Page 19 of A Class Act

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ I was standing in front of him now, but, unless I bobbed round him, or physically pushed him to one side, unable to exit the studio.

‘For startling you.’

‘You did.’

‘Don’t go.’ His voice was still low as he put out a hand to my arm, but then moved it to my face where he took an escaped tendril of hair, twisting it almost thoughtfully around his finger before replacing it neatly behind my ear. ‘I needed to see you again.’

‘Needed to? Or wanted to?’

‘Is there a difference? Yes, I suppose there is,’ he added, almost to himself. ‘Needed to,’ he went on. ‘I needed to apologise for my brother’s behaviour.’

‘You already did. It’s fine. I’ve heard worse.’

‘And, if I’m to focus on my work, and get defendants off who’re paying me a hell of a lot of money to do just that, then I need to concentrate on the job in hand.’

‘Oh?’

‘But, Robyn, the thing is, knowing until I saw you again, I’ve not been able to do just that. Concentrate on my work, I mean.’

‘So, are you saying that I’m the cause of some poor bloke looking at twenty years’ hard labour because you can’t defend him properly?’

‘Something like that.’ He nodded, his voice softly caressing, his beautiful face impassive, but his eyes full of humour. ‘You see, all I can think of, when I’m putting questions to a witness, is not their answer, but the need to kiss you again.’ His hand came up once more and this time I found myself leaning into it as he moved his thumb slowly across my bottom lip. He bent his face down to mine, a faint citrus aftershave flooding my senses as he did so, kissing my mouth, which had slightly, and almost involuntarily, opened in response. And I was lost. Utterly lost.

7

For the hugely coveted chorus role inDance OnI was up against twenty-five other girls, all determined to make the gift on offer that morning theirs.

‘You’re as good as the rest, better than most, Robyn,’ Jayden had scolded me over the phone as we’d chatted while I made my way through an already busy Leicester Square and into East Street. ‘Just give it all you’ve got. And don’t forget to drop into the conversation that you’re Jayden Allen’s daughter.’

‘As if.’ I’d snorted, ringing off before entering the theatre through the back door.

I’d handed in the two hard copies of my CV and the required headshot – needed so the casting and musical directors could put a name to a face – and we then proceeded to warm up, most of us sipping compulsively from bottles of water, too nervous to chat; I could see there was stiff competition and my confidence wavered. I noticed a tall, lithe redhead who’d been with me the two months I’d spent in the line-up inBigbut, as I waved tentatively in her direction, pleased to see at least one friendly face, we were called forward.

Once we’d assembled on the stage, we were given the low-down by Carl Farmer, the musical director, of what was expected of us, and then the choreographer, a tiny girl with a swishy blonde ponytail, took us through a short dance routine. She then left us to join the director in the front seats, and they both watched, making notes as we performed what she’d instructed. This was good, I could do this, and my confidence grew as a couple of the girls missed steps, leaping in the wrong direction as nerves got the better of them.

We then came back on singly, had a thirty-second chat as to our career so far before being instructed to perform our own practised routine, the one big chance to showcase one’s skill and talent as a dancer.

I let myself go, not thinking of anything but the music I’d chosen and my routine, giving it all I’d got and dancing to the very best of my ability.

My two-minute dance routine came to an end, I thanked the judges and retreated offstage to await my next instructions. It was unusual at this stage in the proceedings for cuts to be made but after we’d all done our auditions just fifteen out of the original twenty-five were called back on stage, while the others were released.

We were taken through another, much more taxing dance routine and then split into three groups, so that just five at any one time were performing on stage.

I couldn’t believe we’d got through all this in under ninety minutes – the producer was clearly determined to whittle the options down quickly. At 11a.m., we were told we could leave but were requested to remain nearby, our phones switched on, as some of us would be called back that very afternoon to sing.

I went for a coffee in Pret on Coventry Street, sitting at a table by the window while phoning Jess, Mum and finally Jayden, biting my nails when not one of them answered. KnowingMum, she’d have seen a bit of sunshine and be out weeding and planting and doing far too much, with little regard for her condition. I drank my coffee, playing down any hope that I might have a recall later that day by planning what to do with the rest of my life once I was given the big ‘thanks, but no thanks’.

As I sat at the window, looking out over the street, my thoughts came back again and again to Fabian.

After leaving Xander’sthe previous evening, Fabian had walked me back to the flat, wished me luck for the audition before bending to kiss my cheek. He’d turned, as if to walk away, but then retraced his steps. ‘Will you come out with me?’

‘Out with you?’ I smiled at that – it reminded me of being back at Beddingfield Comp when one of the red-faced, cheese-and-onion-breathing Year 9 lads finally got up the courage to ask you to meet him outside the Co-op, where, with safety in numbers and bottles of cheap cider, we kids used to hang out.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d like that.’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he replied and, this time, turned and actually walked away.

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