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I’d completed the first six days at Cambri and was loving every minute.
Being an intensive, concentrated course there was no time to make small talk and this suited me fine. It was Friday and we were wrapping up for the day. I was particularly exhausted; my one-to-one with Stanley had taken everything from me. Getting inside the head of the numerous characters he invented was like running a marathon. Although it had been only in the last hour that I’d allowed myself to ‘go’. That is how Stanley described it – ‘going’: when you became the character, wiping out anything that might pertain to the real you. And if Stanley saw anything creeping in that might be a part of the ‘real’ you, he ranted a lot in a take-off of his own Jewishness, but always with a fat smile on his face. I adored Stanley.
‘Not bad, not bad at all. You were nearly there – only saw a little of who you might be,’ Stanley said. ‘It’s not just the voice, there’s a certain amount of acting too. Stay here a little longer and we could go into the method...’
‘I can’t stay any longer, Stanley.’ I sat on the floor facing him. ‘And you don’t know me, so how can you see anything that’s not the character, but that is me?’ I said.
‘Years of practice, my dear girl.’ He surveyed me with a teacher’s passion. ‘You have to leave yourself behind. Final.’
‘What if I can’t find her again?’
‘Of course you’ll find her.’ He scrutinised me. ‘My girl, I think you should join the Friday-night exodus.’
‘I don’t drink these days. I’m not very sociable. Anyway, I need an early night.’
‘Then act and sound sociable. It’ll do you good. You look as if you could do with a good night out,’ the perceptive teacher said.
Stanley definitely looked like Einstein when he won the Nobel Prize.
‘Do you fancy a drink?’ I asked.
I had no idea what to order from the five-page cocktail menu.
‘Do you like cream?’ Stanley asked.
‘Hate cream.’
‘Cranberry juice?’
‘Nope.’
‘Mint?’
‘Mint? Why, we ordering lamb cocktails?’ I said, smiling.
Stanley touched my arm and shouted into the noise of the bar, towards a bartender. ‘Two mojitos!’
‘Yamas!’ Stanley said as the bartender put the drinks in front of us.
‘Yes, cheers,’ I said, taking a sip. ‘Nice.’
We chatted about inconsequential stuff, drank more cocktails, but then Stanley’s face took on a serious expression.
‘So, Amanda.’ He lowered his voice so much I had difficulty hearing him in the increasing loudness of the bar; a Mexican guitarist had just begun to play. His tone told me he was going to ask something I’d rather not answer. ‘Why are you really here?’
Part of my brain warned my mouth to be careful, but the mojitos were taking their toll and I could feel my vigilance departing. Stanley was curious. I asked myself if it mattered. Yes, it could. In the near future I knew it could matter. The bar was now humming with Friday night chatter. I scanned the stools filled with people and tried to gain the attention of the overworked barman. My line of vision was drawn to the end of the bar, towards the stool that stood alone from the others.
And I saw the petrol blue, Joe sitting in a crowded bar in London, looking uncomfortable. I don’t think he wanted to be there. I rose unsteadily, falling forwards, then the colour faded, and so did Joe. It was the alcohol. It wasn’t Joe. Joe was dead. I tried to clear my mind, override the white rum swishing through my veins.
I took a breath. ‘Joe...’
‘Joe?’ Stanley said quietly. ‘Who’s Joe?’
‘Joe’s dead,’ I said.
‘Amanda, are you all right?’
What was I saying, what was I doing? ‘I’m sorry, I’m drunk. Ignore me.’
‘Maybe we should eat something?’
I waited for him to ask about Joe again, but the lovely Stanley did not and I gathered my brain. ‘The book I’m writing ... I’m doing some research on repressed and abused women. American women who feel the need to befriend characters on death row.’
‘Ah ...’ He didn’t pursue Joe. ‘Some research into the character while writing your book, like a docu-drama? I thought you were writing about accents? But I’m impressed, whatever you’re writing about.’ He crossed his arms. ‘So, a character like Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy?’
I gulped down another mojito. ‘It was definitely Iowa in Sleeping with the Enemy ... I think,’ I said smiling.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Stanley said.
I wished I hadn’t mentioned researching books, and death row. Or Joe. Stanley was switched on, he was inquisitive, and he was more than curious about me.
Two hours later Stanley was standing on Mrs Xú’s step, holding me steady with one arm. I knew I was drunk. It was the same feeling I’d had many times with Charlotte, in faraway days. But this was much worse, I realised. I’d eaten nothing and felt sick. The step was moving in an alarming fashion and, no matter how much I tried, it was impossible to focus. I attempted to peer at him. I needed to vomit.
‘I feel a bit ill.’ I tried to centre my eyes on the middle Stanley. I began to giggle, almost hysterically, forcing away the sick feeling.
‘Amanda, are you all right, I mean ... really all right?’
At that moment Mrs Xú opened the door in a black kimono.
‘I think time for you to go home,’ she said to Stanley, her face stone-like and not intimidated by Stanley at all. I think she thought he was my beau. Stanley was nearly old enough to be my father. My father. Dad. And I was brought back to reality.
Mrs Xú’s demeanour made me feel like a daughter coming home from an illicit date. Despite her acerbity she gave me a feeling of something that I’d missed out on while growing up. In my drunkenness a part of me wanted Mrs Xú to know everything, as I’d wanted to tell Stanley more in the bar earlier. These strangers had drawn more from the depths of me than anyone had been able to do for the last five years.
I hadn’t acknowledged how alone I truly was. Charlotte wanted to be there for me, but I’d been unable to reach out to my best friend. And I had felt during the last time we’d spoken that even Charlotte held something back, some knowledge that she didn’t share. This feeling of withdrawal on her part caused me to be more cautious towards my friend.
I planned to take my revenge, and then disappear forever and I now regretted giving Charlotte a PO Box number. It had been a mistake.
Stanley looked at me. ‘You’re OK, aren’t you?’ Then he took in the formidable four-foot-eleven Mrs Xú, whose steady gaze had captured him.
‘I’m fine, Stanley, thank you,’ I said. ‘Go home, it’s late.’
‘See you Monday. He touched his forehead as he turned to Mrs Xú. If he’d been wearing a hat I was sure he would have tipped it briefly.
The sick feeling returned with a vengeance. ‘I have to go ...’ I looked at Mrs Xú. ‘I need to get to the bathroom.’
She moved sideways; a faint and amused smile on her face as she allowed me to pass.