Innocence. Kathleen Tessaro

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СКАЧАТЬ smile back, grateful for her hospitality. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

      ‘How was the flight?’

      ‘Long.’

      ‘Oh yes.’ She wrinkles her face in dismay. ‘How terrible for you! How perfectly awful! I think there’s nothing worse. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?’ she offers again, as if it might erase the memory entirely.

      ‘No, really, I’m OK.’

      Simon sweeps up to me, braking barely an inch from my toes. ‘So, Miss Garlick! What makes you think you’d like to be an actress?’ He’s staring at me with unnerving intensity.

      ‘Well.’ I know the answer to this question: I’ve been rehearsing it for nearly half my life. But still it comes as a surprise this early in the morning. ‘I have a real love of language and a deep appreciation for the dramatic tradition…’

      ‘Nonsense!’ he interrupts me. ‘It’s about showing off! You like to show off, don’t you?’

      I blink.

      I’m from a small, rural farming community. Showing off isn’t something anyone I know would admit to doing.

      ‘Well, for me it’s more about unearthing the playwright’s true intentions. Getting to the root of the story’ I explain slowly.

      He’s having none of it. ‘Don’t be coy with me, Miss Garlick! And showing off! Go on, say it!’

      This has all the hallmarks of a no-win situation.

      I wince. ‘And showing off’

      ‘Good girl!’ He slaps my knee. ‘Remember, all Shakespeare ever wanted to do was show off and make loads of money. All those wonderful plays, beautiful verses, astounding sentiments were to a single end. He wanted nothing more than to escape Stratford-upon-Avon, arrive in London and have the time of his life! I hope you intend to follow in his footsteps!’

      He smiles at me expectantly. There’s a sweet, somehow familiar smell on his breath. I try to laugh politely but a kind of snorting sound comes out instead. He doesn’t seem to notice.

      ‘Now’ He wheels round. Gwen, balancing two cups of hot tea, expertly sidesteps him. He yanks open one of the filing-cabinet drawers and pulls out an instamatic camera.

      ‘Smile, Evie!’

      I blink and the flash goes off. Out spits the picture. Simon throws the camera back in the drawer. ‘There you go!’ He writes my name at the bottom in big block letters with a red marker. ‘Now we won’t forget who you are!’ He beams, sticking my picture on to felt board with a pin. ‘Here she is! Evie Garlick! About to take the London acting world by storm! Now. Lots to do. Lots to do. Lovely to meet you, Evie. Did your parents pay by cheque?’

      I nod.

      ‘Brilliant! Boyd Alexander is your teacher. Won an Olivier last year for Miss Julie at the National. An expert in Ibsen. Brilliant director.’

      I nod again. I’ve no idea what an Olivier is, but I’m pretty sure Miss Julie is by Strindberg.

      ‘Brilliant,’ I say. Obviously this is an important word to master.

      ‘Absolutely’ He accelerates into the hall. ‘Gwen, when you’re ready!’

      ‘Yes! All right! Here you go.’ She hands me a slip of paper with an address written on it. ‘I’ve arranged for you to share accommodation with two extremely lovely girls who are staying on from last term. They’re really very lovely, very dedicated. And just…lovely. I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable…’

      ‘Gwen! If you don’t mind!’

      ‘Yes, I’m coming! For goodness sake! So lovely to meet you.’ She turns and scurries into the next room, carrying the two mugs of tea, a large leather diary and a packet of shortbread.

      And I’m alone, for the first time, in the offices of the Actors Drama Workshop Academy.

      Which is costing my parents untold thousands of dollars. That I had to campaign for six whole months to be able to attend. Which is further away from home than I’ve ever been in my life.

      Just those three things alone should make it amazing.

      I close my eyes and try not to cry. Then I get up and look at my photo. Sure enough, one eye’s open and the other one’s closed. I look like a drunk singing.

      Here she is, Evie Garlick. About to take the London acting world by storm.

      I show up at the address on Gloucester Place, my new London home, wheeling my bulging suitcases (the ones encased in layers of brown packing tape to keep them from exploding). They got stuck no fewer than four times in the terrifying grip of the Underground escalator. During rush hour. The experience is akin to an extra circle in Dante’s Inferno. Commuters vault up the steps on the left, the rest wedge in behind one another on the right. Tourists, however, suffer public humiliation as they grind the entire system to a halt by attempting to negotiate their bags unaided through the endless tunnels to platforms which, on the little multicoloured map, appear to be all in the same place. In reality they’re about as close as Amsterdam and Rome. The concierge at the Belle View Hotel insisted taking the Underground was cheap and easy. But I’m here now, hot, sweaty and considerably older than when I woke up this morning.

      I take a deep breath and ring the bell.

      A tall, slender girl dressed in a scarlet Chinese silk robe with a green face mask on opens the door. Her hair’s wrapped in a towel round her head.

      ‘I’ve got a date tonight,’ she announces, waving me in. ‘A real live English date!’

      I’m not sure what to say.

      ‘Cool.’ I drag my bags up the steps.

      ‘You’ll love this.’ She props the door open while I continue to wrestle with my luggage. ‘His name’s Hughey Chicken! Isn’t that terrific? I got his number from a friend of mine in New York. She says he’s divine. You’re here for the room, right?’

      ‘Yes, that’s right.’

      She holds out her hand. ‘I’m Robbie.’

      ‘Evie,’ I introduce myself. ‘Evie Garlick.’

      ‘Really?’ She frowns and the green mask cracks a little. ‘Have you ever thought of changing your name?’

      ‘Well, I…’

      ‘We can talk about that later. I suppose you want to see it.’ She’s heading off down the hall, the silk robe flapping round her thin ankles. Pushing the door open, she switches on the light. ‘Ta-da!’

      I walk in and look around.

      It’s a cupboard. The kind of space that in America, they’d shove a washer and dryer into. There’s a narrow single bed covered in a brown bedspread, a lopsided wooden wardrobe in the corner, and a window that looks out onto a brick wall. The walls are covered in a sixties floral print of СКАЧАТЬ