Page 83 of The Reunion

Ashleigh, for her part, looks miserable as sin any time she’s not plastering on a smile to talk to somebody, pretending to be chipper and like everything is A-okay.

I am dying to ask her what actually happened between her and Ryan and get all the gory deets, but I can’t seem to get her back on her own. Actually, I think she might be avoiding me; she and Hayden stay attached at the hip. I know he was practically hiding behind her earlier, although this time, I’m not sure exactly who’s looking out for who.

Steph, however, I do manage to corner.

‘So,’ I say to her, sidling up as soon as a couple of the art girls she was talking to flit away to move on to mingle with other people. ‘You and Shaun, huh?’

Steph’s face crumples, and – I immediately feel bad. Like I just called her out for a little white lie, like I was doing to people earlier. But she attempts a smile and looks across the room to where Shaun is stood next to his fiancée and with his old mates.

And she shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. But I think we both needed the closure.’

‘Oh. So, you guys didn’t …? I just mean, you were gone for a while, is all, and you both looked a bit …’

‘No,’ she says, and I don’t believe her, but – in fairness to Steph, she doesn’t owe me the truth. I’m still, clearly, a huge gossip and delighted by any scandal that’s not of my own making, and we haven’t hung out in ten years. She doesn’t owe me anything. But she does say, ‘We talked a lot. About a lot of things. I suppose we weren’t meant to end up together, after all.’

‘Guess not.’

Steph puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. ‘We used to be so sure we knew everything, but none of us had any idea, did we? Some things just don’t work out the way we planned, but that’s okay. It’s not our only path, is it? There are plenty of others to take.’

‘Like Curtis,’ I say.

She tilts her head and even though she agrees, ‘Yeah, like Curtis,’ I get the feeling she’s trying to tell me something else, and wasn’t actually talking about her and Shaun at all.

It’s only after she walks away to find Morgan and co. that her words sink in, and I think maybe she’s right about how we really didn’t have a clue back then.

I don’t bother trying to get Shaun’s side of the story, because he doesn’t really move from his little crowd and asking him how that closure with his ex went when his fiancée is right there feels like a total dick move, and I’ve put my foot in it more than enough tonight already.

Instead, I carry on mingling, moving from one group to the next to chatter and giggle and soak up praise about the party and answer questions about being a teacher.

Which is, like, weird.

I don’t like that people are being nice about it – aside from Freddie Loughton and RJ, who make sure to get in a dig about how sad they think it is, but Ryan shuts them up pretty quick with a glare and announces loudly, ‘I think it’s totally badass. And it’s a great move, Bryony – long holidays that give you time to pursue your acting career as well, like teaching’s not already keeping you busy enough. Serious kudos to you.’

But even without Ryan having to call his mates to toe the line, people are nice about it, and not even like they’re just pretending because they feel bad for me. They want to know how I find it and what it’s like being back here, and how I find the time and energy to do all the other stuff on top of that, and why didn’t I say before?

And when I say, ‘It isn’t what I saw myself doing, that’s for sure.’

They say, ‘Do you like it, though?’

And I don’t hesitate to tell them, ‘Yeah. I love it. I wouldn’t give it up for anything.’

But – I still wonder. I think, maybe … Maybe if the right role came along, the right opportunity …

When was the last time that happened, though?

And when was the last time I really believed in its existence? The more I think about it, the more I realise that for the last few years, those auditions and rejections and roles I’ve begrudgingly taken and resented, have only been because I can’t let go of it – not because I want them. Not because any part of me likes it anymore.

When those thoughts get too big for my brain, I take a step back from the party to hang out on the fringes, by the last vestiges of the soft drinks, like a chaperone at the Year Seven disco, and I let my brain get carried away with it all. I think about Steph closing the door on her and Shaun and talking about different paths, and what Hayden said about how I made myself so small, and how much I hated the bitter, mean version of me that reared its head earlier tonight in a desperate attempt at self-protection. I think about all those nights I cried myself to sleep, and all the mornings I woke up on a weekend or in school holidays, knowing I had an audition tape to film or a rehearsal to get to and how bone-tired the mere thought of that made me, and I’d want to sink back into bed and bury myself under my duvet and hide until it was time to go to work again, rather than face it.

The clock ticks on and the party whirls by. I watch the whole thing unfolding, the vigour and enthusiasm even greater now than it was earlier with some renewed gossip spreading through the crowd and more memories resurrected. I look at people laughing and smiling and hugging and dancing, standing over phones as they compare calendars and swap contact info and make new plans to go alongside old memories, and …

It feels good.

It’s the same warm glow that I get when my kids give a killer performance, or when we pull off a good show and they get to bask in the applause. Pride in a job well done. In knowing I made that happen. This is all because of me.

It’s the same exhilarating rush as when it used to be me soaking up the spotlight.

At ten-thirty, when I get up on the stage and stop the music, it’s a sense of homecoming. Something right and final, slotting into place – the last piece of a jigsaw. I stand front and centre with the microphone in hand, lights bouncing off my sparkly jumpsuit, and all eyes on me, a hush falling over the crowd as they wait with bated breath for me to deliver my line.

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