* * *
Later that evening, Cassie was curled up on her favourite chair by the window, sipping a mug of tea and contemplating the conversation she’d had with Mam. The prospect of phoning Maxine felt like a grey cloud hanging in front of her, but Mam was right, she really couldn’t leave it much longer.
She scrolled down to the number she hadn’t used in years, that she’d even thought about deleting more than once.
Don’t think about it, she scolded herself. Maxine probably won’t even pick up. She’ll be ferrying a team of kids in her bungalow-sized SUV to an ice-hockey game or something. Cassie allowed the phone to ring eight or nine times before knocking it off in relief.
Look, she’d been brave, she’d phoned, she’d done her bit, fair and square. Now it was up to her sister. The wedding wasn’t till July, there was still time .?.?. just about. It was a cop-out and secretly she knew it, but that was as much as she could face tonight.
* * *
Rehearsals were in full swing. Marisha had marked out the floor with coloured tape, ‘like the professionals do’, and was constantly shouting directions which meant bog-all to any of the children.
God, with her grandiosity you’d think she was directingHamiltonon Broadway, but Marisha was the diva of 4B and revelling in her position.
Marisha pointed at each character in turn and read the line out for them to repeat with exactly the same intonation. As a result, all the actors parroted their lines with the same, God-awful, stilted delivery. The other children shuffled around, trying to manage their frustration, rotating on one toe or picking their noses.
‘Villagers, stop fidgeting!! Now, what is the most important thing in our play?’
Silence.
‘That the audience, your mums and dads, can hear every word and that they go home knowing exactly what happened. Clarity. Well, in this show, children, we’ll all be clear as a bell.’
As though on cue, there was a knock on the door and Roger Newcombe’s head appeared. Cassie remembered the first time he’d barged into her classroom, his face like an angry lightbulb. This time he couldn’t have been more different, his tone mild and solicitous, although even from across the room, Cassie could spot the spaghetti sauce from lunch on his lapel.
‘Ah, Marie, I’m just checking in to see how you’re doing with the drama. Well, I must say this all looks very organised .?.?. very professional. Are you enjoying it, boys and girls?’
‘Yeeeeaaaaah,’ they droned.
What the feck else could they say? Marisha glowed as he went on, ‘Well, it’s marvellous to see all this creativity in the school.’
Jeez, she’d seen more creativity spray-painted on a bus shelter.
‘And I see you’re ably assisted too.’ He nodded in Cassie’s direction.
She could’ve puked. Was anything worth this humiliation? Feck salary or security! The old Cassie had always stuck to her dreams – they mightn’t have been great dreams, or lucrative dreams, but they were hers. Feck it. She was going to hand in her notice. Mam would be disappointed, of course, and even lovely Phil would be disappointed, which felt bad, but she couldn’t let that stop her.
* * *
By lunchtime, she was still shaking with fury. Maggie sat down opposite her, as they took out their tubs of salad.
‘Are you OK? How’s the famous play going?’
‘Shite. Sorry, that just came out.’
‘That bad?’
She nodded, realising in horror that she was close to tears.
‘I can imagine, if you’ve been a professional in that world all your life .?.?.’
‘It’s awful. It sounds mad but it’s like she’s enjoying sticking it to me. Am I imagining it?’
Maggie shook her head. ‘I didn’t like to say, and it wasn’t my business, but that’s why the last SNA left. It was because she couldn’t stand it.’
‘Thanks for telling me that, really, at least it’s not just me.’
Maggie glanced around to make sure that nobody was listening. Behind her, at another table, Cassie glimpsed Marisha, who seemed uncharacteristically quiet, nibbling a banana and sipping an Actimel.
