Page 72 of A Class Act

‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Need the loo. Sorry.’

I couldn’t believe the effect this production ofGreasewas having on me. I’d assumed it was going to be a local amateurish performance, with proud parents enthusiastically cheering on their little darlings when they missed a cue or fluffed their lines. But this was slick, professional, fabulously executed. Blimey, if a small area of West Yorkshire was able to produce and showcase such incredible talent, there must be a whole pool of young performers dreaming of heading to the West End and beyond.

I felt sick at the thought.

‘I feel really sick,’ Petra said, sliding back into her seat on my right. I realised she’d been gone for a good fifteen minutes.

‘You OK?’

‘I’ve actually been throwing up as well as peeing. Bloody hell…’

‘Shhh.’ An elderly red-faced man behind us leaned forward and prodded Petra’s shoulder as she stood once more, white-faced.

‘Excuse me,’ I hissed at him. ‘My friend isn’t well.’

‘Just pregnant…’ she started.

‘Can you sit down? I can’t see.’

‘A mint?’ Grandad’s other half offered sympathetically, scrabbling in her bag and rustling paper. I was immediately taken back to the Central Criminal Court when I’d first spotted and fallen in love with Fabian, when Minty Breath had chummily offered me a Polo mint. Oh, Fabian, where are you now?

Petra sat, but the elderly man behind sighed audibly as she stood again. ‘Sorry, you two…’ she said turning to Mason and me, a hand to her mouth. ‘Look, I’m spoiling this for you both. I’m going.’

‘I’ll come with you.’ I made to stand.

‘I’m fine,’ Petra whispered through her hands. ‘If I don’t go, I’m going to throw up here.’

I was now not only totally immersed in my own misery with the realisation that I was more than likely a has-been, but the offering of a mint to Petra had just brought back all my longing for Fabian. I was seriously thinking of following Petra out of the theatre and home, until Mason moved next to me, fished out a clean folded hanky from his jacket pocket and handed it in silence to me.

I hadn’t realised just how much I was crying and, embarrassed, I wiped at my eyes before handing it back to Mason.

He shook his head, indicating I should keep it, but took my hand briefly in his own before releasing it and concentrating on the production once more.

This was ridiculous. It was about time I got my big girl’s pants on and started to accept my lot in life.

‘Do you think we could get it together?’ Mason whispered, a hand on my arm, his face turned towards me as his eyes met mine, holding them almost in challenge.

‘Get it together?’ I stared back before, embarrassed, I turned away. Please don’t say my boss was propositioning me. ‘Getwhattogether?’

‘A production ofGrease? At St Mede’s?’ He smiled, obviously amused at my reaction. ‘What did you think I meant, Robyn?’

‘Oh, right, of course.’ I was so glad the lights were down, and he couldn’t see my flushed face. ‘Actually, I don’t see why not,’ I added, relieved there appeared to be no hidden agenda in his request.

Relief or disappointment?

We stayed put during the interval making polite conversation about school, how he was going to miss Petra once she was on maternity leave. He asked about Sorrel, how she was behaving at home, because he felt she’d settled at St Mede’s a lot better than he’d anticipated. While she was only six weeks in, he admitted he’d not been certain she would stay the course, would possibly still end up at the PRU. Or, as was more likely, her education would just peter out and no one would really be bothered to get her back on track for her GCSEs and beyond. ‘And, to be fair’ – he grinned – ‘I didn’t expectyouto be still here by the time half-term arrived.’

‘Not much option really,’ I said, slightly put out he’d thought me flaky enough to get out when I couldn’t cope. Mind you, I had taken on the job kicking and screaming.

‘You’ve not had it easy, have you?’ Mason smiled. ‘An often absent, famous father? A single mother with a condition that meant her being taken into hospital at the drop of a hat?’

‘How on earth do you know all this?’ I looked at him in some indignation.

‘How do you think?’

‘Sorrel?’

‘Sorrel? No, she’s only just deigning to say good morning to me. She’s certainly not at the stage of opening up to me or Petra, although Petra, I know, has tried several times.’

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