An older lady with cut-glass cheekbones sipped coffee from a dainty cup, her discerning violet eyes sweeping over Greta. Dressed in a navy fitted dress with gold buttons, she had the posture of someone who’d had piano lessons since she could walk.
‘Come and sit beside me, my dear,’ she said, her chunky gemstone rings rattling as she patted the chair next to her. ‘I’m Desdemona Waters. Very pleased to meet you.’
Greta sat down with a grateful smile. ‘Thank you. I’m still finding my feet, but it’s lovely to be here. Everything feels so exciting and full of possibility.’
Desdemona’s smile tightened ever so slightly. ‘Well, if it’s excitement you’re seeking, I’m not sure Mapleville is the right place for you. We like things to be calm, steady, and familiar. Though I’m sure you’ll settle in just fine.’
Greta nodded, unsure if Desdemona’s tone carried an edge or not. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said.
Millie sat down beside them to join in the conversation. ‘What’s it like where you come from, Greta?’ she asked. ‘Do tell us about your hometown.’
Greta mused for a while, struggling to find many positives. ‘Longmill is nothing like Mapleville. It’s noisy, and there’s often litter in the streets. You can never rely on the weather, because you can leave your home wearing sunglasses and end up needing an umbrella. My flat there is very small, with an avocado- coloured bathroom suite and a kitchen with hardly enough room to swing a cat. People rarely smile at you in the street . . .’ Desdemona’s lips curled in horror. ‘Well, thank goodness you’ve escaped from that dreadful place. No wonder you wanted to come here.’
Millie gave Greta a thoughtful look. ‘I must say, it sounds very . . . authentic.’
Desdemona tossed her head and turned to the lady seated on her other side, launching into a conversation about the best cake to accompany Maple Gold.
The rest of the women chatted among themselves until Millie stood up and tapped her teaspoon against her coffee cup. ‘Ladies, I have something exciting to share,’ she announced. ‘Greta will be running a drama session with us today . . .’
Greta had completely forgotten about her offer, and she swallowed hard.
A concerned murmur swept around the table. A lady wearing a lemon linen dress called out, ‘What do you mean? Drama?’
Greta rose to her feet, realising the talk she’d given at Brewtique, about her past life as a Maple Gold actor, wasn’t going to work here. No one in Mapleville seemed to know that the town had been created for a commercial. She had to find another way to engage the women rather than harking back to her past.
Clasping her hands together, she stepped away from the table. ‘Well, I thought we could try something a bit different today. Shake things up with some improvisation. No scripts, just imagining, reacting, and letting go. Trying out new roles. Like storytelling, but with a twist.’
Desdemona gave a pronounced cough. ‘Improvise—what? What exactly do you mean, dear?’
‘It’s just a fun exercise,’ Greta explained. ‘You can pretend to be anyone, or go anywhere you want to. Maybe you’re drinking an exotic coffee in the desert, or trekking through a tropical rain forest. You might be a lion tamer in a circus, or even an astronaut lost in space. It’s a chance to let your imagination run free.’
‘I’ve never been much of an actress,’ muttered a woman in a pink headscarf.
Desdemona’s eyes narrowed. ‘Improvisation? We don’t need any of that pretending nonsense. Why go looking for drama? Mapleville is perfect as it is.’
‘I understand your concern,’ Greta replied. ‘But your ideas don’t have to be over the top, just different. For example, what if your coffee had a hint of hazelnut flavour, or was served in a bustling Parisian café? Can you imagine the hum of conversation, the clink of cups, and the scent of fresh croissants in the air?’
Desdemona thinned her lips, unimpressed.
Greta turned to Millie with an encouraging smile. ‘What about you? If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?’
Millie took out her silver compact, flipping it open to reapply her lipstick. Her nose crinkled as she thought. ‘Why, I do believe your suggestion of a French café is just the thing. I’d sit at a table on the pavement, under the gaze of the Eiffel tower,’ she said, pausing for effect. ‘I’d sip champagne and share scandalous gossip with a handsome waiter. Naturally, there’d be an accordion player serenading me rather than a cappella singers. And I’ve always thought raven-black hair would be more striking on me than auburn.’ She struck a pose, sipping from a pretend glass and pressing a hand to her mouth, as if surprised by a juicy titbit.
A few of the ladies giggled, easing the tension.
‘Great! That’s the spirit,’ Greta said. Buoyed by the response, she returned to Desdemona. ‘And you? Is there anywhere you’d like to go?’
Desdemona offered a tight smile that didn’t meet her eyes. ‘I think I’ll stay here, thank you very much. Where I know exactly what’s what.’
Millie raised a finger. ‘Could we have another example, please, Greta, for inspiration?’
Greta thought, turning the request over in her mind. The only thing missing for her in Mapleville at present was a glittering career, and the sense of purpose and accomplishment that came with it. Opening up and sharing her dreams with strangers made her feel vulnerable, even exposed, but she wanted to set an example.
‘Okay,’ she said with a small swallow. ‘Here’s a dream of mine . . .’
Greta closed her eyes, letting her vision take shape. ‘I’m a famous star,’ she said, her confidence growing as a picture in her head became clearer. ‘I’ve just given the performance of a lifetime on stage, and the audience is rising to their feet for a standing ovation.’
Greta stepped forward, circling her arms as if receiving an enormous bouquet of flowers. She imagined the heat of the spotlights warming her face, the rustle of red velvet curtains as they swept open for her final bow, and the thunderous applause rippling through the theatre. A wave of exhilaration rushed through her.
