CHAPTER ONE
Finding my Inner Dog
January – new beginnings
WHERE THE HELL AMI? 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-esquebedroom, and for him to be lying beside me.
My watery gaze lands onDiana, 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 amplebosom. ‘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 theEiffel 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 tellmyself, 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 showerhead – 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 nakedRiverdanceas 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 andscented 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. Itwill.
* * *
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 anticipationsweeps 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 seriesGlee.
I tie my soaking-wet hair into a high ponytailand 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 apologetictiptoe. 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 auditionI 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 complementingher 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 everbeen speed dating?’
