The thing is, Becca thought to herself as she lay in bed emerging slowly out of sleep. The thing is, nothing changes. It was more than a month since the party, and her life was just the same, running on predictable rails, stopping at the usual stations: birth, childhood, work, marriage, motherhood.
Becca yawned and stretched. Only retirement and senility to come. She thought about shutting her eyes and trying for a bit more sleep, then shook herself. Martin had got up early to go off on a work team-bonding day, and she thought she could remember him bringing her a cup of tea. She found it, and sipped. Yuck, luke-warm, with a scummy surface. She yawned again. Right, let's get going. Let's be dynamic, let's be effective. Let's get up and do a hundred sit-ups! But bed was so warm...Fifty sit-ups? If only I could invent an exercise system that could be done in bed and didn't involve sweat, I'd be a millionaire, she thought, snuggling down under the duvet. But now she was awake properly and there was no denying the truth. Nothing was going to change, unless she actually did something about it.
She swung her legs out of bed and stared at the carpet trying to visualise herself down there doing sit-ups. After three seconds she gave up - sit-ups simply weren't going to be part of her new dynamic life. But she had a more or less free Saturday: she could investigate a new career, find an exciting hobby, join a gym, go swimming. She could get cultural: there was a whole world of art exhibitions and performances, concerts and museums out there, just waiting for her to walk through their doors. Go, Becca, go! She scurried into the shower and ran it cool, all the better to energise her ready for her new life.
Downstairs she made herself breakfast (no point in waiting for Lily) and started on the day's chores. Unload dishwasher, fill it with Martin's and her breakfast things, wipe down surfaces. Newspapers into recycling bin, sift through post, throw most of it away, read postcard from Crystal in Barcelona - the post must have taken ages, she must have been back for a week - peek at gas bill, thank heavens it was from the summer months. Load washing machine, go into hall to yell at Lily to get up and clean out hamster, realise yelling is futile, go back to the utility room.
Becca held the hamster in her hand, Lily's Christmas present from the year before. The hamster stared at her, black eyes shining, nose twitching. Then, obviously unimpressed with Becca, it turned its back on her, tiny feet scuffling Becca's palm, and got on with the serious business of washing.
'You could be a bit more grateful,' Becca told it, as it cutely cuffed behind its ears as if auditioning for a Beatrix Potter watercolour. 'You're not in the desert now you know, you're in Bath, in England, and in my house. If I didn't look after you, you couldn't rely on Lily.' The hamster yawned showing small but sharp teeth. 'You're not listening to me, are you?' she said. 'Never mind, no one else in this house does so you're not alone.'
Becca popped the hamster on the worktop, put on rubber gloves, then began cleaning the bottom of the cage. That done, she replaced the bedding in the hamster's little house and spread a clean newspaper over the bottom of the cage. A headline caught her eye: 'Daring canal boat rescue!' She began to read the article, and then the next, caught up in the irresistible lure of out-of-date and discarded newspapers, so much more interesting than when the news was fresh. Then her attention was caught and she read more intently. An amateur dramatics group were auditioning for a production of The Country Wife. Oh, but that took her back. She'd been in a production at university in her first year. Becca sat on her haunches as she tried to remember the plot. Lots of bed-hopping, Restoration style, with Fie! and Foh! and La! and heaving bosoms and tapping the fops on the shoulder with your fan. The cast had got into the spirit of things, the quantity of romping increasing offstage as well as on as the term wore on, and a party each night after every performance complete with at least one person being sick in the garden, one girl weeping in the upstairs loo, and three couples glued to each other while slow dancing to 'Lady in Red'. She'd done her share of that with - now, what was his name? She scoured her mind for the answer. Strange how she could remember details like his curly hair and that he came from Rotherham, but not his name.
'Happy days,' Becca told the hamster as she went back to the article. Then all thoughts of her romance with Rotherham man skipped out of her brain. There were going to be open auditions for the production all week, finishing on Saturday 2 September. Today. This morning. Becca checked her watch. Now.
- ooo -
Becca pushed open the door, her heart beating as if she was entering the dragon's lair instead of a converted church on the outskirts of Bath. She'd driven past it often enough, as it wasn't far from her house, nor the school where she taught. The walls of the entrance lobby had the slightly lumpy effect of having been painted fast with thick paint to hide the poor quality surface underneath. It gave the place a subtle makeshift feel, like nightclubs in daylight.
There was nothing subtle or makeshift about the young woman lounging against a desk, however. She was wearing a purple feathery bolero and black velvet shorts, long legs encased in thick, horizontally striped, black and white tights ending in red leather Doc Martens. At the other end, half her black hair snaked over her shoulders while the other half was in two high bunches at the top of her head like a manga cartoon.
Becca nearly turned tail and ran. 'Is this the right place for the auditions?' she asked nervously. She'd chucked on her usual Saturday uniform of jeans and sweatshirt, but compared to the glories of purple feathers she felt horribly mumsy and conventional, mutton dressed in Boden. This was a bad idea.
The woman picked up a clipboard. 'Name?' she asked with a smile, Biro poised.
'I won't be on your list - I only saw the notice this morning,' Becca said, stumbling over the words. 'I don't expect there are any spaces. It was just an idea. It doesn't matter.'
'It's fine, if you don't mind waiting,' the woman said, smiling with a friendliness that was at odds with her startling appearance. 'I can pop you in at the end - we're running a bit late but I'm sure he won't mind,' and she indicated with a tilt of her head someone behind the double doors that presumably led to the main body of the church.
Becca gave the woman her details and sat down carefully so as not to disturb an elderly man slumped on the chair who Becca guessed was thinking himself into his role. That, or he was in a coma. There were six other people waiting, all women, apart from the coma man. Even at ten minutes per audition, it was going to mean waiting over an hour.
'Have you auditioned for us before?' the woman asked, hair bobbing. She was not as young as Becca had originally thought, judging by the fine tracing of lines around her eyes. Becca shook her head. 'It's quite a commitment, you know.'
'I hadn't thought...' Becca wondered if she should go now. She couldn't give up too many evenings a week, not during term time.
'Mind you, you should be all right with this play - there's a big enough cast. With some of the smaller plays, the actors have to turn up three nights a week, but I wouldn't have thought it'd be more than once a week. Assuming you got cast. And assuming you won't get the lead role. Which you won't.'
Becca immediately longed to get the lead role, just to prove her wrong, although three nights a week would be practically impossible. Perhaps the biggest roles went to the actors who'd been there longest. 'How do you know I won't get the lead role?'
'It's a bloke.' Becca mentally kicked herself; she should have remembered that. The woman carried on. 'And the lead female role is - and I don't mean to be rude - going to go to someone younger than you. There's a hardcore of about thirty of us, but lots more dip in and out, and we've built up a loyal audience. We do three plays a year, usually modern, occasionally a musical. Are you interested in musical theatre?'
'Not really,' Becca said. 'I can't sing.'
'Pity. We're always on the look out for sopranos. Do you want to go in now?' she said to one of the waiting women as another came out, then hardly without breath went back to Becca. 'We did Guys and Dolls last year, I did all the costumes, it looked great though I say it myself. Are you just interested in acting or would you do backstage production?'
'Acting really, though I'd be happy to help.'
'I couldn't bear to act, all those people looking at me.' She gave a theatrical shudder as Becca wondered why you'd dress in purple feathers if you couldn't bear people looking at you. 'Is that your phone?'
'Sorry, yes.' Becca rummaged in her bag, expecting it to be Lily demanding to know where she was. But it wasn't Lily, it was her mother.
'You're not at home,' June said, without preamble.
'No, I'm in town.' Becca bit back the impulse to tell her mother what she was doing, not wanting anyone to know she'd had a go at auditioning - unless she was cast. Then she'd tell everybody.
'When will you be back?' June's tone was abrupt, but then June always was when calling a mobile phone, worried that she'd end up with a ten-pound charge for a ten-second conversation. How she thought Lily managed without bankrupting Martin and Becca was anyone's guess.
'I don't know.' Becca looked round, calculating. There were now four people waiting to audition. 'Perhaps in an hour and a half?'
'I'd like to come round.' June lowered her voice. 'I've got something to tell you I don't want to say on the phone.'
'What is it?' Becca said immediately. But June wouldn't say. How strange, Becca thought as she dropped her phone back in her bag.
- ooo -
'Hello, sorry to have kept you waiting.' The man behind the desk at the far end of the hall stood up, his tone warm but brisk. 'I'm Paul Fitzwilliam, the director. And you are...?'
'Becca Woods,' Becca said, crossing the length of the hall to take his outstretched hand. She'd waited long enough to have second, third and fourth thoughts about auditioning and had been on the point of leaving when Purple Feathers had called her in.
'Please sit down.' He indicated a chair in front of the desk, picked up a pen and looked expectantly at Becca as she sat. He was good looking, with strong dramatic features and she could imagine him being used as a model to sell suits to businessmen, although he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with 'I don't smoke' written on the front in hazy, smoky writing. The thick dark hair swept back over his ears was streaked with grey, so she guessed he was in his late forties or early fifties. 'Tell me a bit about yourself.'
'My name's Becca Woods and...' Becca's mind went blank. She couldn't think of anything to say about herself, beyond her sudden, absolute, desperate need to go to the loo.
'What made you come to the audition?' he said, his tone gentle. His blue eyes were understanding and Becca locked on to them.
'I saw a piece in the paper. When I was cleaning out the hamster. It was just spur of the moment, really.' Her face felt as if it were scarlet. What a stupid thing to say. But his expression didn't falter.
'So you decided to come in.' He nodded, as if hamster-cleaning was the usual route to auditioning. 'Have you done any acting before?'
Becca nodded. 'At university. Actually I've been in The Country Wife - I played Alithea.'
'So you know the play?'
She shook her head. 'I can't really remember much.'
'And after university?'
'I thought about it but...' She shrugged, not wanting go into the details of the mess that had been her final year. It had been quite dramatic enough without any additional acting. 'I suppose there's always a bit of you that says - what would have happened if I'd pursued it.'
Paul laughed. 'That's the actor's curse. Never mind, you're here now. As I expect you know, after the restoration of the monarchy in 1660, there was a backlash against puritanism and people indulged in all the vices that had been banned - theatre, alcohol, dancing, generally having fun, and of course, sex.' He spoke quickly, having presumable done his spiel more than once that day. 'The plays of the time reflect the change of mood in the country as a whole. The Country Wife is one of the most famous from this period. The plot centres around Horner, who's notorious for having affairs with people's wives. He comes up with the idea of spreading a rumour that he's impotent so that the men think he's safe - but all the wives know the truth.'
Becca nodded. She could remember this bit of the plot about Horner - oh, it had been Rob! Rob from Rotherham. He'd been lovely.
'One of the men, Pinchwife, has had the bright idea of marrying an innocent girl from the country with the idea that she won't know the ways of the town wives, and therefore won't have affairs.' He smiled at her, and Becca smiled back, wondering exactly how many times today he'd given this précis of the story. 'That's the main plot, but there's another plot involving a husband and wife - the Fidgets - who are bored with each other and are looking for fun and games elsewhere. Do you feel like doing a little bit of reading for me?' He made it sound as if it was optional, rather than an expected part of any audition. He handed her a script. 'Perhaps you'd like to read for Lady Fidget.'
Becca looked at the page he'd marked and quickly scanned it. 'Oh! Is this the china scene?'
He grinned, his eyes lit up with amusement. 'I'll read Horner.'
Becca tried to remember the scene. In the role of Alithea she'd had little to do with the Lady Fidget-Horner relationship, but she knew that this was the scene guaranteed to get the audience laughing. The characters discussed buying, having and enjoying china ornaments, but some were doing it innocently and others were using china as a euphemism for sex. Lady Fidget was an experienced, knowing woman of the world.
Becca sat up straight on her chair, imagining herself in a corset, trying to forget she was Becca Woods in jeans and a sweatshirt. As far as she could remember Lady Fidget was bold, confident, sexual. A hungry woman. Becca started to read. ' "Well, Horner, am not I a woman of honour? You see, I'm as good as my word." ' She looked across the desk at Paul with what she hoped was a bold, confident, sexual look. A look of surprise flashed across his face for a second, then was replaced by a more intense expression. Becca felt a surge of confidence.
' "And you shall see, madam, I'll not be behindhand with you in honour. And I'll be as good as my word too, if you please but to withdraw into the next room." ' He made a gesture, his eyes fixed on Becca's.
Becca trailed her hand along the top of the desk inches away from his. ' "But first, my dear sir, you must promise to have a care of my dear honour," ' she drawled. Would it be too much to lick her lips? What the hell.
Paul took her hand. ' "If you talk a word more of your honour, you'll make me incapable to wrong it." ' He kissed her fingertips, his eyes on hers. Underneath her sensible sweatshirt, Becca's bosom gave a little heave. ' "To talk of honour in the mysteries of love is like -" ' There was a sudden loud noise behind her. Paul stood up abruptly. 'What is it? I'm auditioning here, I'm not to be disturbed, I -' He caught his breath.
Becca turned round. A slim woman with sunglasses perched on the top of her blond-streaked head was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, and effortlessly glamorous in a way Becca tried, but knew she failed to achieve. If that was the competition, there was no way Becca would get a part.
But when the woman opened her mouth, it was obvious she wasn't intending to audition for any part, except possibly Fishwife. 'Where the hell have you been? You promised you'd collect the boys. I've had the school on to me saying where are you, I've had to drop everything to go and pick them up.'
'God, Suzy, I'm sorry, I've lost track of the time.' Paul ran a flustered hand through his hair.
'Is that what you're going to tell the boys? "I'm sorry, I lost track of the time"?' She mimicked Paul's voice with bitterness. Becca shifted in her chair, feeling acutely uncomfortable at being a witness to a domestic scenario she knew only too well. His children must be at a private school, to have school on a Saturday.
Paul turned to her. 'I'm terribly sorry,' he said, and she could tell that he was mortified with embarrassment. 'If you'll just wait there for a second.'
'Of course,' Becca said, trying to give an understanding and sympathetic smile. He nodded, then walked to Suzy, and they left the hall.
Becca flicked through the playscript, trying very hard not to listen to the angry cadences of Suzy's upraised voice through the swing doors. Oh dear, she was giving him a hard time. If she hadn't decided to audition at the last minute, he'd have been able to get away earlier. Becca glanced at her watch. She was going to be late for June too at this rate.
The door opened and Paul came back in, and walked stiffly towards her.
'I'm sorry about that,' he said. 'You were doing very well,'
'It doesn't matter,' Becca murmured.
He settled himself back down at his desk, then gave a little shake as if discarding himself of his family man persona, becoming entirely professional. He picked up the playscript. 'Let's start again, from the top.'
- ooo -
Becca rushed back to find her mother standing on the doorstep. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' she said, fumbling in her bag for her house keys. 'I was held up.'
'Where have you been?' June wore her pale blond hair in a short bob, the waves carefully arranged each week at the hairdresser's. Today she had clipped the front section to one side away from her face with a childish slide, but there was nothing childish about her tone.
'Auditioning,' Becca said, letting herself into the house, a classic late-Victorian end of terrace, identical in design and lay-out to thousands throughout the country although theirs was faced in honey-coloured Bath stone like the rest of the city. 'Lily? Are you there?'
No answer. Becca slung her bag over the newel post and went through to the kitchen, June following. 'Cup of tea?' Without waiting for an answer she filled the kettle, water splashing all over the place. The house had cost more than they'd budgeted for, and in the renovations items like taps had to be the cheapest. Over the last ten years Becca told herself at least once a day she must redo the kitchen, usually when the water splashed all down her front, just as it had done now. As she dabbed at her wet tummy with a tea towel she saw that Lily had left a note, now damp, on the side:
Gone to town. Can you pick me up at 3? Luv U. Lily.
Becca's mouth twitched. Oh Lily. Get a bus! Or walk! But nothing, not even Lily's assumption that her mother had nothing else to do with her life except run a taxi service could dent the uplifted feeling she'd got from the audition.
'Did you say auditioning?' June's tone was of disbelief.
'Yes, I thought I'd have a go. Am dram, of course, but it'd be fun to do something different. Not that I expect I'll be cast.' She felt charged with energy, like being enveloped in a glowing balloon of light.
'Won't that take up a lot of your time? What about Lily? And Martin?' June tidied the stack of catalogues and brochures Becca had left on the kitchen side having forgotten to put them out for recycling.
Becca took them from her. 'I doubt very much if I'll get a part, but both Lily and Martin are old enough to look after themselves for an evening or two a week.' The glowing balloon dimmed. I don't care if she thinks auditioning is ridiculous, Becca thought, dumping the catalogues in the bin with a frisson of guilt about the environment. 'What did you want to see me about? You said there was something you wanted to tell me.'
June gave a little gasp, as if caught out, then pressed her lips together, her gaze fixed downwards. Her face looked every one of its seventy years, the lines pronounced. Becca felt a cold chill of panic.
'You're not ill, are you?' She took her mother's hand. 'Are you OK?'
June squeezed her hand. 'No, I'm not ill. And your father's fine, just fine. Don't worry, it's not serious.' The lines around her eyes tightened as if she was going to have to force out what she wanted to say. 'Well, it is serious, but not terminal. Not illness.'
'What then? What's the matter?'
June put her other hand on Becca's, her eyes fixed on her daughter's. 'I've decided to leave your father.'