Innocence

‘Oh, hello! Who is this?’

It’s Melvin Bert, the Head of Drama at the City Lit. The rounded, plummy tones of his Eton education are unmistakable. My throat constricts instantly, as a hand tightens into a fist.

‘Melvin it’s me: Evie Garlick.’

‘How extraordinary! I…I was certain I’d dialled someone else…’ He pauses. ‘But…but now that I’m through to you, I think you might do just as well…’

I shake my head.

Piotr nods. Crossing, he takes my hand gently by the wrist and tips the ashes into his palm. He smiles, his fingers warm against my skin.

He disappears down the steps into the kitchen.

I yank my concentration back. ‘What can I do for you, Melvin?’

‘Well, the truth is, Edie…’ He’s never known my name. In the three years that I’ve worked for him, I’ve failed to register in any lasting way on his memory. ‘I need someone to take over Ingrid Davenport’s class on the three-year acting course. She’s been offered something at the National and, at her age, she really has to have a run at it!’

Ingrid’s only fifty. But Melvin, despite his professional career administrating in the dramatic arts, has never been an actor. It continues to baffle him that anyone over the age of thirty would be interested in acting professionally when they could have a nice, comfortable job teaching instead. ‘As I said, I was originally going to ask Sheila but, now that I’ve got you on the phone…’ His voice trails off, ripe with possibility.

This is a rare and exceptional opportunity: a chance to move out of the lower depths of teaching pensioners and night students; to pull myself into the proper, professionally accredited three-year drama course. Maybe even to direct. My heart surges with excitement. And terror.

All I need to do is to say something. Anything at all.

‘Well, Melvin.’ I take a deep breath, determined not to betray my nerves. ‘That’s a…an interesting offer…May I ask what times she teaches?’

There’s the sound of him riffling through papers. ‘Let’s see…yes, the first years are from eleven until one, then the third years are from two until four thirty. She has private tutorials on Wednesday afternoons until six thirty’

He pauses; a sharp, abrupt full stop. It shrieks for some sort of decisive, enthusiastic response. A clock ticks away in my head.

‘Oh.’ My mind’s reeling. ‘It’s just, you see, my son is still in school,’ I fumble, thinking out loud, ‘and…I…I…’

God! Pull yourself together!

‘Let me think…’ I stall, ‘he’s usually out by three…’

Melvin sighs indulgently. The clock ticks louder.

‘I need to get from Drury Lane to St John’s Wood before he…you know…’

I can’t even finish a sentence! There’s no way I’m capable of taking over Ingrid’s workload.

‘Melvin, I don’t think it’s going to work for me right now. I have to be available and…his schedule’s very tricky at the moment…’

What am I doing? What I am saying?

‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand.’ I can hear him tapping his pen. ‘Well, it was just on the off chance.’ He can’t wait to get me off the line.

Suddenly I’m desperate again. ‘Oh, of course! I mean, if you want someone to fill in just for a few days or something…I mean, if there’s anything I can do…’

‘Yes, I’ll keep you in mind,’ he says briskly. ‘Take care, Edie.’

And the line goes dead.

I hang up.

Turning, I catch sight of myself in the antique looking-glass hanging at the bottom of the stairs. A dim, filmy shadow clouds its surface like a phantom, compromising its clarity. Even the elaborate gilt frame can’t redeem its grey face.

There I am, diffuse and uncertain, blinking back at myself. A wave of self-loathing engulfs me.

I’ve done it again.

Every time I’m close to getting somewhere, I back away from the edge of the cliff.

I’ve lost my taste for heights. But I don’t know where or when it happened.

‘Don’t you miss your boyfriend?’ Robbie’s lying on her back on my bed, staring at the ceiling and dangling her legs in the air. She never spends any time in her own room at all, which is just as well, considering what a sty it is.

I’m unpacking my books; stacks of play texts and anthologies I’ve lugged all the way from the States. ‘Yeah, sure. But we talk a lot, so that helps.’

She looks at me. ‘No, I mean, don’t you miss him?’

My face flushes. ‘Yes. I suppose.’

‘Nice to know you’re human, Evie Rose Garlick!’ She gives my ponytail a tug. ‘Hey! I’ve been thinking. There’s this great Fassbinder speech I think you should have a look at.’ She swings her legs round and sits up. ‘I’ll be right back.’

She pads off to her room.

‘Look at for what?’ There are no shelves. I pile my books from largest to smallest against the wall.

They fall over.

‘For Juilliard!’ I can hear her sifting through the chaos.

I start again. Two piles this time.

‘I already have my pieces.’

She appears in the doorway, holding a battered volume. ‘But just look at this!’ She flings herself back on to the bed. ‘It’s amazing! Here. Read it out loud. You’ll love it!’

I take the book. It smells musty, like she stole it from a library. ‘Which one?’

‘“The Model.’”

‘“Sometimes I like to fondle myself…’” I look up, shocked. ‘This is all about…about masturbating, Robbie!’

She claps her hands in glee. ‘Isn’t it amazing? It’s so sexy and raw! If you did that for Juilliard, they’d be floored, Evie! Nobody does that speech!’

‘But it’s…disgusting!’ I say, unable to stop reading.