Lucky Break (40 page)

The only real person Nell had seen since she'd been back was Sita. Sita had arrived that first night with Indian food in Tupperware, cooked by her new mother-in-law, and with a bump, almost hidden, below her layers of clothes.

‘Sita!' They'd embraced and Nell had felt the heat in her friend's body, the hard stretched skin of her belly butting out against her own. ‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I couldn't,' Sita looked distressed. ‘Not over the phone.'

Nell hugged her again. ‘I'm sorry. I'm just . . . it's such a big thing, that's all.'

‘Well, I
am
married . . .' Sita laughed. ‘I'm thirty-two. If I'd waited much longer my sister would be a grandmother before I'd begun.'

‘It's wonderful. I'm so happy,' Nell sniffed. ‘I really am. Can I be godmother?'

‘You can be Aunty. One of the Aunties. For ever and ever.'

They laughed and sat down to eat, and as Nell forked out aubergine and cauliflower and the long green fronds of ladies' fingers, she asked, ‘So is this it? I mean. Is it over for you. Acting?'

‘It gave me up, remember.'

‘But you were so good.' Nell didn't know why she was doing this. ‘At youth theatre. The best of us all.'

‘Not true. And anyway . . .' She shrugged. ‘It's not about that, is it? I'm happy for the moment. I feel as if I've fallen out of love with someone unavailable, someone quite unkind, and found . . . well, Raj, who's lovely and who's actually here.'

Nell took another forkful of rice. She felt stubborn and unbending. ‘Maybe now I'm back we could do one of our shows.'

‘Yeah, sure,' Sita tied her black hair into a knot where it waited to unravel on the silk nape of her neck, ‘the film star and the pregnant receptionist.'

‘What does your agent say?'

‘Not much.'

For a while they looked at each other and then they both laughed. Nell got up and put some music on, the old blues tracks they used to play on Saturday mornings when they cleaned the house.

‘Do you remember that time we went to Somerset?' Sita began to sway.

‘Yes,' Nell said. ‘How desperate were we? Me, I mean. You were always the cool one, of course.'

‘Look at you now, though.'

‘True. But look at you.'

Sita held out her hands and they danced, laughing, bumping up against cupboards, sweeping aside newspaper and magazine cuttings, scattering piles of party invitations to the floor.

‘I wish you'd stay,' Nell said. She'd told Sita she could have the flat, share it with Raj, she'd probably hardly ever be there anyway, but on their marriage Raj's father had given them the deposit for a house in New Cross, with two bedrooms and a small paved garden of their own, and although Sita confided that she'd have preferred to stay here, renting, they both knew it was a lie.

 

Nell dragged herself up from the slick cooling water of the bath. She rubbed herself dry and wrapped herself in one of those luxuriantly thick white towelling dressing gowns every hotel begs you not to steal. But she'd been saved from such temptation by the unexpected gift of an identical one from the producers of the film, its title,
Mary Peacock
, in red letters embroidered on the back. How odd, she thought, when I could finally afford to buy it, and she started to see how much easier it was to stay rich once you'd begun. For a moment Nell lay down in the scramble of her bed. It was the first time in three days that she'd had a moment to herself and she allowed herself three deep breaths before picking up the schedule Poppy had biked over earlier that afternoon.

 

Mary Peacock
. Royal Premier Call Sheet. Nell Gilby.

6.05. Car to collect you from home and transfer you to the cinema.

Dress Code. Black Tie. (Gloves need not be worn.)

 

Gloves? Nell looked around. Who ever mentioned gloves?

 

6.45. Arrive at cinema location where you will be met and escorted up the press line.

You will then be escorted to the upper foyer where you will be re-united with your guest and wait for the Royal Presentation.

 

Attached was a second sheet:

 

Royal Protocol.

• As His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales and Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Cornwall move from person to person along the presentation line . . .

 

Just then the doorbell rang. My guest! she thought, and a flutter of apprehension flooded through her. If only she'd asked Sita to accompany her, but of course Sita wanted to go with Raj, and anyway, it seemed right that she ask Charlie. Charlie had asked
her
when
The Haven Report
opened, even if that was only because she'd rowed with her current boyfriend – how glorious that she couldn't now remember his name – and taking Nell had been part of her revenge.

‘One minute.' Nell glanced into the mirror at the top of the stairs and gave her hair a quick scrunch. ‘I'm coming,' and as she ran down to the front door in slipperless feet she appraised her perfect cherry-red nails as if she was someone else. But it wasn't Charlie, it was Melissa, the make-up woman, wrapped up against the cold, with a wheelie bag of equipment so large she had trouble heaving it up the stairs. ‘I'd like a natural look, if that's allowed,' Nell said, and then remembering who she was now, she added, with more conviction, ‘Natural, but utterly gorgeous please.' And she helped her into the kitchen.

Not long after, Tara Laurie and Milly arrived, shivering and blowing on their hands, although Nell could see the taxi they'd climbed out of, roaring warmly in the street.

‘Bloody hell,' Tara swore, ‘it's Arctic,' and looking Nell over, swaddled in her towelling gown, she warned her, not for the first time, that she must not, under any circumstances, wear a coat that night. ‘You can wear one in the car, that's fine, but don't be tempted to keep it with you, even draped over your shoulders, or the dress won't get exposure. If the dress doesn't get photographed, the designer will become hysterical, and guess who'll get it in the neck? Yours truly. That's who.'

‘OK,' Nell backed away, and she looked out of the window at the deep grey of the darkening afternoon.

 

Melissa was halfway through Nell's make-up when the doorbell rang again. ‘I'll go,' Milly offered.

‘No, it's all right.' Nell waited while her eyelashes were released from a medieval torture instrument that promised to add an inch to their length. ‘I'll get it.' Her hair was bunched on top of her head, and her face was half made-up, but even so she ran down the stairs.

‘Charlie!' Charlie stood before Nell in a parka with the hood pulled up. There was something different about her, but before Nell could decipher what it was, Charlie had hold of her in a hug. ‘Careful, careful,' she warned, as the sticky sheen of her foundation smudged.

‘It's all right,' Charlie said, ‘I've got my dress in here,' and she held up a plastic bag.

‘No!' Nell laughed, ‘I meant of me.' And Charlie put her head on one side. ‘You look great.'

‘And you.' Nell stepped back to get a better look.

‘What?' Charlie pulled down her hood.

‘Nothing,' Nell blushed. ‘You just look . . . I haven't seen you for so long, that's all.'

‘Look what?'

‘Your hair . . .' Charlie's hair stood out from her head in an afro. ‘Is it for a part?'

‘No. I just thought I'd try it natural. Curiosity got the better of me. I haven't seen the real thing since I was fourteen.'

Nell led the way upstairs. ‘I like it.' She turned to watch her. ‘It's just a shock, that's all.' Now, as Charlie removed her coat, Nell could see that she was fatter too. Not fat – that was unimaginable, but her angular frame had softened, her face filled out into an oval, the new line of her jaw flowing softly towards her ear.

‘Hi everyone,' Nell ushered her into the room. ‘This is my friend, Charlie Adedayo-Martin.'

‘Don't worry about me,' Charlie told them. ‘I'll do my own make-up, and right now nothing makes much difference to my hair.'

‘OK,' Melissa looked affronted. ‘I'm here if you change your mind.'

‘So what have you got in that fancy bag?' Nell placed herself back down before the sea of make-up and tilted her face for more, while Charlie drew out an ivory silk dress with creamy feathers in the low V of the back. ‘I'll hang it up if that's all right,' and retrieving a hanger from the carrier she slung it from a high cupboard door.

‘Are you sure you don't want to iron it?' Nell squinted at the jagged creases, but Charlie shrugged. ‘It's OK, I've worn it before. Better the crumpled look than the burnt.'

‘I can press it,' Milly offered. She was already pressing Nell's dress, steaming its perfectly smooth satin through a series of wet cloths. Charlie was obstinate. ‘I promise you. It's fine.'

Tara's phone rang and she barked into it, giving instructions, placating, laying down the law to a virtually silent colleague at the other end.

‘So Charlie . . .' Nell was desperate for news, but Melissa was outlining her lips with a small slick, ticklish brush. ‘What . . . I mean . . . are . . .' But the intensity of Melissa's face, working so close to her own, forced her to give up.

‘Tea anyone?' Charlie put the kettle on, moving knowledgeably around the room, although in all the years Nell had lived there, she'd probably only visited twice. Nell was always the one who rushed round to hers, administering comfort, reassuring her with her own inferior life, so that however hopeless Charlie might feel about her lovers, her finances, her career, compared to Nell's it was never quite so bad.

‘Give her up,' Sita had urged, exasperated. But Nell could never do it. Once, she'd even taken the train to Manchester after Charlie had hyperventilated on the phone, but by the time she'd arrived, Charlie had found solace in the arms of the lighting cameraman, and Nell had ended up staying in her rented room alone.

Charlie placed the old polka-dot teapot on the table. ‘Anything else you need?' she offered, having set out mugs and milk, and Nell asked if she'd bring in a mirror. ‘I can do that.' Milly set down the iron, but Charlie was already on her way. She reappeared with the largest, heaviest mirror, unhooked from the bathroom wall. She heaved it on to the table and held it with both hands. ‘You look beautiful,' she said, serious, before Nell had a chance to look into it, and Nell breathed out slowly, dropping her shoulders, steeling herself for who she would see.

‘Yes. That's good.' Her skin was glowing, her lips the cherry of her toes. Her eyes were smudged with smoky shadows, her cheeks moulded into hollowed planes.

‘Enough?' Charlie took the mirror and propped it up above the mantelpiece. ‘What time do we have to leave here?' She started on her own make-up.

‘The car's coming at six, I think,' Nell said. ‘There's a schedule somewhere.' Melissa was brushing and dampening her hair. ‘It's on my bed.'

‘I'll look.'

‘Sorry about the mess.' Nell felt the blood spread warm over her neck. How strange to have Charlie Adedayo-Martin running around for her, and she thought of the premiere of
Celestina
, and how she'd sat up all night, stitching together panels of black lace, hopeful the result would create some old-world glamour to match the event. But on the night, surrounded by girls in tangerine crushed silk and bare brown legs, she realised she looked like an undercover bodyguard, or someone's maiden aunt.

‘ “Nell Gilby,” ' Charlie read as she came in. ‘ “Royal Premiere of
Mary Peacock
, in aid of the Actors' Benevolent Fund.” ' She stood at the end of the table. ‘ “Royal Protocol,” ' she began, and then paused. ‘Have you read this, Nell?'

‘Some.'

‘Oh my God.' Charlie composed herself, a smile hovering on her lips. ‘ “As His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales and Her Royal Highness The Duchess of Cornwall move from person to person along the presentation line, they will be introduced to each person by their full name and title.” ' She coughed and lowered her voice to give the protocol the weight it deserved. ‘ “As Her Royal Highness hears your name, she will offer you her hand. HRH's hand should be taken lightly, swiftly followed by a bow of the head – men, a small bow, curtsey or bow of the head – women,” ' Charlie attempted to do both, ‘ “and one should say, ‘Your Royal Highness' or ‘Ma'am' (rhyming with Spam) whilst shaking her hand.” '

Nell, Melissa, even Tara shrieked. ‘Couldn't they have thought of something more sophisticated?' Charlie inspected the sheet of paper. ‘Ham . . . Pam . . . What else is there?'

‘Lamb?' Nell offered, but Charlie thought that might confuse the foreigners. ‘Ma'amb, or even Maaaarm,' and Nell became so convulsed with laughter the hot tongs Melissa was using tangled in her hair.