Innocence

I stare at her. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s always the same. You want to be someone else and then you are and people applaud…’ She grins. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘It was the only time I can remember feeling like I belonged in my own skin. No one really wanted to hang out with me until then. And then my parents came along.’ I see my mother’s bright smile, my father wearing a tie, sitting in the front row of the school auditorium. ‘They were proud of me. They’d never been proud before. That’s when I made up my mind I was going to be an actress.’

She’s still and quiet; frowning at the floor.

I’ve said too much. The anxious, naked feeling I grew up with returns. Suddenly I’m back in school with my short hair and ugly uniform, trying too hard to make friends with the cool girls.

‘I can tell the time now,’ I add quickly. ‘It just took a little longer.’

She laughs; the frown vanishes and with it my awkwardness.

‘What about you?’ I ask.

‘Me?’ She presses her eyes shut. ‘I’ve been acting all my life!’

‘So you must be good,’ I persist.

‘You know what?’ She sits up. ‘I’m not even that interested in it.’ And, leaning back, she wiggles her red-painted toes, admiring her handiwork.

For a moment, I can hardly speak. ‘But…but, why are you here, then?’

‘Oh, darling!’ She smiles at me indulgently. ‘Who in the world wants to get a job? And besides, I know I’ve got some sort of talent; it’s just I haven’t really found my milieu yet. It’s all simply a matter of time. Never mind.’

She lights a fresh cigarette, the glow of the flame illuminating her porcelain skin. ‘So, what I’m wondering, Raven…’

I flinch. ‘That sounds really odd to me.’

‘You’ll get used to it. So what I’m wondering is, I have this great date with Hughey Chicken and he’s got a friend he’s supposed to meet tonight in Camden. So I’m thinking that maybe you’d like to come along too. A kind of double date.’

‘You mean a blind date.’

‘Yeah, well. I guess, if you want to look at it that way’

What other way is there to look at it?

‘Actually I have a boyfriend. He’s a graphic artist at CMU.’

She looks at me. ‘And…?’

‘Well, I’m not into being unfaithful or anything. I mean, we’re probably going to live together when I get back.’

‘Relax! I wasn’t suggesting you offer him bed and breakfast. We were just going to hang out. After all, it’s London! Don’t you want to meet people? Have fun?’

I hesitate.

Obviously the cool thing to do is say yes. But what if he turns out to be ugly? Or weird? Or even not ugly and weird but out of my league—handsome and cool? I think of Jonny; of his funny, crooked smile. If it’s only to hang out, I guess it doesn’t matter. He’s not possessive. And it’s not like I’m going on my own…But what would I wear? I’ve only just got here; I haven’t even unpacked.

Robbie’s smiling at me, swinging her legs. ‘So, what do you think? We’re going to meet in this pub and then go on to see a band at the Camden Palace.’

‘I…I don’t know.’

‘Rave…’ She’s already shortening it. I now have a nickname from a name that isn’t mine. ‘Rave, the thing is, I don’t know Hughey either. See? So it’ll be fun. An adventure!’

I don’t know why this makes sense but it does. (The sidecars may have something to do with it.) ‘OK, sure. To keep you company, that’s all. But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll use my own name tonight.’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Fine. But I wouldn’t mention your last name if I were you.’

The front door opens.

‘Hello!’

‘We’re in here!’ Robbie calls. ‘Getting drunk!’

A young girl in an ill-fitting brown coat peers in. She looks about fifteen, with heavy, straight, shoulder-length hair pinned back from her face by a bright pink barrette, and enormous round blue eyes. She’s carrying a stack of books—a thick, leather-bound reprint of Shakespeare’s first quarto, a Penguin guide to Romeo and Juliet, a copy of The Seagull and a well-thumbed edition of Chekhov’s short stories.

‘Hi.’ She crosses the room and holds out her hand. ‘I’m Imogene Stein.’

I stand up. ‘Evie Garlick. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Evie’s coming with me to meet Hughey Chicken!’ Robbie beams, raising her mug.

‘Better you than me,’ Imogene carefully places her books on the floor and shrugs off her coat. Underneath, her dress is a drop-waisted pinafore affair, at least two sizes too big and her shoes are the kind of solid, brown oxford lace-ups my grandmother favoured. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘Sidecars. Want me to make you one?’

‘Yes, please.’

Robbie gets up and Imogene collapses onto the sofa. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a fag?’ she pleads. Robbie chucks her the packet before heading into the kitchen.

I watch as she lights up. There’s something wrong with this picture. She looks like a Laura Ashley poster child but sucks deeply and greedily, throwing her legs over one another like a forty-year-old prostitute after a long night.

‘So,’ I take a stab at conversation. ‘You’ve been out?’

Nothing like stating the obvious.

She passes a hand over her eyes. ‘Rehearsing. The Seagull.’

‘Yeah? Which scene?’

‘The last one. You know, ‘I’m a seagull. No, I’m not. Yes, I am.’ She takes another drag and for a moment it looks like she might inhale the whole thing in a single go.

‘That’s a great scene.’ I try to sound encouraging. ‘And a killer speech.’

She nods, exhaling a stream of smoke from her nose. ‘Yep. I am a seagull. I am definitely a seagull.’

We sit in silence.