“That would be nice,” I manage, but the electric pulse of anger has gone, leaving me hollow, and I feel an absolute worm listening to her apologize when I know I’ve told her a pack of lies.
How else could I get her to listen, though? I could hear it in her voice – the big sister voice. There was no way she was going to take me seriously even if I started talking about hard work and acting classes. Still, Lou is no fool and unless I start to come up with some actual auditions she’ll soon see through the lie. I think of Kit, and what he said about my being able to visit him at the Queen Anne Theatre. Maybe, just maybe, something will come of that, I think desperately. Maybe I can make something happen.
As Lou leads me up the white, winding staircase my heart thumps unhappily and one question rattles around and around inside my brain.
What have I done?
CHAPTER FIVE
After a good night’s sleep I am feeling much better. I am something of an optimist by nature, and I don’t tend to stay disheartened for long, I much prefer to think the best. I’m sure that everything will work out.
After all, ever since I was five years old, I’ve known that I wanted to move to London and become an actress. It’s a part of me, this vision of the future; it’s bone-deep, ingrained. It feels as if all of my life has been building towards this moment, and now that it’s here, nothing is going to stop me. It’s as inevitable as winter following on the heels of autumn. Of course I’ll make a success of it. Because I have to.
I have slept late, curled up under the blankets like a particularly satisfied dormouse, and it is almost midday already. The bedroom Lou showed me to yesterday is painted a cheerful yellow, and it is light and bright thanks to a large window that looks out on to the street. I allow myself a moment just to enjoy being here. There’s an old oak tree outside the window, and I can almost imagine that I’m living in its branches, among the ember-orange leaves. The bed is wide and piled with fluffy pillows and a slightly faded patchwork quilt that I recognize as being from Lou’s room in Cornwall. There’s a dressing table and a bookcase that holds worn old copies of children’s books – Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, Treasure Island. It’s comfortable here, safe and cosy. There’s even a very tiny bathroom just for me – a luxury I have never even dreamed of.
I wash, then dress and stand in front of the mirror to comb the tangles from my hair, still damp from washing it in Lou’s peppermint-scented shampoo. Lou was right when she said I look like Alice – though Alice is an absolute knock-out, and I am not exactly. My face is not quite as perfectly symmetrical as hers, my hair is not the same burnished gold, but a paler, more silvery blonde. I’m shorter, rounder, with less of Alice’s willowy grace. I have the same dark blue eyes, but not the dimples that Pa says could charm the birds from the trees. Still, I like my face. I like the soft roundness of my cheeks and the heart-shaped point of my chin. I like my mouth, even though it is perhaps a little too big. It has character. It is capable of expressing many things.
I turn one way and then the other, craning my neck to take in every angle of myself, before nodding in satisfaction at today’s wardrobe choice. Naturally, the Victorian street urchin costume was out, but last night, when I pulled the few crumpled frocks I had brought with me from Pa’s duffle bag, Lou had eyed them doubtfully and asked if they were really the thing for auditioning.
I told her I could audition in a potato sack and still make it work, but in the morning reality set in and I realized they really were too shabby. I crept into her room and helped myself to her wardrobe, borrowing a pale, mint green dress, belted at the waist with a skirt that flares out when I move, cut to several inches above my ankle. The shape and the belt mean it fits reasonably well. It is perhaps a tiny bit long and a bit too tight across my chest and my hips, but I’m used to living in cast-offs. As the third daughter I’m not sure I’ve ever worn anything made to fit me properly.
I could let the dress out myself, but even I know that’s a step too far. I have technically stolen it, after all. (Though, really, it’s only borrowing, and this is what sisters are for.)
Now, standing in front of the mirror, I stroke the material. It is soft and smells faintly of Lou’s bluebell perfume. It makes me feel stylish and grown up, and I stand a little taller in it.
I’ve been making my own costumes for years now – in fact, I’m the only one of my sisters who is any good with a needle – and I know how important clothes are, how they can change the way you feel, the way you move and act. In this cool green dress I too have become cool and unruffled, a confident young woman about town. I sweep my hair up in to a smooth chignon, pinning it back neat and elegant, and apply some of the lipstick that I swiped from Lou’s dressing table. It is red as a ripe apple, the perfect finishing touch.
The girl staring back at me in the mirror glitters with a diamond-hard determination. I look so confident that I even fool myself.
I glide happily downstairs. There is a note on the table in the hallway, propped against a vase full of beautiful roses, smelling heavenly, the colour of plum jam. I recognize Lou’s untidy scrawl.
Dear Freya,
Didn’t want to wake you. Gone to work – help yourself to whatever you can scare up in the larder. The tea is in the yellow tin from home. There’s a key on the table, and a map to help you find your way about. Good luck with the audition – Robert says we will open some champagne later to toast your bright future!
Lx
P.S. I know exactly what you’re thinking, and while I do not doubt that you have already raided my wardrobe, no you CAN’T borrow my good coat.
I make my way through the house and down the stairs to the basement kitchen. It is small and the remnants of this morning’s breakfast languish by the sink on white china plates stamped with blue flowers. When I make my way back up to the sitting room it is with quite a decent picnic: brown bread and sharp cheese, an apple and a few ginger biscuits. I put a record on the record player and eat on the floor in the sitting room, lying on the rug on my stomach, careful not to crease the dress. I leaf through several magazines that Lou has left lying around. One of them is the one Lou works for, and it contains her own story about a fiery murderess called Lady Amelia, which is – though I wouldn’t want to inflate her ego too much by actually telling her so – absolutely thrilling.
I think for a moment about Lou’s life and how happy she seems. I try to ignore the familiar pang of envy, the greedy feeling that I want to take a piece of this for myself.
The house is still and quiet. I turn on to my back, staring at the ceiling and listening to the crackle of the jazz record playing. Kit must be at the theatre by now. He told me to come down in the afternoon, and it is technically after noon now.
I get to my feet, brush and straighten my skirts, and head for the mirror over the fireplace where I carefully reapply my lipstick. Leaning forward I plant my lips on my own reflection, leaving it there, like a brand on the glass: a perfect, red kiss.
Sweeping up the key and map off the hallway table, I pause only to shrug on Lou’s good coat, a rich belted brown tweed with a faux fox fur collar that tickles my neck, and a daring flash of green silk from the lining. Then I sail out of the door.