget, Mont Blanc to Arab kings, I’ll have her know.

‘Emily! A customer!’ comes Miss Cutler’s shrill voice from the top of the stairs, sounding for all the world like Mrs Lovett in Sweeney Todd.

God, five-thirty and seeing my girls can’t arrive quick enough.

‘Coming!’

* * *

As I chain my bike to the railing, I spy them through the dimpled glass, sitting in our favourite spot, by the open fireplace, and I smile inwardly.

My life may be starting to resemble a black comedy, but with a supporting cast like mine, I can just about deal with the fact that I’ve got Cruella De Vil for a boss, and that my acting dream is fast turning into a horror movie.

With abundant hugs and vats of wine, our gaggle of five have cried, advised, sympathised, and propped one another up through divorce, cancer, and single parenthood, so what’s a mere midlife career crisis and a broken heart in the grand scheme of things?

‘Darling!’ squeals Wendy, jumping up and wrapping me in an Eternity-fragranced hug. ‘We’ve missed you. How are you? You look … fantastic.’

‘I don’t,’ I snort, pulling at my fluorescent-yellow sash, suddenly conscious of my bare, rain-washed face and baggy, unflattering clothes.

‘Come and sit down,’ she says, patting a space on the banquette between her and Céline.

‘Chérie!’ says, Céline, kissing me four times, as is customary in her native Paris. She is French 1960s’ Vogue personified: translucent skin, sculpted cheekbones, and a natural, wide-mouthed smile (something we see little of nowadays).

‘Well, how’s it going?’ asks Wendy eagerly, extricating my arms from my dripping-wet anorak.

‘Fab,’ I say with forced gaiety. They both look at me searchingly. ‘Well, no, actually … awful.’

I feel someone tug my hastily tied, damp ponytail. I spin round, and there, brandishing a bottle of Sauvignon, is Rachel.

‘Hey, how’s our aspiring actress?’ she says, stooping down to kiss me, her silky, chestnut hair tickling my cheek. ‘Let’s take a look at you,’ she says, sloshing wine into my glass, as she studies me with her perfectly made-up eyes.

‘You look more relaxed than when we last met, not long after you and Ni …’

‘Ahem! To new beginnings!’ Wendy says quickly, raising her glass.

‘New beginnings!’ we chorus, happy to be together once more.

‘You’re missing all the fun, you know,’ says Wendy sarcastically. ‘The new first class service means the darlings can now eat whatever they want when they want; one minute you’re serving Chicken Chasseur to 5B, then 1E is asking you for boiled eggs and toast, whilst the group at the bar are crying out for crème de menthe frappé and canapés. Gaah!’

I pretend to wince, but the way I feel right now, I’d gladly serve a Jumbo-load of raucous, drunk, demanding passengers single-handedly every day until I’m sixty-five, if it meant having my old life back.

‘Now, who’s for some houmous and warm pitta bread?’ says Wendy, heading for the bar.

Turning to Céline, I ask dutifully, ‘How’s Mike?’

‘On a ten-day Sydney/Melbourne,’ she says, letting out a wistful sigh. ‘But he’s coming straight from the airport to stay at the flat for two days when he gets back,’ she adds quickly, face lighting up.

I shoot her a knowing glance over the rim of my glass.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she says in that to-die-for accent of hers.

‘Like what?’

‘That you-are-wasting-your-time look.’

I open my mouth to speak, but close it again and swirl my wine around my glass, eyes down.

‘He’s leaving after Christmas … next year,’ she says, voice falling away.

‘Why not this year, Céline? How many more Christmases must you wait?’

‘The twins have their final exams this year and it’s his wife’s parents’ Golden Wedding next June. So, I must be patient.’ She smiles weakly, fixing my gaze from under the eyebrow-brushing fringe of her sleek, ebony bob.

Mike is a classic case of how a uniform with four gold bands and a peaked cap can transform a balding, paunchy, unsexy, middle-aged man into a fairly attractive, dapper specimen – hardly Mr Darcy material, but a darn sight more pleasing on the eye than off-duty Mike, believe me, with his high-waisted trousers and Concorde novelty socks.

‘It’s just that I know how important a husband and children are to you, and I worry that by the time he leaves – if he leaves – it will be too late.’

‘C’est la vie.’ She shrugs. ‘Nothing in life is guaranteed … rien du tout. You were with a single man and …’ She bites her lip and turns away. She squeezes my hand, shakes her head, and says softly, ‘I am so sorry …’

‘Hey, it’s not your fault,’ I say, resting my head on her shoulder. ‘It’s probably for the best,’ I continue over-cheerily, fighting back the tears.

Faye comes over from the far end of the table, perches on the edge of the banquette, swivels round to face me, and says warmly, ‘Darling, it’s so good to see you.’ She brushes aside my wet fringe and plants a warm kiss on my forehead.

‘How’s Tariq?’ I enquire, anxious for news of my beloved godson.

‘He’s started school and loves it,’ she says, beaming, as she always does at the mention of his name.

I can hardly believe it’s only six years ago that we sat here, in this very spot, by the fireplace, toasting Faye’s new, glamorous life in Dubai …

‘You’ve only known him a few months, Faye,’ we’d said with a mixture of excitement and consternation. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’

‘I know it’s a gamble. But it feels right.’ She’d smiled, stroking her little bump, the huge rock on her finger catching the light from the fire. ‘And now Junior’s on the way, I just know it’s fate. I’ve waited a long time for my dashing prince to come along, and I’m lucky he found me in the nick of time, before I’m faded and forty-five, and my biological clock comes to a grinding halt.’

‘Ooh, it’s like Lawrence of Arabia and Love Actually all rolled into one,’ I’d said, swooning back into the sofa.

The ‘fairy tale’ began one New Year’s Eve in the Gulf …

Determined not to spend yet another Hogmanay in pj’s and a comfy cardie, getting slowly sozzled, whilst watching repeats of Only Fools and Horses – either that, or at some dire party, being groped at midnight by a total stranger with rubber legs and beery breath – we requested the same trip, packed our sparkly frocks, and headed off to the sun.

So there we were, dressed to kill, huddled around the buffet table by the swimming pool, retching and spluttering into our napkins like a bunch of ladettes, having discovered the grey stuff we’d just devoured was in fact lambs’ brains, when out popped a tall, swarthy, linen-suited stranger from behind the swan ice sculpture.

‘Ladies, ladies, ladies! This is a great delicacy in my country,’ he’d said with mock indignation and a mischievous grin.

We didn’t move or speak for several seconds, so mesmerised were we by this smouldering vision of exotic gorgeousness – think Antonio Banderas.

‘Sahir,’ he’d said in a low voice, bowing slightly, then delicately kissing our hands in turn. His long-lashed, melted-chocolate eyes held your gaze, making you feel like you were the only woman at the party – correction – on the planet. ‘I am the owner of the hotel.’ Signalling the waiter, he then called authoritatively, ‘Champagne for the ladies!’

Up until that moment I had never believed in love at first sight, but as the strains of Lionel Richie’s ‘Hello’ floated across the shimmering pool, you could almost hear Cupid’s arrow whistle past and hit its targets, as surely as if Oberon himself had squeezed some magic potion in their eyes.

Backlit by the orangey-red, evening sunlight, Faye positively dazzled. The sequins in her dress and the diamond combs in her golden hair glittered and sparkled, and Sahir fell hopelessly under her spell. He propelled her to the dance floor, and that was it: the start of a glamorous, heart-fluttering, pulse-quickening Mills-&-Boon-style love affair.

Faye begged and shamelessly bribed crew scheduling with home baking and fresh produce from her mum’s allotment, swapping her rostered flights for Dubai night-stops. She’d be met at the airport by a chauffeured, air-conditioned Mercedes, wined and dined at the best hotels, and showered with expensive jewellery. We lived our romantic fantasies through Faye.

Funny, isn’t it, how a girl’s overwhelming desire to be scooped up by a dark, brooding Mr Darcy in breeches and a white, floppy shirt, may cause her to misplace her common sense and ignore the sirens screaming in her ears; because, you see, for all his good looks and charm, this Arabian knight turned out to be a villain in disguise.

Whilst eager to embrace her new culture, Faye struggled with the language, the loneliness, the heat, and the homesickness.

‘Strife and sacrifice are good,’ her new husband had told her coldly. ‘This teaches discipline and humility.’

‘But I never see you. If you’re not at the hotel, you’re either “on business” in Abu Dhabi or Bahrain. Then when you are at home, you’re tired and irritable and don’t have time for me and Tariq,’ she’d cried, painfully aware that she sounded like the archetypal nagging wife.

‘My mother and sisters, they help with the boy. What is wrong with you?’ Sahir sniped at her. ‘You are spoiled and ungrateful.’

She loathed the way he always referred to Tariq as ‘the boy’, like some fusty, Dickensian father, and she hated the way his mother and older sisters took over the childcare and the running of the house, jabbering and whispering to one another, as if she were invisible.

‘Why can’t it just be the three of us, Sahir?’ she’d once said to him tentatively.

‘In my country we look after the family. Will you see them thrown out onto the street?’ he’d yelled.

‘I don’t mean …’

‘Enough! I will hear no more of this,’ he said, gripping her arm and shaking her, those same eyes that once made her heart melt, now angry and cold.

What had happened to the bubbly, self-assured, fun-loving, golden girl? Where had she gone? Faye realised she was totally miscast in the role of the subservient, dutiful wife and daughter-in-law. There was only one thing for it: to flee her gilded cage, taking her baby chick with her.

The story of their clandestine escape in the dead of night could have been plucked straight from the pages of an edge-of-the-seat John Grisham thriller.

‘Tariq is my son and he belongs here. I have contacts in high places in London. Remember this.’

Her ex-husband’s threats regularly terrorise her mind during those drifting moments before sleep seizes control – usually in some crew hotel thousands of miles away from home.

I hope with all my heart that this time my gut instinct is wrong, but although Faye has been granted custody, I have an uneasy feeling we haven’t seen the last of Sahir.

Nevertheless, despite a string of seriously disastrous relationships between us, we all remain silly, romantic fools, firm in the belief that Mr Right may yet appear – ETA as yet unknown. It’s not as if we’re expecting some Greek god to come along, but even one of the Grecian-2000 variety would do very nicely, thank you.

That is all but Rachel; she called off the search some fifteen years ago, when she married her childhood sweetheart, Dave, who is a policeman. They keep our belief in love and romance alive. Yet behind that happy, smiley exterior lurks a deep sadness, a grief, which she hides very well; we all know it’s there, lying just beneath the surface, and so we are careful never to speak of it. But sometimes when she thinks no one is looking, a shadow flickers across her face, and you may momentarily catch a glimpse of the anxious, heartbroken Rachel, and then she is gone, as the mask is raised once more.

The town hall clock is chiming twelve by the time we totter out onto the pavement and giggle our nighty-nights and must-do-this-more-oftens. I jam on my cycle helmet and pedal hard, head bent forward against the needle-sharp rain.

An aeroplane drones overhead, its tail-light blinking in between the squally clouds. I find myself gazing wistfully at it. My mood darkens in that instant.

Where is Nigel right now? In mid-air, or sleeping in a king-size bed in some far-off, exotic land, a nubile, twenty-something by his side? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Does he ever spare a thought for me? What would he make of my new life?

‘Minnie,’ he used to say (Minnie – as in Mouse – was his pet name for me on account of my stick-thin legs and big feet), ‘it’s too late for all that showbiz malarkey. Stay home with me and let’s make a family.’

Why did he only ever say those things after several beers or glasses of red? Had he really wanted children? Or had he been testing me, playing with my emotions? I’ll never know now. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I have a serious, uncomplicated relationship? Is that too much to ask?

An enormous articulated lorry thunders past, drenching me in filthy spray. From somewhere deep inside me, an animal-like scream bursts out, piercing the cold night air.

Come on now. Pull yourself together. YOU ARE A LIBERATED, INDEPENDENT, STRONG WOMAN WITH A GOAL. YOU ARE A LIBERATED, INDEPENDENT, STRONG WOMAN WITH … waterlogged shoes and dripping hair plastered over your eyes.

I feel anything but independent or strong, and my goal now feels a world away. Have I been pitifully naive? No matter, as it’s a little late in the day for doubt and uncertainty. Like it or not, I am now travelling down a one-way street, and the big question is, does it lead to a deadend?

CHAPTER TWO

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Worst Enemy

May

THE BLACK, GAPING ABYSS YAWNS before her, the sharp smell of fuel burning her nostrils. She inhales deeply as she is swallowed up. Her eyes are blinded by the flickering, white lights, her ears deafened by the roar of engines above. She should never have got mixed up in this assignment. Not only was it dangerous, but doomed to failure. She should have walked away from the situation while she still had the chance and suffered the consequences. But there’s no turning back now, so she focuses on the sliver of daylight in the distance. Not much further …

Huffing and puffing, she is spewed out of the tunnel onto the relative calm of the road. She looks up. Terminal Two Departures. She glances at her watch. 0730. Just enough time to make contact, hand over the diamonds, and return to base. Mission accomplished.

No, sadly, I am not on the set of the latest Lynda La Plante thriller; on the contrary, I am starring in my very own drama, entitled Payback Time. And my crime? Smugness – displaying sheer, unadulterated smugness. You know how it is: you dare to pat yourself on the back for a job well done, and next minute, a giant Monty Python foot appears from above and squishes you into the ground. That will teach you for being so damned pleased with yourself!

Determined to win over Miss Cutler, who is on the verge of firing me on account of my poor sales record, I scrambled together an emergency marketing strategy, which happened to involve a bearded Scotsman and a one-thousand-five-hundred-pound diamond necklace …

‘I’m looking for something a teensy-weensy bit special,’ the unsuspecting browser had informed me as he entered the shop. ‘It’s my wife’s fiftieth tomorrow, and she’s feeling …’ he looked around cautiously, checking he wouldn’t be overheard ‘… the change,’ he mouthed exaggeratedly. ‘I’d like something with a wee bit of sparkle to cheer her up.’

‘I see,’ I whispered back discreetly. Here was my chance! Opening one of the cabinets, I said, ‘How about this pastel gem-set bracelet? Notice how it shimmers with all the colours of the rainbow.’ I tilted it back and forth, so the stones’ reflection danced tantalisingly around the walls, like a kaleidoscope.

‘I was thinking of something a bit simpler,’ he said.

‘Aah,’ I nodded, undeterred. ‘Well, in that case, how about this nine-carat gold pendant, hand-crafted in Italy?’

‘Erm …’

‘Or this eighteen-carat belcher-bar necklace? Its extra length means it can be worn as a belt, a choker, or a layered necklace,’ I gushed, whilst demonstrating its many uses, just like I’d seen those shopping channel presenters do. ‘Layered jewellery is featured on all the major catwalks this season, so your wife would be up to the minute with the latest fashion.’ He bit his lip.

I could feel Miss Cutler’s x-ray eyes burning through my head from behind the two-way mirror in the back office.

Please, God, let me make a sale.

‘Let me see now …’ I said, brain racing, eyes darting wildly about. ‘Aha, I know the very thing!’ I launched into the window, swiping a fourteen-karat, white gold, diamond choker from the black velvet display stand. ‘What woman wouldn’t feel a million dollars wearing this?’ I glanced at the clock – 5.26 p.m. – just four minutes to closing time; four minutes to save myself from the dole queue.

‘… and … and Princess Diana wore the exact same style of choker when she took to the dance floor with John Travolta at The White House in the mid-Eighties,’ I added quickly.

He toyed with his beard.

‘A high point in her short life,’ I whispered sombrely.

‘It’s a wee bit more than I intended spending …’ he said pensively, as he peered at the price tag.

‘Reaching fifty is quite a milestone,’ I replied, in a kind of cool, throwaway tone, shamelessly swaying the dazzling diamonds in front of his eyes, like a hypnotist’s pendulum, hope hovering.

He glanced at his watch: 5.28. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.

‘I’m catching a flight to Edinburgh in the morning, and I suppose a box of Milk Tray from WHSmith’s wouldn’t go down very well.’ He sighed, fishing out his wallet, resigned.

‘Absolutely not,’ I squeaked, snatching his credit card before he had time to change his mind. I snapped shut the leather presentation case. Placing it carefully under the counter, I coolly sashayed over to the cash desk, struggling to quash my overwhelming desire to do a Highland fling right there, on the shop floor.

Transaction completed, I carefully gift-wrapped the box, not forgetting the curly-wurly ribbon effect with the scissors, which I did with a dramatic flourish.

‘Thank you, miss. You’ve been very helpful. I cannae wait to see Morag’s face the morrow when I get hame.’

‘I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. Have a good flight back. Ooops! You dropped this,’ I said, handing him his air ticket and opening the door.

He kissed my hand as he exited. Yesssssssss!

In buoyant mood, I waltzed around the floor with the vacuum cleaner, singing to myself as I went. Saved from the humiliation of begging for an overdraft increase – again. From now on Miss Cutler would realise I was an asset to the shop and would be devastated when I inevitably had to give up my retail career for that of a West End star.

Then all at once Henry Hoover died. I spun round, and there stood Cruella, her head shaking.

‘Ah-hem! What is this, Emily?’ she asked coldly, holding up one of the presentation cases.

‘A jewellery box.’ I shrugged.

‘That is where you are wrong, Emily. This is no ordinary jewellery box,’ she snarled, face blazing, the veins in her swan-like neck pulsating madly. I stared at her, puzzled.

‘This is a jewellery box that contains …’ she said, milking every moment of her Wicked-Witch-of-The-West performance ‘… a very valuable item belonging to your customer!’

Opening the box, she dangled the choker in front of my eyes. OH-MY-GOD. I felt the colour drain from my face as my insides plummeted ten floors. I dropped the nozzle, realising with sinking horror that I had wrapped up the wrong box and sold nice, Scottish businessman one-thousand-five-hundred-pounds’ worth of diddlysquat.

‘Maybe we can trace him through his credit card? Or perhaps I could go to Heathrow tomorrow and try to …’

My voice fell away, as judging by Miss Cutler’s beetroot colouring, she was about to spontaneously combust.

So, that is how I come to be loitering around the airline check-in desks minus a ticket, a fifteen-hundred-pound diamond choker clasped tightly in my mitts.

The terminal is already abuzz with suited and booted businessmen on their way to Brussels or Belfast for a hard day’s wheeling and dealing.

I scan the concourse, looking for a tall, wiry, bearded Scotsman, clutching a boarding pass for Edinburgh and a beautifully wrapped box.

Couples cling to one another, off on romantic breaks to Vienna or Athens … Hang on a minute! My gaze rewinds to the Vienna check-in queue. Eyes narrowing, I move in for a closer look. It can’t possibly be. He’s ten and a half thousand miles away … and yet … I’d recognise that sunburnt, bald patch anywhere. (As a first class galley slave, you can spend a lot of time gazing at the back of pilots’ heads, patiently waiting, steaming-hot tea burning your hands, while they finish prattling on to air traffic control and punching buttons on the automatic pilot thingy.)

It is him, I swear. And who’s that woman he’s got his arm wrapped around? It’s not Beverley, his wife. She looks young enough to be one of his daughters, but she definitely isn’t. I know this because I once served his family in first class when he took them on a working trip to Houston at Christmas.

Swiping my shades from my pocket and pulling my cycle helmet down over my eyes, I venture nearer and take up position behind a pillar.

‘Vienna? Two passengers?’ says the check-in girl, switching on her Stepford-Wife smile. Taking their tickets, she taps furiously on the computer.

‘Any chance of an upgrade?’

Oh, yes, that’s our Mikey all right. The cheapskate, asking for an upgrade on his twenty-pound concessionary ticket. Bloody typical.

I’m tempted to walk right up to the desk and say, ‘Hey, Mike, what happened? Céline told me you were in Sydney.’ I’d love to see him try and wriggle out of that one. Talk about leading a double life – no, a triple life. How does he manage it?

‘Would all remaining passengers travelling to Edinburgh on BE2102, please proceed to gate five, where this flight is now closing. That’s all remaining passengers …’

Oh, Lord! In all the drama I’ve completely forgotten about finding Mr Beardy Man – Mr Soon-To-Be-Divorced Beardy Man if I don’t get my act together pronto.

Zipping my way in between trolleys and wheelie suitcases, I race towards the security gate. Standing on tiptoes, I spy him in the distance, collecting his coat, shoes, and a small gift bag from the conveyor belt.

‘Boarding pass,’ grunts the security man.

‘Please let me through. I need to give this to that gentleman down there – it’s really important,’ I beg, waving the box in the direction of the long line of travellers, waiting to be prodded and processed.

‘If you don’t have a boarding card, then this is as far as you go,’ he says firmly, darting me a scathing glare.

‘Please. I can’t explain now, but if I don’t get this to him …’

‘Stand aside,’ he growls, as a queue of red-eyed travellers starts to form behind me, brandishing their boarding passes, impatient to proceed.

There’s nothing else for it – filling up my lungs to maximum capacity, I push out my diaphragm and emit a rip-roaring, show-stopping ‘WAIT!’

It’s like someone has momentarily pressed the freeze-frame switch. All eyes swerve in my direction – all eyes but those of the one person whose attention I so desperately desire. He is now trundling along to gate five, blissfully unaware of the brewing storm about to hit north and south of the border.

Back on the road, my mind is buzzing with the thought of what I’m going to say to Miss Cutler, and more importantly, do I tell Céline that Mike is not in Oz, but on a romantic, Viennese mini break with … with … another mistress?

It’s just like one of those letters you find on the Cosmopolitan problem page:

Dear Irma,

One of my best friends has been dating a married man for ten years. He keeps promising her he’s going to leave. I saw him at the airport today, canoodling with another woman, who was not his wife. He’d told my friend he couldn’t see her as he was going away on business. Do I tell her and risk ruining our friendship, or do I turn a blind eye?

Yours,

Anonymous.

Do I really need an agony aunt to advise me what to do, when the answer is spelt out before me in ten-foot, flashing, neon letters? TELL HER.

‘Oi! Look where you’re going, willya! Bloody cyclists!’ hollers an irate taxi driver, through the open window.

* * *

‘I’m afraid head office has taken the matter very seriously,’ gloats Miss Cutler. ‘My hands are tied. I have no alternative but to let you go.’

‘If you could just give me one more chance …’ I grovel, panic rising.

‘If I were you, I’d go back to what you do best – serving ready meals and selling novelty goods to tourists,’ she says in a condescending, I’m-telling-you-this-for-your-own-good sort of way. ‘It’s a tough old world out there, and jobs aren’t easy to find – even for the young.’ Ouch.

She presses the door-release button; I draw a deep breath and exit the shop, cycle-helmeted head held high.

I am in a kind of daze, oblivious to the pushing and jostling of hurried passers-by. This is serious; I now have no job, my meagre savings are fast disappearing, my overdraft has reached its limit, and I am barely able to cover the monthly minimum payment on my Visa card. An empty, lost feeling takes hold of me. Perhaps Miss Cutler is right; perhaps I should have stuck with my safe, familiar job and my secure life, instead of foolishly casting myself adrift without a set of oars. I’ve lost my way. I used to be so focused, so positive that despite all the hardships, things would work out in the end. I feel like I got six winning numbers in the lottery and now I can’t find the ticket.

Grabbing a mozzarella and tomato panini, I head for the river to think.

As I chain my bike to the side of the bridge, my thoughts turn to Céline. I pull out my mobile from my bag and scroll for her number. My finger hovers over the green button. Why am I hesitating?

As one of her closest friends, it is my duty to tell her, but how? Taking a bite of my sandwich, I rehearse what I’m going to say:

‘Céline, are you sitting down? I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you …’

No, too dramatic.

‘Céline, as much as it pains me, as one of your closest friends, I feel duty-bound to tell you …’

Nope, too convoluted – just cut to the chase.

‘Céline, Mike’s not in Australia. He’s in Vienna with another woman.’

The number rings once then diverts to voice-mail. A wave of relief breaks over me. I compose this text instead:

<Mike not in Oz. In Vienna with a woman I’ve never seen b4. So sorry. Call me. Luv E x >

I stab the SEND button and off it flies, like winged Mercury, into cyberspace – and the deed is done.

THE SCENE IS THE WELL-FURNISHED LIVING ROOM OF A SEMI-DETACHED HOUSE ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF EDINBURGH. A SWEET, HOMELY COUPLE ARE SIPPING CHAMPAGNE AND GIGGLING.

MAN: Cheers! Many happy returns, pet. (HE TAKES A BEAUTIFULLY WRAPPED BOX FROM UNDER THE CUSHION.) This is just a wee something to show you how much I love and appreciate you.

WOMAN: Ach, you shouldnae have. (DABBING HER EYES AND SMILING, SHE KISSES HIM AND OPENS THE BOX. IT IS EMPTY. SHE BURSTS INTO FLOODS OF TEARS) Is this some kinda cruel joke?

CUT TO AIRPORT. A BALDING, MIDDLE-AGED MAN AND AN ATTRACTIVE YOUNG WOMAN APPEAR THROUGH THE SLIDING DOORS OF THE ARRIVALS HALL. THEY ARE HOLDING HANDS, LAUGHING AND JOKING, PLAINLY HAPPY IN ONE ANOTHER’S COMPANY. A TALL, STRIKING WOMAN IN AIRLINE UNIFORM APPROACHES THEM.

FRENCH WOMAN (TO THE MAN): ’ow was Sydney?

MAN: I … er … what the blazes are you doing here?

FRENCH WOMAN: I could ask you the same question.

YOUNG WOMAN: Aren’t you going to introduce us, darling?

FRENCH WOMAN PULLS REVOLVER FROM HANDBAG AND SHOOTS …

CUT TO A POLICE INTERVIEW ROOM. IT’S 2 A.M. DI JACK TEMPLETON PACES THE FLOOR WHILST SIPPING COFFEE FROM A POLYSTYRENE CUP.

A DISTRESSED WOMAN SITS AT THE TABLE, HEAD IN HER HANDS, SOBBING.

DI TEMPLETON: Don’t lie to us. Your fingerprints are all over the necklace – and the box. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you’ve got the bleedin’ gall not only to gift-wrap the empty box, but to do the curly-wurly ribbon effect as well! Jeez, I’ve seen some callous, premeditated crimes in my time, but this …

EMILY: How many more times? I swear it wasn’t planned – please, please, you’ve got to believe me …

I awake in a knot of sheets and a cold sweat, heart banging wildly in my chest. I switch on the oriental lady bedside lamp and peer at the clock – 0345. I close my eyes tight and toss and turn. I wish I could sleep, but Céline’s pale, tear-stained face and reddened eyes haunt my semi-consciousness. I listen to her message again:

Mike explained everything. We try again, because we love each other. Why you never accept this? I am sorry, but we cannot be friends. Please … don’t call. Jamais. Never.

There’s an iciness in her voice I’ve never heard before, and it chills me to the core. How can she take back that untrustworthy snake – again, and make me the villain of the piece?

In my method acting class I’m learning about Stanislavski’s ‘magic if’, which asks you to put yourself in the shoes of the character you are playing. What would I do if I were in these circumstances? What would you have done, Céline, if you’d known about Nigel’s infidelity? Would you have stood by and allowed me to be duped and ridiculed? I don’t think so. And what about Mike’s wife in all of this?

What a day! Not only have I succeeded in ruining a menopausal woman’s milestone birthday, but tragically worse, I’ve also blown apart a precious friendship. Ten years deleted with the press of a button.

I seem to be lurching from one disaster to another; I’ve lost my job, one of my dearest friends, and at the grand old age of forty, am sleeping in a single bed in a home I don’t own, an assortment of kitsch knick-knacks and an ancient moggy who hates me for company.

AARGH! In a fit of pique, I hurl my mobile at the wall. The Smurfs scatter in all directions, Action Man topples over onto Diana, who is sent crashing onto the tiled hearth, taking the Eiffel Tower snow globe with her, which starts manically playing ‘Jingle Bells’.

Horrified, I gawp at the shattered pieces.

Bzzz! Bzzz! Scrambling through the devastation, I grab my phone. New message: YES! Please, pleeease let it be Céline, telling me we shouldn’t let a stupid man destroy our friendship …

<We need to talk. Call me. Nigel.>

* * *

Five days. I have just five days to prepare for the most important audition of my life. I was voted off first time round, but now I’ve been recalled; this is my one chance to prove that whilst I may not be the youngest or most glamorous contestant, I have got what it takes: that je ne sais quoi, the X-factor.

‘It’s only dinner,’ I told Wendy breezily. ‘It’s no big deal.’

‘Please don’t rush back into his arms. Promise me, hon,’ she said, face darkening. ‘You’re just starting to resemble your old self again, and I don’t want you going back to square one.’

‘I give you my word. I won’t do anything stupid,’ I replied, secretly wondering if forty is too old to wear white …

* * *

I wipe the steam from my recently prescribed reading glasses and peer at my face in the bathroom mirror, in all its 3-D glory. Blimey. When did that happen? Those lines. When did they appear? And those grey hairs? And oh, my God, who stuck them there? Those gorilla legs?

I scrabble in my toiletries bag for a razor: there’s a squashed tube of foundation, a bottle of Tesco Value body wash, a few crumbs of blusher, and a blob of sticky lip gloss. Is this the same woman who, not so very long ago, thought nothing of spending $90 on mascara and a makeover at Macy’s?

Having rejected every outfit in my wardrobe, I end up buying a little, classic black dress from Autograph for £85. Now, before you throw your hands up in despair, I’ll let you in on my shameful secret: I haven’t cut the price tag off, and provided I don’t spill anything on it, I give my word that I will return it to the customer services desk after D-Day.

* * *

‘You look amazing,’ says Nigel, unusually nervous, as he pulls out a chair for me. (Wow! He hasn’t done that since 2011.)

‘Thank you,’ I reply frostily, as I surreptitiously shove my cycle helmet under the table and demurely pull the hem of my tight LBD below the knee. I take a dainty sip of water and pretend to study the menu. I mustn’t make it too easy for him. It will take more than a curry and a compliment to win me back.

‘You’ve been on my mind a lot lately,’ he continues in a low voice, pouring me a glass of wine.

Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Let him do the talking. Dilemma: do I put on my reading glasses so I can actually read the menu, or do I order blind for the sake of vanity? If I am to spend the rest of my life with him, then surely I should feel comfortable being myself. After all, this is the man who held my hair back when I had my head down a toilet after one rum punch too many on The Jolly Roger in Barbados; the same man who’s seen me sans mascara, wearing a green face mask, a tatty towel on my head, and a brace on my teeth. But maybe that’s the whole point: the very reason he left; maybe he wants a wife who looks her best all the time, not one who scrubs up well only when the occasion calls for it.

‘Whenever I’m in LA I can’t help thinking about our trips to Disneyland, and how we used to act like a couple of crazy kids,’ he continues, swallowing hard. ‘And only last week, I was on the Star Ferry in Hong Kong and remembered the time your scarf blew off into the sea, and how we’d lock ourselves away in my suite and make love for hours, living on room service and Dom Perignon. So many amazing memories. You will always have a special place in my heart – don’t ever forget that.’

A huge current of relief and ecstasy surges around my body. ‘Oh, Nigel, I’ve been thinking about you too …’

‘But I’m worried about you, Em,’ he says, reaching for my hand. ‘I heard you jacked in the job and are studying drama and living in a rented room. Don’t you think you’re a little too old to be changing courses? You’ve got to think of the future.’

‘You only get one life and when you left …’

‘But that’s not my main reason for wanting to see you,’ he interjects.

Stay calm. Play hard to get. Deep breaths …

‘I’ve something important to tell you …’

‘Yes?’ I whisper, heart doing the quickstep.

‘I thought it best to do the decent thing and tell you face to face before you hear it from someone else.’

My stomach does a backward flip. I feel the colour drain from my face. I twist the corner of the tablecloth tightly between my fingers, knees wobbling like crème caramel.

‘First of all, despite what you might have heard, I want you to know that I didn’t sleep with Maddie until we broke up.’

‘What? Who’s Maddie?’ I say, sharply pulling my hand away from his.

‘She’s new … you … you don’t know her. She … she only joined at the end of last year. Anyway, nothing happened until …’

‘Whooooa! So all that stuff about self-destruct buttons and “finding yourself” was a cover-up?’

‘Not exactly … no. Let me finish, please. You don’t know how hard this is for me …’

‘You had me believing that you were having some sort of mental breakdown, when all the time you were sleeping with some young bimbo. How could you?’ I snap, throwing down my napkin, unsure of whether to fling myself on the floor or fly out of the door.

‘Keep your voice down, Em, please,’ he says through clenched teeth, nervously looking around at the other diners.

I stare at him in disbelief.

‘Typical! That’s all you care about: what people think of you. You are so damned self-centred! You invited me for dinner to relieve your guilt. Worried about me? Hah! Don’t bother. I’ll be fine,’ I say, snatching my jacket, helmet, and bag.

Grabbing my wrist, he mumbles, ‘I still care about you, Em. You’re like family to me … I can only move on with my life if I know you’re going to be okay. Maybe in time, we could even be …’

‘Oh, pur-lease, don’t say it! Let go of me! What an idiot I was to even think of getting back with you.’

I stagger out of the restaurant into the street, finding it hard to breathe. I unchain my bike from the lamppost, hands trembling.

‘Don’t be like this,’ comes a voice in my ear. ‘At least let me give you a lift home, Em, please.’

‘Not necessary,’ I hiss, jamming on my helmet and flicking on my lights.

‘There’s just one more thing you should know,’ he blurts out, face ghostly in the silvery beam of the streetlight. ‘Maddie’s pregnant.’

CHAPTER THREE

Looking for Lara

September

IT’S 5.30 A.M. I’M WEARING RUBBER GLOVES and wielding a loo brush. How did my life come to this? I left Amy Air so full of hope and promise, now here I am, not even a year later, with my arm stuck down a toilet. I hate my job, I hate my life, and I hate myself for having got into this mess.

What was I thinking of? I should have carried on flying; okay, so it wouldn’t have altered the fact that Nigel left me and some other woman stole the life I should have had, but at least I would have been a comfortably off singleton. Thanks to some hare-brained that I could become the next Meryl Streep, I am now an impoverished forty-something without a place to call home, my life packed away in bubble wrap at a warehouse off the M4.

Who needs therapy or self-help books to mend a broken heart? All you need do is follow these three easy steps: a) Give up your well-paid, secure, and interesting job. b) Sell your comfortable home and move into someone’s poky back room, complete with resident psychocat. c) Forgo all luxuries and live from hand to mouth doing menial jobs.

Et voilà! You’ll have so many majorly serious problems to contend with (like SURVIVAL) that being dumped by your boyfriend will seem a minor blip by comparison.

My positive side tries to persuade me that jobs like this are all good, character-building stuff. Besides, should The Rovers Return or The Queen Vic be casting for a cleaning lady, my hands-on experience may just give me the edge over actresses who’ve never operated a squeezy mop or emptied a Dyson.

Pah! Dream on. It’s time I faced up to the fact that I’ll never make it as an actress. One thing I have learned over the last few months is that acting isn’t just about remembering lines and moves; you have to let go of your inhibitions, be a little bit daring, and take the plunge. Something always holds me back – fear of making an idiot of myself, I guess, and the harder I try, the more awkward and nervous I feel.

‘Stop thinking so much,’ Portia keeps telling me. ‘Thinking about how we sound or look makes us self-conscious. Be brave, go with your instinct, and don’t analyse situations. It destroys the magic.’

I shudder when I think of the huge sacrifice I’ve made – and for what? I squirt another dollop of Toilet Duck and scrub furiously, tears plopping into the bowl.

‘G’day!’

Startled, I wheel around, toppling over onto my bucket of cleaning stuff.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ says the tall, young stranger, crouching down and handing me my grubby J-cloth and can of Mr Muscle. His Pacific-blue eyes hold my gaze.

‘I’m Dean. New night security. I must have been on patrol when you arrived.’

‘Emily,’ I sniffle, proffering a yellow, rubber-gloved hand. ‘The cleaner … in case you were wondering.’

‘Well, Emily, nice to meet you,’ he says, treating me to a dazzling smile. ‘Maybe see you around tomorrow.’ And with that he is gone.

* * *

That evening, as I climb the steps of Dramatic Ar s for the very last time, I stop to admire the full moon.

I close my eyes and centre myself by breathing deeply. Faye believes this is a time for cleansing, for new beginnings, for emotional and spiritual growth. She told me to make a wish out loud in front of the moon then visualise it coming true.

She also said it’s a time for looking in the mirror and saying nice things to yourself. I draw the line at that one though.

I came to drama school to learn how to make sense of Shakespeare, how to walk in a bustle and corset without keeling over, to flirtatiously flutter a fan, and to move and sing simultaneously without getting breathless. No one warned me that you had to take part in a Jeremy-Kyle-type reality show before you were allowed to pass ‘GO’. If they had, I think I would have stuck to serving chicken and beef at thirty-two thousand feet.

Maybe now it’s time to put stability back into my life. I should forget my dream, wake up, and behave like any normal middle-aged woman, by getting a proper job with a pension scheme and Christmas bonus.

* * *

‘You’ve had twenty-four hours to think about this, and now you’re telling me that your motive, the event that’s going to get those anger juices flowing, that’s going to fuel your performances in time to come, is the fact that you had a puncture, were late for your first day at work, and your boss was mean to you?’ says Portia, scrutinising me with a look of despair in her kohl-rimmed, piercing green eyes.

Here we go again. I must be some kind of masochist, to have spent the last nine months putting myself through this kind of torture.

I’m realising that the optimist in me has been telling lies – encouraging me to keep on keeping on, because any day now I’ll find the key to that secret door that leads to the actor’s holy grail; that special place that separates the truly talented from the merely mediocre. But let’s be realistic for once: I’m never going to find the key, am I? With no Plan B, where does that leave me? Bitter tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard. God, please don’t let me cry. My toes clench together in my jazz shoes, my face and neck flushing the colour of a strawberry smoothie.

‘Come on, Emily, surely you can do better than that? Haven’t you ever been accused of something unfairly or had your heart broken in two?’

‘Sure, but …’

‘Well then, how did that make you feel?’

‘I … I …’ I murmur, shrugging my shoulders and casting my eyes downwards, wishing I could silently slither down a gap between the floorboards.

‘Didn’t you feel betrayed, wounded, bloody furious?’ she probes.

‘Of course, but …’

‘Well then, now’s your opportunity to break through those emotional boundaries and tell us what’s in your heart. No one’s going to laugh at you. If you’re serious about becoming an actor – a good actor – then you have to live on the edge, bare your soul. Acting is all about trust, Emily.’

‘I know, I know,’ I reply sheepishly. ‘It’s just that, well … I’m not entirely comfortable with all this touchy-feely stuff. Please don’t get me wrong,’ I add quickly, desperately searching for the right words, ‘I … I’m not exactly the stiff-upper-lip type … far from it … I mean, I cry at Britain’s Got Talent … but … well, it’s just that …’

‘Do you want to be one of those actors who believes they’ve done a good job so long as they remember their lines and don’t bump into the furniture?’ continues Portia, tearing into me. ‘Or would you rather be the type of actor who inhabits a role, who sets the stage alight, who can hold an audience in the palm of their hand, make them squirm in their seats, move them to tears, or cause them to laugh uncontrollably?’ Her eyes are flashing now, as her amethyst ring catches the light, sending a whirlpool of lilac light around the room, like a glitter-ball.

‘But isn’t acting all about pretending?’ I say weakly. ‘Don’t tell me you have to have committed murder before you’re eligible to play the villain in an Agatha Christie.’

All eyes hit the floor, and an uncomfortable silence hangs in the air. I flush even harder.

‘Acting is about finding the truth in imaginary circumstances,’ says Portia matter-of-factly.

I know she’s right. All the same … some things are personal. How I wish this were over. I can’t carry on just staring at the floor though. It’s humiliating. Got to do something … oh well, here goes …

‘Those years we spent together, the plans we made – did it all mean nothing to you?’ I say, quietly, haltingly. ‘You were the one who brought up marriage and children, not me, and then when I said I was ready, you kept me hanging on. And all that stuff about “finding yourself” … what a joke! You bastard. You didn’t even have the decency … no, let me finish … you didn’t even have the decency to tell me what was really going on.’

All the bottled-up emotions swirling around inside me since that hideous night come flooding out, filling my words with a mixture of anger and sadness. A big tear slides halfway down my cheek, attaching itself to my nostril, and my legs turn to Plasticine. I grab the corner of the chair.

‘Why couldn’t you have sat me down and told me the truth? That you’d fallen out of love with me and met someone else? But no … you wanted me to think you were having some sort of mental breakdown, when all the time you were sleeping with her. And I was too in love to see through you … even blamed myself. Hah! You’re nothing but a coward and a liar … Come back! Don’t walk out when I’m talking to you! Why must you always bury your head in the sand? Come back …!’ I cry, my outstretched arm flopping limply by my side.

My performance is greeted by complete silence. Moments pass.

‘Are you all right?’ asks Portia gently, handing me a tissue.

‘I’m fine, really I am,’ I say, giving my nose a blow that could warn shipping. I’m not faking it; I really am all right. In fact, I’m more than all right; I’m elated, in a strange sort of way. I did it, and it feels great – liberating – like this huge, tangled mass of poisonous emotions wrapped around my heart has been hacked away and has finally lost its stranglehold. I wasn’t just saying those words; they came from somewhere deep inside me.

‘At last! It took you to the very end of the course to get there, but I knew you had it in you,’ says Portia, with a note of pride. ‘Now, hold on to that emotion and file it away under ANGER, ready to be unleashed as and when the part calls for it,’ she continues, squeezing my arm.

I rejoin the group, sitting in a circle on the floor. I suddenly feel as if everything has fallen into place. Up to this very moment I have been stumbling, muddling my way through, putting on a brave face to the world, pretending to myself that I’m better off without Nigel. It’s now rapidly, brilliantly dawning on me that I truly had been clinging to a lost cause, and I’m free at last.

Thank you, Stanislavski. I think at last I’ve got it.

* * *

It’s Karaoke Nite at The Dog & Whistle. James and Sally take to the stage to give their Dolly and Kenny rendition of ‘Islands in the Stream’. My mind rewinds nine months and that first awkward meeting. What a long way we have all come: the emotions, the secrets, the triumphs and failures we have all dared to share.

‘To you all and the great adventures that lie ahead!’ announces Portia, popping open another bottle of Prosecco.

‘To us!’

I look around at our merry band, so full of hope and anticipation. I wonder how many of us with dreams of becoming actors will become Hot Property, and how many will end up scraping together a living as market researchers or living statues.

My tyres hiss as I weave along the rain-drenched road home. I freewheel down the hill, feet off the pedals, head tilted back, face cooled by the sudden downpour. I feel lighter somehow, as if at any given moment my bike and I could soar up into the black night to the moon, just like in E.T.

I have no idea what the future holds or how I’m going to survive, but tonight, for the first time since embarking on this mad journey, I feel I’m taking tentative steps towards reclaiming the confidence and self-esteem I lost during Nigelgate, and I’m filled with – not sure what, but this much I do know: I am no longer afraid of being alone.

Goodbye and thank you, Dramatic Ar s, for showing me that though life may be difficult at the moment, I refuse to be brought down by cheating, critical lovers or unforgiving, bitter bosses. Sure, there will be more bumps along the way, but I have a choice; and I choose to keep following my dream, no matter where it leads.

* * *

My love affair with Russia began at the age of fourteen, when they showed Doctor Zhivago on the telly one Christmas. We were studying the Russian Revolution at school, and this epic film brought those dry History lessons to life, and was the reason I got an A* that term.

While most of my friends were drooling over Jason Donovan or Tom Cruise, Yuri Zhivago was the object of my adolescent desire. I would backcomb my hair into a bouffant up-do, just like Julie Christie, wear oversized sweaters and my mum’s faux fur hair band, her pale coral lipstick completing the Lara Look.

I even bought a second-hand balalaika with my pocket money and tormented my parents and the dog by playing ‘Lara’s Theme’ over and over. I begged Mum and Dad to book Russia for our summer holidays instead of Spain. (Needless to say, Spain won the majority vote.)

Some twenty years later, when my flight schedule took me to Moscow, I channelled my inner Lara once more, as I skated in Gorky Park, fantasising as I fell over, that I might one day be scooped up by a handsome Russian doctor who would write me beautiful poems.

The only person who ever came to my rescue was an ice marshal called Zoya, who reminded me of Miss Trunchbull and could lift you up with one arm. I decided then it was high time I grew up and left my Russian romance in my teenage past.

But today I am required to dig deep and channel my inner Lara once more, as my first professional audition, two months after leaving drama school, is to play Olga in Chekhov’s Three Sisters.

How I’d love to say it’s an epic BBC costume drama, involving three months’ filming in grand Russian palaces and sumptuous ballrooms, but the truth is it’s a ‘profit-share’, pub-theatre production. I may have been awarded a D– in Maths, but even I am able to calculate that 40 seats @ £10 ÷ 14 cast members + 5 crew = very little profit (and that’s assuming it’s a full house every night). But then I’m not in this business for the money, rather “to do interesting work that challenges me” – isn’t that what actors always say on The Graham Norton Show?

With only travel expenses guaranteed, you’d imagine there wouldn’t be much competition. Apparently seven hundred actors applied to audition for the fourteen roles, as the venue’s prime location means you might get spotted by agents and casting directors. It’s an opportunity to hone your acting chops, playing the kind of roles awarded only to star names in the West End.

* * *

Ignoring the stench of beer and the odd peanut, I slither around the stained and grubby floor of The Red Dragon pub, going ‘sssss.’ I want to stand up and shout, Could somebody please explain to me what this has got to do with Chekhov?

‘Right then, that’s the end of the warm-up, and in a few moments we’ll be calling you into the room one by one, so please have your audition pieces ready,’ says someone called Rocket, with dreadlocks and a clipboard.

I pace up and down, quietly practising my speech – again:

‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here … having here …”’

Oh, God, what comes next?

‘Emily Forsyth!’ calls Rocket.

A queasy feeling floods my stomach. I’m ushered into a poky back room, where I’m introduced to the creative team.

‘Now, Emily, what audition piece are you going to do for us today?’ asks Hugh, the director.

‘I’d like to do Katherine … Queen Katherine from Henry The Eighth.’

Casting me a sympathetic glance, he nods. ‘In your own time.’

With four pairs of expectant eyes upon me, I breathe in, trying to steady my voice.

‘“Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, and to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman, and a stranger, born out of your dominions, having here no judge indifferent, nor no more assurance of equal friendship and proceeding …”’

With my audience just inches away, and crates of mixers, packets of assorted crisps, and pork scratchings occupying almost every available space, it’s hard to imagine I’m a sixteenth-century queen in a grand hall, begging my husband not to force me into a quickie divorce.

‘“… in God’s name turn me away, and let the foul’st contempt shut door upon me, and so give me up to the sharps’t kind of justice.”’

I lift my eyes from my kneeling position.

‘Thank you,’ says Hugh, breaking the long silence. ‘Now we’d like you to read part of Olga’s speech for us.’

The script starts to quiver as I take it from him.

‘Turn to page two, beginning from the top please.’

I try to channel my nerves into capturing Olga’s mood of despair.

‘“Don’t whistle, Masha. How can you! Every day I teach at the Gymnasium and afterwards I give lessons until evening, and so I’ve got a constant headache and my thoughts are those of an old woman …”’

PSSCHH hisses a toilet from above. GERDUNG, GERDUNG go the pipes.

‘“I’ve felt my strength and my youth draining from me every day, drop by drop. And one single thought grows stronger and stronger …”’

I play the speech distractedly at first, but halfway through find myself relaxing into it and actually enjoying it.

Then suddenly it’s over: my one and only chance to make an impression. I wonder if they’ll let me do it again …

‘Okay. Finally, what do you feel you can bring to the role of Olga?’

‘Hmm. Well, like Olga, I used to be dissatisfied with my job, felt I’d missed out on marriage, felt old before my time, longed to be somewhere else. The difference is I did something about it. But I can still remember how that feels, and I could draw on those emotions.’

‘Interesting,’ says Hugh, rubbing his chin. ‘Thank you for coming. We’ll let you know on Monday.’

Monday? That’s a whole three days. But hang on! What am I fretting about? I can’t afford to take the job even if they do offer it to me. So it’s for the best if I don’t get it. Just put it down to experience.

* * *

Monday p.m.

Humph! So I’m not good enough for their play, eh? Their loss. Not for them, a thank-you-for-my-first-break mention when I collect my BAFTA, so bollocks to them.

Half an hour later, the Sex and The City theme tune comes drifting across the landing into the bathroom. Jeans at half-mast, I stagger and stumble to the bedroom, and swipe my mobile from the dressing table.

‘Emily, it’s Hugh.’

I hold my breath for a moment.

‘Oh, of course, the audition. Hi,’ I say in my best I’m-a-very-busy-person voice, heart leaping into my throat.

‘Good news … we’d like you to play Olga for us. What do you say?’

My tummy does a double somersault. I open my mouth to speak, but catch myself in time. I want to grovel with gratitude and swing from the chandelier (or in this case, the wire-framed fabric light fitting with rayon fringe), but I mustn’t appear too desperately keen. I count to three, then say coolly, ‘I’d love to – thank you – I’d love to.’

‘Great. Rehearsals start Monday. Rocket, our deputy stage manager, will e-mail you all the details. Good to have you on board.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again, trying to maintain my composure until he rings off.

‘YESSS!’ I whoop, punching the air and landing with a thud.

‘Emily, is that you?’ calls Beryl from downstairs.

Hastily zipping up my jeans, I screech over the banister, ‘Beryl, I got the job!’

‘Fan-bloody-tastic, darlin’! Let me just turn Countdown off an’ I’ll crack open that bottle of Asti Spumante in the sideboard. I’ve been waiting since Christmas for an excuse to drink it.’

Three glasses of lukewarm Asti Spumante later, and my euphoria has turned into sickly panic. With daytime rehearsals for three weeks, how am I going to earn any money? Why didn’t I think this through more carefully? Look before you leap. Will I never learn? My self-esteem may well have had a bit of a boost, but the same can definitely not be said for my bank balance. There has got to be a way …

* * *

‘“Masha will come to Moscow for the summer … aargh! … for the WHOLE summer … Masha will come to Moscow for the whole summer …”’ I repeat, as I wind my way in between the desks, flicking my duster with one hand, balancing my script with the other.

‘Hello again!’

I spin around, tripping over computer cables and a waste paper basket.

‘Sorry, I’ve gotta stop freaking you out,’ says Dean, grabbing my elbow, his piercing gaze meeting mine. My heart gives a little flutter.

‘Glad to see you looking cheerier than last time we met.’

‘Yes, sorry about that,’ I reply, glancing at him sideways.

‘Guy trouble?’

‘That, and one of those where-the-hell-is-my-life-going moments.’

He looks at me blankly. He must only be in his twenties, so I guess this concept is about as alien to him as Snapchat is to me.

I glance at the clock. ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to be at my next job in less than an hour, and I haven’t started the vacuuming yet.’

‘Sure thing. You know, we should …’

‘Sorry?’ I bellow over the roar of the hoover.

He shakes his head and mouths ‘goodbye’.

* * *

I pedal through the damp, chill, early morning air, chanting, ‘Aleksandr Ignatyevich Vershinin, Aleksey Petrovich Fed… Fedotik.’ Gaah! Why is no one in Russia called Bob Jones or Jim Smith? I glance at my watch: 7.15. ‘Aleksandr Ignat… Ignatyevich Vershinin, Aleksey Petrovich Fedotik …’

My other job is at The Red Dragon, which is very handy, as we rehearse here. The only way I can afford to do the play is by taking on another early morning cleaning job. End of.

Using all the female charm I could muster, I persuaded the landlord that good beer and Sky TV alone were not enough to lure the clientele. What the place needed was a woman’s touch: a splash of bleach here and a squirt of air freshener there. (That was the polite, edited version.)

Anyway, it worked. So from 7.30 a.m. I’m Mrs Overall, picking chewing gum off bar stools and replenishing paper towels. Then, fast-forward three hours, and I’m Olga Prozorova, schoolteacher and eldest sister to Masha and Irina, dreaming of marriage and Moscow.

There’s even a shower I can use. The pipes gurgle and rattle a bit when I turn it on, and it splutters and drips freezing cold water, but at least I don’t arrive at rehearsal smelling like a compost heap.

By the end of the week, I’m sleepwalking my routine:

0430: Alarm goes off. Hit snooze button.

0435: Alarm goes off. Roll out of bed.

0445: Down a bowl of Special K.

0450: Grab bike and pedal like the clappers.

0515: Arrive at office. Clean.

0700: Leave office for pub. Clean.

0845: Shower, change, stop at Norma’s Diner for tea and runny egg on toast.

1000–1800: Rehearse.

1830: Home, dinner, learn lines, and go over what we did today.

2200: Bed, in order to be up at 0430 to repeat all of the above.

In between times, I am also sending out mail-shots to agents and casting directors:

Please cover my performance as Olga in ‘Three Sisters’ at The Red Dragon Pub Theatre, Lady Jane Walk, Richmond. 17th December – 31st January at 7.30.

Even if only four or five turn up it will be worth it – won’t it?

* * *

TONIGHT AT 7.30

THREE SISTERS

BY

ANTON CHEKHOV

I feel my stomach lurch as I glance at the sandwich board outside the pub. This is it. No more ‘Sorry, what’s my next line?’ or ‘Should I be sitting at this point?’ After three weeks’ rehearsal, I think I’m pretty solid on my lines and moves, but there is always that fear lurking somewhere in the shadows, of stepping out in front of an audience and thinking, Who am I? What the hell am I doing here? Who are these people?

I make my way upstairs to the cramped, communal dressing room. Where, oh where is the star on the door and the mirror with light bulbs all around it?

I am the first to arrive and bag myself a wee corner. With fourteen of us in the cast, it’s going to be a tight squeeze. I lay out my make-up, hairbrush, bottle of water, and lucky elephant charm (a treasured gift from the cleaner at the crew hotel in Mumbai). I then distribute my First Night cards.

One by one, the others start to drift in, and nervous, excited chatter and vocal warm-up exercises soon reverberate around the room.

There is a rap at the door and Hugh enters, pushing eighty-year-old Betty, playing Anfisa, the nanny, into the lap of Vershinin (he’s the lieutenant, who’s in love with Masha, my sister, but they’re both married, his wife’s suicidal and … well, it’s complicated).

‘Break a leg, everyone. Unfortunately our audience tonight is slightly thin on the ground, but please don’t let that put you off. I want you to act like the place is full – which I’m sure it will be once the reviews are out.’

Another knock on the door and Rocket calls breathlessly from the other side, ‘Act One beginners, please!’

As I wait in the pitch blackness behind the stage, I wonder if there’s anyone out there at all. No excited chatter or rustling of sweetie papers. I find a tiny hole in the masking drapes, close one eye, and peer through, just as the door at the back slams shut. A solitary cough fills the silence.

The lights go down and the opening music, by some Russian composer whose name I can’t remember, let alone pronounce, crackles through the speakers. I clear my dry throat, fumble my way through the leaden darkness five steps to the makeshift stage, and take up position. The music fades and the lights snap on, burning my face, blinding me with their glare. Here goes …

‘“… Andrey could be good-looking, only he’s filled out a lot and it doesn’t suit him …”’

A mobile phone goes off.

‘Hello …’

‘“But I’ve become old, I’ve got very thin …”’

‘It finishes around 10.30, I think … I hope …’ (snigger) …

‘“I suppose because I lose my temper with …”’

‘Okay, darling, see you in the bar. Hmm? I’m not sure …’

‘“… the girls at the Gymnasium. Today I’m free, I’m at home, and I have no headache …”’

‘Ooh, I know … make it a vodka and orange … a double … I’ll need it! Byee!’

‘Shh!’

‘“I feel younger than yesterday …”’

We haven’t even reached the end of Act One and I am consumed by an overwhelming sense of despair. Marvellous method acting? Would it were true.

A car alarm goes off.

What in God’s name is that guy doing?

‘“… Andrey, don’t go off …”’

I don’t believe it. He’s getting up. KER-CHUNG! goes the seat as it flips up. EEEEEEAK! creaks the door. A shaft of light streams through from the bar.

‘“He has a way of always walking off. Come here.”’

‘GOAL!’ comes a collective, triumphant cry from the bar, just as the door swings shut.

I guess Chelsea must have scored against Sheffield then.

We brazen it out to the interval - somehow. Acts Three and Four go a little better, and apart from the odd cough, our meagre audience seems to settle down. Maybe they’re actually getting into it. On second thoughts, judging by the lukewarm applause as we take our curtain call, maybe they were comatose.

It wasn’t meant to be like this; I didn’t expect a standing ovation and flowers to be thrown at our feet, but I wasn’t prepared for this: to be in a production where the actors outnumber the audience. Is this what I have sacrificed my job and everything for? This is not my dream. I had such high hopes. Things are just not panning out as I expected. My bubble has burst already. My nails are chipped and dirty; my knees are bruised from pushing and shoving desks around the office and scrubbing stone steps at the pub. I wouldn’t care had I had one reply from a casting director or agent; even a WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU would have been nice, courteous.

‘Well done, everyone!’ enthuses Hugh, giving us the thumbs-up as we trudge up the stairs. ‘The drinks are on me.’

I’m about to make the excuse of having to be up at 0430, when Susannah, who plays Masha, as if reading my mind, says, ‘Come on, sis’, shall we show our faces and have just one?’

‘Why not?’ I say flatly, forcing a smile.

‘Ladies!’ calls Hugh, waving us over to the bar.

‘Hugh’s a sweetie,’ whispers Susannah. ‘I’ve worked for him before, and not only is he a brilliant director, but he really values his cast. The theatre is his life-blood. He should be at The National – but then shouldn’t we all, darling?’

Despite early success (she was plucked from drama school at the age of nineteen to play Rumpleteazer in Cats), Susannah tells me she has struggled since, doing the odd commercial and bit part on telly.

‘The only way I get to do the juicy, classical roles is on the Fringe, in productions like this, with a couple of students or maybe a pensioner or two for an audience at matinées. But who knows, one of these days, Sam Mendes may be out there scouting for new talent,’ she says brightly. ‘Top-up?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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