Elegance and Innocence (67 page)

As the curtain comes down on the first half, Anthony grabs me by the waist, kissing me full on the lips; he’s sweating and revolting. ‘If only good old Janice could do
that
every night! I’m telling you, I nearly got an erection, you were so good! Oh, look! I think I’m getting one now!’

I shove him away. ‘Easy come, easy go.’ I’m pretending to be less shaken than I am.

He gives my hand a squeeze. ‘I was really dreading it, second night and all. But you blew me away, kid.’ His eyes twinkle. ‘Go on! Spit at me again! I love it when you’re mean!’

I take off my crown and step down from the thrones, and my legs threaten to buckle underneath me, but David rushes up and I rally, flashing him a smile.

‘Well, bugger me! Who would’ve guessed you were so fierce!’ he gushes.

All the way down to the dressing room I parade through congratulations. Even Boyd strides into the middle of the ladies dressing room, without even a knock on the door, and gives me a kiss.

‘Now you’ve done it!’ He’s beaming. ‘You know, Frances Guin from the casting department was sitting next to me.’ He shakes his head. ‘Get ready, Evie! That’s all I have to say. Get ready!’

A bottle of champagne appears, the girls pop it open, passing round plastic cups.

‘Five minutes to curtain up,’ the stage manager announces over the tannoy, sparking a flurry of last-minute preparation.

And amid the chattering and teasing, I slip into the ladies and stand with my back pressed against the cool metal door. No one will ever know what a tremendous act of will that was for me … but underneath even all that, Jake’s presence thumps away like a heartbeat …

What’s he doing right now?

Signing autographs? Having a drink?

What does a rock star drink?

Champagne? Scotch?

If it’s Jake, it’s both.

Something long buried stirs in the pit of my stomach.

So, he’s here.

The announcement comes over the tannoy again: ‘Visitor for Ms Albery at the stage door.’

Michael pops his head into the dressing room. ‘Come on, Evie! You’re coming, aren’t you?’

‘Sure!’ I wave him on. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. Go on without me.’

They’re all headed for the Dirty Duck across the road. Every time I think I’m alone, someone else pokes their head round the corner, offering to buy me another drink; even people who aren’t in this production – other actors who’ve just heard the news. I should be thrilled. I was a success when failure loomed. But now, as I sit here, wiping the last traces of mascara from my eyes, the sick lurching feeling is back, as if the night weren’t over but just beginning.

He’s there; waiting for me.

‘Will Ms Albery please ring the stage door.’

Releasing my hair from my ponytail, I brush it through. I wonder how he knew I was here? Perhaps that man, Alfred, keeps him posted. No matter. There’s nothing he can do to me any more.

I put the hairbrush down neatly on my dressing table and examine myself in the mirror.

I’m not the same. I’m different. The last time he saw me I was a stupid, awkward kid. Now I’m a real actress; the actress who just walked onto the main stage of the RSC tonight and blew them all away.

Michael comes rushing back in. ‘Oh, my God! Evie! You’ll never guess who …’

‘Darling,’ I interrupt him, ‘will you do me a favour and chat to him? I don’t want him to get bored.’

‘How do you know him?’ He blinks. ‘Is he …’

‘A second cousin,’ I cut him off. ‘Do you mind?’

He nods enthusiastically. ‘My God, but you’re a dark horse!’ he laughs, before hurrying back upstairs.

Jake will be surrounded, of course. Signing autographs and flirting. They’re used to big names at the stage door, actors mostly; Hollywood in town to see their chums. But nothing like Jake.

The phone in the corner of the dressing room rings.

I let it.

Slipping my feet into my sandals, I pick up my handbag and turn out the light. The backstage area is empty; I weave through the dusty hallways, lined with costume rails and props. I press open one of the emergency exits, then slip, unseen, out of the side of the building into the cool night air.

The theatre’s surrounded by an elegant park, which borders either side of the River Avon. Walking through the darkness, I can hear the sound of the rushing water and the wind through the trees. Across the road, there are gales of laughter and music coming from the Dirty Duck. At the end of the park there’s an ancient churchyard and a long residential street; one side is darker than the other.
I cling to the shadows, walking home. I’m invisible; enjoying my secret adventure to escape without being detected.

Outside the city centre a euphoric sense of freedom overtakes me. A glimmer of triumph; he’s just standing there, while call after call’s put out for me, surrounded by people, all watching.

Why is it still so sharp, after all this time?

He’s got everything he ever dreamt of – fame, sex, money – but he wants forgiveness too. I’ve groped blindly, numbly, from day to day, struggling; a single angry shard glowing inside me, vibrant and warm.

All I have left is my silence. And as long as I have the power to hurt him I’ll use it. It’s the only part of me that feels truly, painfully alive.

But none of that matters; tonight changed everything.

I can breathe now. This is what success feels like – like finally being able to breathe. It’s been a long time coming. And I like it.

The fields on either side of me whisper, stars glimmer in the velvet sky above. The corner shop glows in the distance. There’s the Old Rectory with its long drive. Home is only a few more yards away. I’ve made it. The gravel crunches beneath my feet. I reach into my handbag to get my keys.

Suddenly a car swerves into the drive, headlights blinding.

I keep moving, eyes front.

A car door slams.

‘Evie!’

I jam the keys into the lock. The door swings wide.

Jake throws his arm across it, holds it open. ‘Evie! For fuck’s sake!’

I don’t want to look at him; don’t want to see him, hear him, touch him.

‘Leave me alone.’ I lean my full weight against the door.

‘Five minutes! I just want five minutes.’ He presses it open.

‘I’ll call the police!’

He forces his way inside. ‘Go on! Call them.’

It’s almost impossible to see. Stumbling in the half-light, I lunge for the phone. He reaches behind me, rips the cord out of the wall.

I’m left holding the receiver.

‘All I want to do is talk to you!’

I pitch the phone at him; he ducks and it crashes against the far wall.

‘You’re mad!’ he shouts.

‘No,
you’re
mad, Jake! Why are you following me? How did you even know I was here?’

He stops a moment, catching his breath. In the dim light, I can make out the same aquiline features, the long, angular limbs, set off in his tailored suit; thick hair tumbling almost to his shoulders.

‘Alfred’s a fan. You were good, you know …’

‘What do you want?’ I cut him short.

‘Damn it, Evie!’ He pounds his fist against the wall in frustration. ‘Why do you have to make everything so difficult! I just want to … to talk to you …’

‘I don’t want to talk! I don’t want anything to do with you! No money, no property … what you owe me, Jake, money can’t buy!’ Tears burn my eyes. I won’t cry. ‘Leave. Just leave. It’s over.’

‘No. No, it’s not!’ He’s suddenly lost; displaced, in the middle of the floor, shaking his head; pulling at his hair.

His agitation’s distressing. I wish I could cut myself off from him. ‘Go home, Jake,’ I say quietly.

But he paces back and forth; a wild animal, trapped.

‘So, this guy you’re seeing? Is he nice? I’ll bet he’s a real nice guy, Evie!’

I don’t know how he knows about Evan, but it unnerves me. ‘Fuck you!’ I step past him, up the stairs.

He grabs my arm. ‘You and I are alike – we understand each other.’

‘I’d rather die than be like you!’ I wrench my arm away.

‘Why? Look at me!’ He catches me about the waist. ‘Look at me! I’ve changed!’

I struggle to free myself. He falls, pulling us both halfway down the steps. ‘I’m clean!’ He grabs my hands. ‘I’ve been clean for three months, Evie!’

‘So what? What’s that got to do with me?’ I try to twist my hands away but he holds them tight. ‘You expect me to believe you?’

He pulls me closer. ‘You have to believe me!’ I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘Why?’

‘It makes all the difference!’ He’s staring at me; his eyes wild and dark. ‘Things would be different now.’

‘What are you talking about?’ A thin, icy strand of terror builds inside me. He’s high or mad or both. ‘Get away from me!’ I push him off, running back up the stairs.

He follows me, moving slower now. ‘We’ve got money, we won’t be poor, living in shit, I can do it right this time …’ He tries to touch me. ‘Do you see?’

‘Get away from me!’ My heart’s tearing in two. ‘Look at you! Do you think you can just come here in your … your fucking Armani suit!’

‘You don’t like it?’ He pulls off his jacket, throws it on the ground. ‘You don’t like this suit? Here!’ He tears off his shirt and turns round.

For a moment, I can’t place what I’m looking at and then, suddenly, I can’t even breathe.

Moonlight spills across his bare torso and there, tattooed onto his shoulder blades, in incredible, painstaking detail, is a pair of enormous black wings. They spread ominously, suspended in full flight, reaching all the way down to his waist. Along his arms there are more designs – all inter-wined with the same name, again and again … Raven, raven, raven …

‘You’re the only thing I can feel …’ He’s speaking
softly, moving closer. ‘The only thing I’ve ever really felt!’

‘Oh, don’t, don’t!’ My head’s bursting.

‘I was so in love with you, I used to stare, watching you while you slept!’

‘You’re lying!’ I’m crying; it’s unbearable. ‘Stop it!’ I strike his face as hard as I can. The palm of my hand stings but he doesn’t even flinch.

I hit him again, harder.

And again.

He grabs my wrist. ‘Go on, tell me how you love your nice boyfriend!’ he whispers.

And then he pulls me to him, forcing his mouth over mine.

I beat on him with my fists but he holds me tighter. I bite his lip but he kisses harder; the taste of warm blood fills my mouth.

‘Say you don’t love me!’ he demands.

‘I hate you!’ I spit the words out at him. ‘I hate you more than anyone I’ve ever known!’

‘I don’t care! Tell me you don’t love me.’

‘You’ve ruined my life!’ I’m flooded by him; dangerous, intoxicated.

‘And you’ve ruined mine.’ He presses me harder against the wall. ‘I have nothing, feel nothing!’

‘Leave me alone!’ I collapse my head against his chest. Something in me snaps; brittle and slender, like a dry twig. His skin’s warm, smooth, smelling of tuberose and sweat
… almost imperceptibly, I raise my chin towards his lips.

He lifts me up, carrying me into the next room. ‘Never.’

He strokes my face. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

I lie very still; every bit of me aches.

Somewhere, in the thick, dark night, a nightingale sings.

‘Do you remember? How we danced? With the old people.’

I close my eyes; a tear falls down my cheek.

He curls himself around me.

I’m floating, somewhere far above my body …

He presses himself closer; his arms are covered in track marks. ‘I’ll make it up to you. You’re the only thing I ever loved. We can go back.’

I’m drowning, saturated with self-loathing and disgust; the water’s far above my head.

I force myself to sit up. ‘I despise you,’ I whisper, watching his face change. ‘And I’ll never forgive you.’

I stumble into the bathroom, lock the door and crouch, naked, until I hear him leave.

The car engine roars to life and the brakes screech.

He’s gone.

I open the door. It’s still dark.

And lying on the bed, curtains drawn against the dawn, I’m sobbing; inhaling the smell of him that’s soaked, like perfume, into the pillows, the sheets and me.

It’s late afternoon. I’m standing in the queue at the corner shop, buying a pint of milk and some aspirin. The man in front of me is buying a paper. There’s a picture on the cover.

A black car, ploughed off the road, door open. A dark-haired man, pale, lips tinged blue, head lolled back against the driver’s seat.

‘Rock Star Suicide Bid’ the headline reads.

My hand moves in slow motion. I pick up a copy.

The man behind the counter’s speaking to me.

I hand him a fiver and walk.

He calls after me. I keep on walking.

As soon as I close the front door, my legs give way.

I tear the paper open. Words float in front of my eyes: ‘found in a ditch near Coventry … overdose … prescription sedatives … possible brain and liver damage … stable condition … performance of the RSC … suicide note …’

Another photo: Jake’s hand, clutching a small piece of paper.

And then the piece of paper, smoothed out, a single line, scrawled in Jake’s handwriting. ‘Where are we now?’ it says.

It’s late.

I walk silently up the stairs.

Robbie’s words play on a loop tape in my head. ‘What are you so afraid of, Evie?’

I pause on the landing. Allyson’s gone now; moonlight illuminates the barren walls of her old room. The empty wardrobe, whose doors swing open, inviting someone new to fill them. I pass Piotr’s door, closed. I lower my head anyway, as if he might sense me passing outside. He leaves early in the morning, practises at the Royal Academy, comes in late.

He’s avoiding me.

And I’ve stayed out of his way.

It’s been almost two weeks now.

Climbing the stairs up to my bedroom, I take off my coat and turn on my bedside lamp. There’s a chest at the bottom of my bed. And, opening the lid, I take out a battered blue box file.

I haven’t done this in a long time.

I sit on the bed and open the lid. It’s just an ordinary box file; from Ryman’s – filled with old photos, papers, letters … I spot the faded trade-mark pink of the
Financial Times
. It’s worn and delicate, the pages brittle with age.