You’re round the fucking bend babes xxx
At least Beth is back on text form. And she doesn’t approve of what I’m doing later tonight. She’d rather me double date with her new fella and his mate.
Pal, that’d be weird.
Unlike going out alone? xxx
I never have and never will go on a blind date.
He’s rich xxx
You date him then!
Nah way. My date is richer xxx
Beth, just be careful. Ok?
You too babes xxx
‘Who ya texting, Miss?’ Jonah Matthews asks. ‘Your boyfriend, Miss?’
I don’t answer, just slip my phone into my black jeans. It might be after school hours, but I’m still on duty and should be setting an example. It’s Si’s big night: We Will Croon You. Don’t get me started on the other titles he came up with before deciding on that one. Anyway, it’s in fine shape and the kids are pumped. Ish. I’ve set up a makeshift wardrobe department in a maths classroom, the one closest to the drama hall. Layla Birch is in the classroom next door to that making siren noises to warm up her voice.
Other than Beth, nobody knows where I’m going tonight after the show finishes.
You see, something came in the post for Jack. An opportunity.
I haven’t been reading Jack’s post. He still gets letters, junk mainly, and I’ve been collecting them in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag to give to Trish. Another month has passed without him, making it almost five months since he died; the same length of time we were together. My head can’t quite understand that equation. It certainly doesn’t feel equal. But anyway, a brochure arrived for Jack from an East End comedy venue. No envelope; his name and address were printed on the back page. During my uni years I went to the Edinburgh Fringe every summer, to perform in terrible student productions that played to an audience average of six. I’d spend my spare time watching stand-up. Once, in the Pleasance Dome, Michael McIntyre handed me a flyer for his gig. Goes to show – they’ve all got to start somewhere. I’d flicked through Jack’s brochure. It’s always nice to recognise a face from years ago to see who’s succeeded. Or at least who’s still trying. On the third page, a familiar photo caught my attention. Part fed up, part zany, one eyebrow raised high; Ross Robson. The same photo from the flyer on the fridge, but now rows of four-star reviews were printed across his curly hair. Jack and I were supposed to see his pre-Edinburgh show, testing out jokes before the big festival. Now he’s performing with the critics’ support.
So that’s what I’m doing tonight, after the school musical.
I watch from the wings, arguably the best seat in the house. I get to see everything without sitting behind the fourth wall: I’m involved. The pockets of my black jeans are filled with Kirby grips. My black polo-neck is lined with safety pins. I have a needle threaded ready for me to jump into action if a leotard splits.
Some things, however, I can’t fix.
The bulb on the spotlight bust during the dress rehearsal. The school budget doesn’t stretch far enough to fix it – not on such short notice anyway. The painted Manhattan backdrop is slipping lower and lower as the performance progresses. The cast are doing a (moderately) good job of squatting behind it as they cross sides, except for Jonah Matthews, who is now bobbing his head up and down comically, although perfectly in time, to Si playing the famous Kander and Ebb vamp on the piano. Widening my eyes, I telepathically tell him to make himself scarce.
‘Miss!’ I hear a loud hiss beside me.
I look down to see a kid from Year Eight frantically flapping a loose piece of material hanging off her shoulder. I mime a silent ‘shush’, then wink. I knew the threaded needle would come in handy.
‘You’re the best, Miss,’ she whispers. Right now, I’ll take that.
Layla Birch’s solo is up next. Si added it in at my request, and now he can’t understand how it was never there in the first place. In his words, ‘It’d be like Cats without “Memory”.’ Layla’s long hair is swept up into a glorious bun, sparkling with glitter spray, and her elegant red dress gives her a classy maturity. It’s been a month since we had our chat outside the drama hall. I’ve watched her take small, brave steps towards this moment. Sometimes she sang beautifully in rehearsals, then sometimes she’d have a wobble, convinced she couldn’t do it. I was always convinced she could, though, and told her so, spending break times working on her song and never once doodling on my costume notes.
Now, she’s captivating: every member of the audience is spellbound and everybody backstage is silent, peeking through the curtains, the only part of the show they desperately need to see one more time. I know she’s thinking about her mum. And I know her mum is here, too. There’s no way that the woman who created this young girl has just disappeared into nothing. She’s got to be somewhere, if only through her daughter.
As she sings, my own thoughts drift back to Jack. He lingers on. I wonder if he ever won’t. Trish had never got back to me with a suitable date. I sent one follow-up message – you know, checking in – and when I got no reply from that, I went upstairs to see my neighbour, Neil.
‘Giles and Ingrid mentioned you’re going away for a while?’ I’d asked as he whipped up a cappuccino for us both. ‘For work.’
‘When am I not going away for a while?’ he sighed.
‘Where to this time?’
‘Cape Town.’
‘Wow. Lucky you.’
‘No complaints.’
I’d told him about the bulging carrier bags and two cases filled with Jack’s things, still sitting in a pile beside the bookshelf in the hall. Neil had placed his hand on my shoulder mid-waffle, around when I was talking about how seeing the bags each morning churned my stomach so much that I couldn’t face breakfast, and I’d shut up.
‘Shall we go and get the bags now?’ he’d asked.
‘Now? But you’re not leaving ’til Sunday.’
‘I have a guest bedroom. And no guest.’
So that’s where Jack’s things are. I know they’re there, above my head as I potter about the flat, but not physically seeing them has … helped. I’ve spent less time staring into walls and applied the energy to my job, marking work thoroughly, making lesson plans, doing whatever odd jobs have been needed for the musical. Sometimes, I catch the eye of the man sat in the shopping trolley and apologise, as if he’s disappointed in me. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I’ve said out loud, ‘I can’t move on. I’m just very busy.’ And I’ll hear a creak of the floorboards upstairs – it can’t be Neil, he’s thousands of miles away in South Africa – and feel hatred towards Jack for haunting me, for being right there and not being there at all.
The applause for Layla is a gentle earthquake trembling through the drama hall. I spot Si’s face above the upright piano and see him flick away a tear from beneath his glasses with his thumb. As the stage lights fade to black and the audience shuffles, I’m knocked backwards by someone rushing forwards, into me. Arms are thrust around my waist, a cheek rests upon my chest, and I’m squeezed fondly.
‘Layla!’ I exclaim. ‘You did it!’
‘I loved it, Miss,’ she says. ‘Every second. I really loved it.’
‘You weren’t the only one.’
‘I wanna do this for the rest of my life.’
I refrain from my typical cynical ‘Oh, don’t we all?’ and say instead, ‘And you will.’
I mean it, too.
The car park is manic within ten minutes of the final bow. Parents are yelling at their kids to get in the back seat, to stop hugging their friends, to please hurry up, they’ll see them tomorrow morning for God’s sake. It’s impressive how quickly the place empties. I could probably leave now, but I need to speak to Si. Laden with a huge bouquet, he’s man of the moment, lapping up the praise and thanks from both parents and pupils.
‘It was touch and go,’ I hear him say, not for the first time.
Holding the door open, I usher the last few families out of the drama hall.
‘Hey, Miss Roscoe?’ Layla Birch is running towards me, dress in a plastic costume bag over her shoulder, phone in hand. ‘My dad wants to speak to you.’
‘Okay, no problem,’ and I look past her to see where he is.
‘He’s just moving the car, Miss. He was blocking someone.’ She rolls her eyes, typical.
‘Well, tell him to come and find me when he’s ready. I’ll be right here.’
‘Thanks Miss.’ Layla skips off, thanking Si, too. ‘You’re the best Mr S. You’re wasted in this school!’ And she disappears towards the main gate, embracing some of her pals along the way, grabbing a selfie.
‘And dear Miss Roscoe,’ Si says, once the last kid leaves. ‘There’s not a fallen sequin in sight.’
‘Too right. I’m not risking the wrath of that PE fella.’
‘He’s ex-marine.’
‘I know! Are you fuming? About the flowers?’
Si feigns shock. ‘Never! I love them. Was this you?’
‘The kids. I just sorted the collection.’
‘You’re going to make me cry, Chloe.’
‘Please tell me you brought your car and you’re not taking them home on the tube?’
‘No, I didn’t bring my car. Thought we’d be going for a drink? You always said how much you love an after-show.’
‘Agh. Si, I’m so sorry. I can’t tonight,’ and I close my eyes, awaiting a monologue about how I’ve broken his showbiz heart at the final curtain.
‘Don’t worry!’
‘What?’ I don’t need to feign shock. I am shocked. ‘What’s with the cheesy grin?’
Si hides behind the bouquet, his specs peeping over the top.
‘I might have invited a certain somebody to the pub to keep me company,’ he says.
‘Malcolm?’
‘Wah!’
‘Wah!’
‘I know!’
‘Well, go. Go! Don’t let me keep you!’
We air kiss and I watch Si go, holding his bouquet like he’s Gene Kelly with an umbrella in Singin’ In the Rain.
It’s not raining but it’s chilly, a biting wind in the autumn air. I get changed in the staff toilets; it’s a swift transformation into the shirt dress, the one I wore the night I met Jack at the Brexit musical. My roots are screaming again, but it’s nothing a cream beret can’t hide, complemented by a bright red lip. I wrap myself up inside my burnt-orange suede coat, a second-hand gem I’ve had for about ten years. Yeah, this is exactly how I’d dress for a date with Jack. I’m ready.
Halfway across the car park, I hear a man’s voice.
‘Miss Roscoe, is that you?’ It must be Layla Birch’s dad.
‘Ah yes, you wanted to speak to me?’
‘Erm …’ It isn’t Layla’s dad. Not unless he’s the school caretaker and I wasn’t aware. ‘No. I’d like to lock up, if that’s alright with you?’
I blabber some apologies and make a quick exit, keeping an eye out for Layla and her dad. The road outside the school is sleepy and the houses opposite are lamplit and cosy. The buzz from the musical has gone. I’m tired, and my enthusiasm for a late-night comedy show all the way out in the East End is diminishing. I’m surprised to feel disappointed. It would’ve been really nice to meet Layla’s dad; tell him how proud I am of his daughter.
I guess, in a strange way, I should hold onto this feeling: at the very least, it shows I care.
I dig my hands into my coat pockets and head to the station. I’ve already bought a ticket online for the comedy. It’s date night, and it’s all I’ve got left to stay close to Jack.