Elegance and Innocence (65 page)

The door slamming upstairs is like the door slamming in my heart.

And I know this feeling.

It’s safe. Numb.

I’ve been here before.

I bury my face in Alex’s neck.

And I don’t care.

Doris looks up at me, standing in the centre of the room, script in hand. ‘That was just dreadful!’ she confesses, giggling self-consciously.

She’s right.

The rest of the group look away, clear their throats; anything not to laugh.

‘No.’ I’m searching for a more constructive way to put
it. But her Scotty dog jumper and long chandelier earrings are just a bit distracting. Her legendary bust makes the dog’s face into a kind of Elephant Dog, with a head five times the size of its body. I force my eyes back to her face. ‘It’s a difficult speech, Doris. It’s all about the character’s hidden motivations.’

She shakes her head; the earrings rattle like wind chimes. ‘I just don’t understand it! I mean, “I am a seagull?” What’s that all about?’

‘Well.’ There’s no simple answer. And today I desperately wish there were. I rub my eyes. ‘Why do you think you say it?’

‘Because I’m crazy,’ she decides. Nods her head. The earrings chime.

I wrinkle my nose.

She tries again. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I think I am a seagull.’

‘And what does that mean?’ I prompt.

‘That I’m crazy?’

I take a deep breath. Chekhov isn’t easy to teach, at the best of times. And
Uncle Vanya
would’ve been better for this lot; closer to their own age range and experience. But I haven’t prepared
Vanya
; for a week now, I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything more taxing than the back of a cereal box.
The Seagull
seemed a safe bet – something I could do in my sleep. But I hadn’t reckoned on Doris Del Angelo’s inquisitive enthusiasm.

‘What do you think it means?’ She throws it back at me.

‘Well …’ I can’t really tell her I don’t know. I’ve been looking at this speech for around fourteen years and I’ve no more idea of what’s going on than I did when I first read it. I’m meant to be the expert. So I do what all teachers end up doing on bad days: I dodge the question.

‘Doris, I can’t tell
you
what
I
think it’s about. In order for the associations to have any real power for you as an actress, you have to make your own connections, find your own meaning.’

‘Oh.’

I think she’s on to me.

‘The important thing is that you ask yourself the questions.’ I try to round the whole thing up. ‘And if you can keep the language in the moment, you’ll find the scene becomes much more powerful.’

Her brow furrows.

Clive sits forward in his chair. His quiff is particularly voluminous this evening. ‘What does that actually mean?’

Shit. Sometimes I swear they gang up on me.

I look at the floor, like maybe the answer’s written between my feet. ‘What it means’ – I’m speaking slowly, feeling my way blindly into some sort of response – ‘is that something that’s happening right here, right now between Nina and Konstantin, is motivating that line. You’re trying to tell him something; explain something to him; something
important. And the best way you can put it is “I’m a seagull”. You’re not zoning out and having a crazy moment; you
may
be crazy but it’s all very real to you and you’re really trying to actively communicate this idea to him.’

She’s frustrated. ‘Yes, but
what
idea?’

I should have called off sick.

‘That you’re a seagull.’ I stop.

I start again. ‘OK. Let’s look at the evidence. You’ve come to Konstantin. And he keeps telling you that he’s in love with you; that you’re amazing, that he kisses the ground you walk on.’

‘Yes …?’

‘He acts like you haven’t changed, but you have. And you want him to know that.’

‘But to know
what
?’

I look at the sea of expectant faces. The air’s thick with dust, warm and heavy. The sound of the room fan whirrs incessantly in the background.

When I speak, my voice is surprisingly hard. ‘That you’re a seagull, Doris. That you’re not a beautiful, talented young woman on the verge of a thrilling acting career, in love with a clever, famous man. You’ve lost your lover. Your child has died. And now you’re a second-rate actress in the provinces. You’re a seagull. A dead thing. An awkward, shrill bird that someone saw and shot for no better reason than because they could.’

The room’s gone quiet.

‘But you’re still stronger than that. Every time you feel like giving in, you pull yourself up again. “I am a seagull.” And then you say, “No, that’s not it.” You refuse to give in. Even though you’ve lost everything.’

She stares at me. In fact, the whole room’s staring at me. I cradle my head in my hands.

What’s the point?

‘It’s the ability to endure,’ Mr Hastings drops the words into the silence like a pebble into a still pond.

I lift my head. ‘Pardon me?’

‘She says’, he repeats softly, ‘it’s the ability to endure.’

A light goes on in Doris’s eyes. ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Her voice brims with excitement. ‘“The main thing is not the fame, not the glory, not all the things I used to dream of,”’ she quotes, ‘“it’s finding the strength to go on. How to bear your cross and have faith.”’

My chest tightens.

‘“And when I think of my vocation,”’ Mr Hastings adds, finishing the speech, ‘“I do not fear life.”’

The room’s too hot. I push my chair back. ‘Let’s take a break. Ten minutes, everyone.’

And without pausing, I dive into the hall.

‘Don’t you think that’s right?’ Doris follows me out, rushing in her high-heeled boots. ‘She’s a real actress now. Isn’t she?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ There’s a humming in my brain.

‘Her suffering’s made her stronger.’

‘Absolutely.’

She puts a hand on my arm. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, touching her hand. Then I pull away. ‘I just have to do … something.’

I walk. The hallways snake like a maze between the classrooms; there are noises, snatches of other classes; stern, confident voices informing eager students. There’s a wrenching in my chest. Here’s the side door; leading to the alleyway. I push through, into the cool, black night air. Above me, stars blink. I lean with my back against the wall and close my eyes.

And when I think of my vocation, I’m not afraid of life.

‘You’re not a fucking seagull, Evie.’

‘Leave me alone, Robbie.’ I don’t want to open my eyes; I’m not willing to engage in this madness again.

‘I’m serious, Evie.’

‘What do you know about it, huh?’ I snap, looking at her.

She’s standing there, in that stupid jumper, hands in her jeans pockets.

I rush on, not waiting for her answer. ‘You never even bothered to live out your dreams – you foisted them on me to live out instead! Isn’t that why you’re here? Because I failed you? Well, you needn’t bother! I already know that! I don’t need you swinging back from the underworld every five minutes to tell me I fucked up!’

‘You’re unhappy,’ she says, as if it’s some stunning revelation.

I can’t control the tears any more. ‘Of course I’m unhappy!’

‘But why? You’re in love, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m
not
!’ I snap vehemently. ‘I just did something stupid, that’s all! Something foolish!’ What’s the point in explaining to her? ‘I should’ve been more careful.’

‘But that’s just it, Evie … you’re too careful! When did you start being so careful? So frightened? Where’s the girl who risked all … dared all?’

‘That was you, Robbie, not me! Remember?’

‘No, it was you,’ she says firmly. ‘It was you.’

I turn away.

How can I make her understand when I don’t even understand it myself? This ambivalence and then the tidal waves of feeling that shift, without any warning, to destroy whole internal landscapes in a heartbeat, leaving me lost? I’m like a kid, struggling to build a tower of blocks only to kick them all over for a thirty-second rush of power and freedom. Only they aren’t blocks; it’s my life.

‘When I let myself go, bad things happen, Robbie.’

‘What are you so afraid of?’

‘I’m afraid of myself!’ I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand. ‘You don’t know what I’m capable of!’

‘Then tell me!’

‘No!’ I shake my head. ‘No. I have to go.’

I yank open the door.

But she won’t stop. ‘Come on, Evie! When was the last
time you let your guard down? Can you even remember?’

I shouldn’t rise to the bait; but instead, I swing round, facing her across the narrow alleyway. ‘I can tell you exactly when!’ I shout bitterly. ‘Five years ago, 21 June 1996!’

I step inside. The door slams shut.

My heels click fast along the floor.

But now the seed’s planted and it grows.

The class continues. I nod my head; make the appropriate gestures and sounds.

But I’m not there.

I’ve been transported back in time, to that morning five years ago, every detail fresh as yesterday.

If only we could choose which memories we keep and which ones we discard for ever. But instead, the mind clings to events that baffle; watching them, like a movie, over and over, but without the power to choose a different path.

PART THREE

21 June 1996

Chapter 3

I open my eyes.

The house is quiet.

Lying on my back, I stare at the play of light through the bedroom curtains; golden shapes dance on the carpet. From the garden outside, the perfume of new roses drifts in through the open window. Another perfect summer’s day.

I hate mornings.

Reaching over, I pick up the little enamel pill box. The one I bought in the Stratford-upon-Avon gift shop, with a quote etched into the lid: ‘To sleep – perchance to dream’. I shake it, listening to the pleasing rattle of the pills inside. There’s quite a collection now; sleeping pills from three different doctors, two in London and one here in Warwickshire. I’ll never have to spend my nights alone and awake. Just knowing the promise of eight hours of guaranteed unconsciousness is right here somehow makes everything more bearable.

I put the pill case back on my bedside table and roll over. There’s an undertow of hangover pulling at my brain.
Nothing a few paracetamol won’t cure. Opening night parties are infamous for drunkenness and promiscuity. I got off lightly. Or was it heavier than I remember?

I remember flirting with Anthony Kyd and that young Fiennes kid … then again, who wouldn’t flirt with the Fiennes kid? Nothing happened. I’m almost sure.

Not that it matters.

I’m meant to be in love.

Meant to be.

I close my eyes.

My heart’s a cage. Shut tight.

Evan’s a lovely man. Handsome. Or so my girlfriends tell me. He’s older, thirty-three; works in the City for Deutsche Bank in Human Resources. I met him almost a year ago, filming a corporate training video. He was softly spoken with kind eyes, sitting in for the client; making jokes about the catering and teasing me about the navy wool suit I had to wear. Solicitous, gentle. Nice.

Maybe too nice.

There’s a dark, cold current pulling me down. I spend all day fighting against it. Pretending I’m good. It takes tremendous energy and vigilance. But some day soon I’ll give up. It’s only a matter of time.

There’s packet of cigarettes crumpled on the floor. I don’t remember buying them. I lean over, pick them up, jam one in my mouth and light it.

Evan finds me fascinating. I don’t know why. The less
interested I am, the more devoted he becomes. He wants me to move into his flat in Maida Vale. I’ve said I’ll think about it. Maybe when the Stratford season’s over. But the truth is, I don’t care. Even the sex: I set him these tasks; once I tried to get him to hit me but he wouldn’t … I play a part, watching myself from a distance … ‘Stop!’ I say, when he tries to speak. ‘Just fuck me.’ He does. I twist away, shut my eyes and wait to feel something. Afterwards, he can say what he likes; tell me about how wonderful it is to be so free … I feel trapped. And confused.

Yesterday’s paper lies in a heap on the other side of the bed; the passenger side.

It was five years ago today: 21 June.

Evan says he doesn’t mind.

He’s never really wanted children. ‘We can always adopt anyway.’ He talks like that; like we’ll be together for ever.

I inhale hard.

He says he doesn’t mind.

Taking a long, deep drag, I stub the rest out in an old coffee mug.

That’s my last one.

I’m going to be good now.

The season’s only just begun. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer …’ A two-year contract with the Royal Shakespeare Company, first in Stratford-upon-Avon and then in London. Two whole years of the
kind of stability and financial security that most actors can only dream of.

I’m lucky. Lucky that Boyd Alexander was one of the directors; lucky that he remembered me. I’m in three plays this season;
As You Like It
,
The Rover
and
Richard III
, which opened last night. They’re small roles and I understudy quite a few larger ones but it’s a start. I’m lucky.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

There’s that dark undertow again.

Get up. Get out of bed.

Stop thinking and move.

I force my legs out and swing my body upright. That’s right: have a pee, brush your teeth, make coffee …

Downstairs in the kitchen, I switch on the radio and open the fridge. There’s nothing there but coffee, milk and jam. Half a dozen pots of jam. I haven’t got much of an appetite. Besides, I can always get something in the staff canteen. Measuring out the coffee into the filter maker, I fill it with water, then wander into the front hallway to pick up the post.

It’s a funny place, my little rented cottage; everything a proper large house would have, scaled down. It sits back from the road, at the bottom of a three-acre garden of a much larger, much grander country house called the Old Rectory. The owners built this as a granny flat in the late seventies and now rent it out to performers at the RSC. They obviously don’t need the money, it’s more a talking
point in local conversation; people here have actors the way the rest of the world has pets. ‘Oh yes, mine’s in
The Tempest
and
Lear
. Eats mostly baked beans. Fairly clean – wonderful diction!’