‘Mon Dieu!’ she says, rolling her eyes and shaking her head at the memory. She then scrutinises herself in her compact mirror and runs the tissue carefully under her lower lashes. ‘On y va!’ she says, downing the last of her wine.
Nothing like a bit of ‘Dancing Queen’ to reseal a friendship and lift the spirits.
* * *
It seems I’ve only just drifted off, when I am woken by Rod Stewart belting out ‘Maggie May’. I open one eye. 0430. Slamming the OFF button on the radio alarm, I raise my head from the pillow. I feel like I’m drowning in a swirling, green, psychedelicsea. I fall back, holding my head in agony. The thought of overflowing bins and disinfectant makes me want to throw up. With rehearsals over, at least I’m free from nine until the evening show, I tell myself as I stagger to the bathroom, one hand grimly holding my head, the other my stomach.
The road approaching the office is riddled with bumps and potholes, and normally I manage to avoidthe majority of them, but this morning, with my eyes half shut, I cycle headlong into each and every one, rattling my bones and jarring my nerves.
As I push the Dyson to and fro, gradually, agonisingly, fragments of last night seep into my fuzzy consciousness, torturing my mind. Last night I truly believed our rendition of ‘Voulez-Vous’ was worthy of a part inMamma Mia!Now, in the cold,sober light of day, it’s dawning on me that we must have sounded like a pair of wild dingoes.
That night, and for the remaining ten performances, we are back to an audience of sleepy pensioners, uninterested GCSE students, and the odd drunk from the bar. We now know how it feels to have an appreciative crowd, and so the remainder of the run is an anticlimax – a bit like getting upgraded tofirst class once, and then having to revert to flying economy.
But I have been given a taste of how it feels to play a multi-dimensional character in front of an appreciative audience, and it’s made me hungry for Hedda Gabler, for… okay, maybe I’m a tad too old to play Hedda. I could play the likes of Lady Macbeth though, or Shirley Valentine. But how do you land that kind of role, unlesssome maverick director takes a risk on casting an unknown?
* * *
Dean turns up on the last night for our dinner date decked out in an ill-fitting, rumpled suit. He confesses he watched scene one then retired to the bar, so by the time the curtain comes down he’s had ‘a gutful of piss’.
‘The table’s booked for ten forty-five,’ he says, planting a slobbery kiss on the back of my neck.I stare at the floor and notice his trousers barely reach his ankles, and that he’s wearing a pair of shabby trainers (try to ignore this, Emily).
Pressing his hand firmly into the small of my back, he steers me towards the door. Why am I already starting to feel this was a bad idea?
* * *
The Thai, doll-like waitress, wearing turquoise silk and a hibiscus flower, smiles graciouslyand leads us to a dark corner of the cram-packed restaurant.
By the time our Tom Yum Goong soup arrives, Iknowthis was a mistake. I should have insisted we just go for a drink. I vaguely remember Faye telling us that night at Waltzing Matilda’s that she’s joined a dating agency, and that one of the golden rules is to only agree to a coffee or drink on the first date. Then if you discoveryou haven’t got that much in common, you don’t have to endure an interminable and costly meal. Why didn’t this piece of professional advice register in my brain? (Probably because at the time it was otherwise engaged in ABBAville.)
‘You won’t believe it,’ Dean says, slurping his soup noisily, ‘but see this little, bendable iPhone I picked up in Tokyo,’ he continues, throwing down his spoon.‘It has voice dialling, I can switch between music tracks by twisting it, like this …andit takes fantastic selfies. Smile!’
‘Really?’ I say vaguely, eyes ghoulishly transfixed by the blade of lemon grass hanging from the end of his damp chin.
‘Now Mum and Dad can see my Mrs Robinson in the flesh.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what Mum and Dad call you. You know, older woman seduces youngerman.’
‘What? You’ve told your parents about me?’
‘I can ask it questions too, just as you would a person. Listen!’ he says proudly. ‘Any good bars in this area?’
This-might-answer-your-question …squawks the virtual assistant.
God help me, how am I to survive beyond the Sou Si Gung? I sneak a look at my watch and stifle a yawn. This issoembarrassing.
‘Some of my mates aregoing to that new nightclub in Kingston. I said we might meet them there,’ he says keenly, his glassy-eyed stare glued to my breasts.
‘Look, Dean, I’m really sorry, but nightclubs aren’t my thing,’ I mumble, covering my chest with my napkin.
‘Cool. We could go somewhere quiet for a drink – just the two of us.’ He lurches forward and reaches across the table for my hand, knocking over mywine and sending the basket of prawn crackers into orbit.
‘It’s been a long day.’ I squirm. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but do you mind if I give it a miss?’
His face clouds over and an awkward silence falls between us.
The evening has got to end NOW. I stand up and fish in my bag for my purse.
