Page 32 of A Class Act

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Exactly that. She and Mum had another set-to, apparently. Mum came over to my place in tears, saying she just couldn’t cope with her any more. I went back with her to see what was happening. There was no sign of Sorrel – just a mass of broken crockery – and so I did my best to settle Mum while I tried to ring round and find her.’

‘Why on earth didn’t you stay with her, Jess?’ I snapped crossly.

‘Why on earth don’tyoucome up and stay with her, Robyn? I can’t doeverythinghere.’ There was panic in my sister’s voice. ‘Dean’s buggered off with the barmaid. Haven’t seenhimfor weeks, and I was already late picking Lola up from a birthday party at the other side of town.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I realised I’d not been back to Yorkshire since April when I’d gone home for the weekend to help celebrate Jess’s thirtieth birthday. Almost five months ago.

‘Yeah, well, so am I.’

There was silence as we both mulled over the situation.

‘Look, Jess,’ I said eventually, ‘I’ve got the performance tonight, and after that I’ll tell Carl?—’

‘Carl? Is that your posh barrister?’

‘No, Jess,he’s history.’ I breathed deeply, trying to accept what I’d just vocalised to my sister, as well as to compartmentalise my life. ‘Carl’s the director. I’ll tell him Mum’s poorly, and I’ll be up by tomorrow afternoon. Try everyone you know who might have some idea where Sorrel could be holed up. She’ll come back when she’s hungry?—’

‘Robyn, she’s a bolshy fifteen-year-old, not a dog who’ll come back wagging its tail wanting his Chappie.’ I could hear the frustration in Jess’s voice.

‘I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’ll be with you tomorrow afternoon.’

Phillipe, The Mercury’s deputy stage manager and responsible for the pre-show calls, started the first of his rear-of-house orders: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen ofDance OnCompany, this is your half-hour call. Thirty minutes, please.’

‘Got to go, Jess, I’m not dressed or made up yet.’

I made my way up to the dressing room where I’d already checked my four changes of costume were good to go. I stopped as I went through the door, seeing my usual spot at the mirror was taken by Yo Ming, while three others from the company were standing round her, chatting, their costumed-backs to me. I caught Yo Ming’s eyes through the mirror and she stood, saying something to the other three, who turned in unison my way.

‘Oh, you’re back?’ One of the girls, a small feisty blonde, sniffed as Yo Ming made to stand, starting to unzip the back of her Arabella Plumpton-Jones costume.

‘Didn’t Carl tell you?’ I asked pleasantly.

‘Must have slipped his mind,’ the blonde replied. ‘Yo has been brilliant in the role.’

‘I bet she has.’ I smiled. ‘Thanks, Yo. I’m really grateful for your stepping in at such short notice.’

The four of them drifted away towards their own places, but not before the blonde – who I knew to be the original pregnant Arabella P-J’s best mate – muttered, but loud enough for me to hear: ‘She must have sucked Carl’s dick to get that part.’

Scarlet-faced, my pulse racing, I slid into my seat and started on my make-up, sweeping pan stick across my cheeks with a shaking hand.

‘She’s a bully.’ Antonio, one of the men in the chorus, laid a hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Just let her bully you until she’sdonebullying you,’ he advised. ‘I know that’s not what you want to hear, but you know…’ He patted my arm and moved towards the back of the room where he started to limber up, moving his neck and head in a smoothly hypnotic rotation.

Could this day get any worse? I took a deep breath – there was no way I was going to let any spiteful little upstart upset my equilibrium – but my head was pounding and my knee felt stiff and unwieldy. Once I was dressed, I swallowed a couple of painkillers before moving over to join Antonio and some others ready to go on stage.

Apparently, the daycouldget worse.

And did so.

Quite spectacularly.

I made my entrance ten minutes after the start of the performance, dancing suggestively around the strategically placed three men in the chorus line-up with whom I was allegedly having flirtatious affairs. I had to smile coquettishly while they turned imploring faces, gesturing their love for me. In response, I turned my own face, instead, to the audience to demonstrate my intention to flee and, taking several quick steps, I launched into the highjetéthat would take me off stage.

At the same moment as a whole raft of stage lights in front of me flickered epileptically and, confused, I landed badly, swerving and falling and crashing onto the stage and my already dicky knee with a quite startling ferocity and speed.

And there and then, on the day I had already lost Fabian Mansfield Carrington, I lost my career in musical theatre too.

PART II

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