He shakes his head. “Next time we’re together.”
I come on his hand, and then with his mouth on my clit. He comes down my throat, not for the first time, holding my hair and fucking my mouth with a desperation I should’ve understood.
Then we stroll back through the maze, kissing and touching and holding hands and I walk away, back home, leaving him to head back to his father and then away for time unknown.
I walk away.
And I won’t see him again for twelve years.
Except in my dreams.
* * *
Stamping.
The thunder of a clap and a chant. Voices rise to the roof and fill the void.
Then there’s silence. The stillness after a storm and everyone pauses, waits, as if it isn’t really over.
A muted heartbeat before we breathe again.
I join in with the applause and stand up, beaming. The line of girls turns to me and bows, their smiles wide and genuine and I don’t know why because really I’m just another person, just one with a title.
“That was amazing. How long have you been rehearsing for?”
The girl who played witch number three looks at her co-stars. “About six weeks. But not full time. I was in Antigone at the beginning so I wasn’t free all the time.”
“So you were learning one set of lines and remembering another?” I’m genuinely wowed by them; the passion they show and the enjoyment they have.
She nods. “Pretty much. I love it though.”
We’re in what looks like a school hall, a building that’s been commandeered by a charity to promote arts and drama with under privileged teenagers. It’s a jointly funded project between the English and Scottish Arts Councils and various fundraising efforts, and one of the charities for which I’m patron. Happily a patron.
I have an affinity with people who play a part.
“Who chose to do Macbeth?”
“Our director.” She gestures to a man at the side of the hall, watching quietly. He’s about my age, long hair tied back and a skinny frame. I’ve no doubt that unbeknownst to him, a full background check has been carried out. He’ll have passed it; else I wouldn’t be here.
He stands and walks round to the three women on the makeshift stage who have just performed a scene and all look like they’ve just received an Oscar.
“I though the themes of ambition and regret were good ones to explore. We’ve made a point, for this production, of reaching out to some teens who’ve been involved with breaking the law.”
I nod, listen as best I can, but I’m distracted by the door opening and Ben entering. I know he’s been out to check the place we’re going to eat, a few last minute concerns, but I wasn’t sure when I’d see him again, apart from when I closed my eyes.
“I think it looks amazing. Are you performing in Edinburgh too?”
There are nods and the looks of awe which make me feel uncomfortable even though I should be used to it.
“I’d love to come see the full play. Macbeth is one of my favourites.” My accent sounds soft and very Scottish compared with the Mancunian accent I’m hearing.
“How do we send you tickets?” The director looks like an enthusiastic puppy.
“We’ll sort it.” I glance over at Franklyn, who’s decided he needs a trip to England although I suspect he wants to keep an eye on me for some reason. He nods. Doesn’t smile.
He never smiles.
He’s the man who has been my servant; the man I call at two am if I desire a snack or a lift or someone to talk to and he’s never resented this role. He’s been there. The way a father might if his first child wasn’t a country.
