Caught in the Act. Gemma Fox

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СКАЧАТЬ clutching a damp hanky, various inhalers and smelling salts, whispering words of encouragement, making sure that everyone knew what a brave little kitten Fiona truly was, even as she was elbowing her way to the front for another curtain call.

      There was no contest. ‘OK, I’ll do it,’ said Carol weakly, falling on the sword on behalf of the rest of the troupe, while shuffling the pages of photocopied script back into a heap.

      There had been a muted cheer from the less regal of hoi polloi at the back of the hall, which just about drowned out Fiona’s frantic disappointed wheezing and sobbing.

      Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them. Miss Haze wrapped the rubber wart in a hankie and handed Carol a plastic dagger.

      The reviews had been kind; Carol had still got them in a drawer somewhere. ‘Carol Hastings as Macbeth’s ill-fated queen reached fearlessly for the dramatic high notes’—the Herald. ‘With a maturity far beyond her years Carol Hastings’ Lady Macbeth made a gallant effort to sustain the darker phrases of the Scottish play without lapsing into untrammelled melodrama.’ Praise indeed from a man who, when not the drama critic, covered cattle auctions and the stock car racing.

      Nostalgia is not what it used to be. Carol hung the photo back on the wall and got to her feet.

      It did seem impossible, though, that she had lost touch with Diana. God, they used to be joined at the hip. Last time they’d spoken, Diana had just finished college and was off doing VSO in Africa or—something. Carol felt a horrible twinge of guilt. Where had the time gone?

      ‘Mum, are you OK in there?’

      The toilet door was ajar; Carol had been sitting fully clothed on the lavatory in the middle of the day staring blankly at a wall for the best part of fifteen minutes. She could see it might make Jake think maybe something wasn’t quite right.

      ‘I’m fine, honey. I was just thinking.’

      ‘Right,’ he said. He didn’t sound wholly convinced. ‘Raf said do you want him to open the wine?’ Carol could hear the anxiety in her son’s voice. After all, she was heading for forty. Anything might have happened. ‘And he said are you going to do the salad, and will you marry him?’

      Carol turned slowly; there was re ally no point having those great big blue-green eyes-like-a-cat-on-a-moonlit-night unless you knew how to use them. ‘He knows the answer to all of those questions.’

      Jake, coming up for fourteen and just beginning to get a grip on the complicated wiring of adulthood, nodded. ‘Yes, yes, and no, not over the flayed bodies of myself, my infant children and the family pets?’

      Carol nodded proudly. ‘Well done.’

      ‘In which case, Raf said, would you consider giving in gracefully and living in sin instead?’

      Carol turned the stare up to stun. ‘When it comes to sin, Jake, I can think of so many better ways to do it than washing underpants and picking up other people’s dirty socks.’

      ‘And if you do want to do that kind of thing, you’ve always got me and Ollie, haven’t you?’

      She nodded. ‘Exactly.’

      ‘Do you want him to start cooking?’

      ‘Did he happen to mention what time he was going home?’

      Rafael O’Connell leaned in around the door to the utility room and handed her a glass of wine. It was German, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up. He was goodlooking in a lived-in way, forty-two, and wearing a wipe-down apron with a black bra, stockings and suspenders printed on the front of it, which the boys had given him for his last birthday. He was Irish, ice cool and far too sweet to be considered grown up.

      ‘I was hoping you’d ask me to stay the night,’ he said, attempting to sound hurt and much put upon while pushing a mop of dark brown wavy hair back off his forehead.

      Carol smiled, resisting the effects that his brogue had on her even after three years. ‘It’s Sunday, Raf. You know the rules; on Sundays you go home.’

      ‘I could make an exception.’

      ‘Well, I can’t. You’re a weekend thing. You should know that by now. Friday to Sunday and then—’ still smiling, she made a dismissive sweeping gesture with her hand—‘home.’

      ‘You’ll miss me when I’m gone,’ he grumbled, backing off into the kitchen, mugging deep and bitter rejection.

      Jake looked at Carol and shook his head. ‘You’re re ally cruel to him. What sort of example are you setting? I’m at a very impressionable age.’

      ‘So’s Raf. He knows I don’t mean it. And besides, he is the kind of man who enjoys a challenge.’

      Jake pulled a face. He had started dating and Carol suspected he was using her and Raf as an instructional video.

      ‘You should go and talk to him about it,’ Carol said, waving the wineglass in the general direction of the kitchen.

      ‘I already have. He said he’d give me twenty quid if I could get you to let him stay tonight.’

      Carol sighed. ‘That is not what real grownups are supposed to do, Jake—it’s probably illegal, and definitely immoral. Pass me that big blue glass bowl, will you?’

      Jake did as he was asked.

      She pulled a large bag of mixed salad out of the bottom of the fridge. It was a bit of a devil’s deal re ally. Long summer Sundays, Mr O’Connell and the boys knocked themselves out building the world’s most bizarre kebabs, stuffing chicken breasts with God alone knows what, and baking bananas and apple slices in tinfoil with brown sugar and brandy while she opened a big tub of potato salad, threw a bag of mixed baby leaves into a bowl and chucked half a bottle of shop-bought dressing over it.

      Setting the bowl down for a moment, Carol stepped back into the loo and brought the photo of the drama group out into the sunlight. A younger, altogether-less-cynical Carol stared back up at her, all open-faced enthusiasm and too much makeup. What would she have done if she’d known all the things that were coming her way? Even though she was smiling, Carol felt her eyes prickling with tears. The time had gone so quickly. It didn’t seem fair.

      She picked up the phone and tapped in Diana’s mobile number. Half a dozen rings later a bright breezy voice said, ‘Hello?’

      ‘Hi, is that Diana Brown?’

      There was a split-second pause and then a raucous laugh. ‘Carol? Is that you?’

      ‘Certainly is. It was great to get your email. I was just looking at a photo of us when we did Macbeth and thought that if someone doesn’t ring soon we’ll all be dead.’

      Diana groaned. ‘The way I feel today that would be a blessing. It’s so nice to hear your voice. I’m re ally glad you rang. I daren’t think about how long it’s been since we last spoke. Was it at someone’s wedding?’ Diana sounded genuinely pleased. ‘You sound re ally grown up.’

      Carol laughed. ‘You too, but don’t be fooled—it’s a very thin disguise.’

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