Bridie smiled at her father adoringly. She did love them both so, even though they’d never hidden their disapproval over the years of her career choice. She felt a pang at the sudden thought that she might never grow old with somebody, and steal her husband’s newspaper in their twilight years, having silly arguments about who got to read it first. Not that she could imagine reading a newspaper article other than online, but who knew what the future held? Just then, though, she didn’t envisage a future that looked like the one her parents had together.
‘Last night, you should’ve rung first, love. We’d have driven to London and collected you.’
‘I texted.’
‘Yes, so your mother told me later.’
‘It’s fine,’ Bridie said quickly, following her father into the kitchen. The smell of furniture polish and peppermint tea made her stomach tighten. Nothing had changed.
Her father cleared his throat as he flicked on the kettle. Things will sort themselves out, Bridie. You’ll see. Maybe this is life telling you it’s time to put away childish dreams and … um …’
Bridie narrowed her eyes. She knew what he was going to say. ‘Grow up?’
‘Hear hear!’
Bridie turned to the kitchen door at the sound of her mother’s voice coming from the top of the stairs. The floorboards creaked above their heads as her mum walked back to thebedroom, settling herself in bed with her morning cuppa and her husband’s paper.
Bridie turned to her dad. She knew he was just trying to make it sound kind, but she knew what he was thinking – just like Mum and Kate – we told you so.
Bridie took a steaming cup of strong black coffee up to her bedroom. The previous night, after dinner, she’d been too tired and emotional to do anything but fall into bed and pull the duvet up over her eyes, trying to blot out where she was.
She’d thought she wouldn’t sleep, and would be tossing and turning all night, but she’d been surprised. Weirdly, it had been the best night’s sleep she’d had in a long time. She had put it down to the emotional turmoil she’d been through after what had happened at the theatre, then the long day, packing her case and going to her grandad’s flat, discovering he was out, then taking the late train journey to her parents’ home instead.
She sighed heavily as she put the mug of tea on the side cabinet and sat on her narrow single bed, smoothing down the duvet cover. She remembered getting the duvet cover for her sixteenth birthday and not feeling that enamoured with it even back then. It had a picture of a large white pony. Her sister had owned an identical one. Their parents had bought them one Christmas, even though Bridie didn’t particularly like horses. It was her sister who loved horses, mucking out at a local stable yard at weekends and getting free riding lessons in return.
Bridie stared at the duvet cover. She wondered if her sister still had time for riding. She doubted it, with her long commute and full-on job. Even though she imagined Kate had the money to pay for an expensive hobby, she knew she didn’t have the one thing money could never buy – time.
I’ve got all the time in the world, Bridie thought miserably. Not that she would be inclined to muck out a stable for a free ride.
Her old bedroom waited exactly as she’d left it at eighteen. The pink curtains, the corkboard crowded with fading theatre flyers, the stack of well-thumbed diaries on the shelf. It was like stepping into a museum exhibit labelledThe Girl Who Thought She’d Make It.
Jeremy’s room had long ago been turned into a study, Kate’s into a guest room. Only her room remained untouched.
She stared around, realising why. ‘Because you all expected me to come back,’ she whispered.
Pulling one of the old diaries down from the bookcase, she flipped through pages scrawled with teenage dreams:One day I’ll win an Olivier Award. Another entry:Jack says he loves me.I think I love him too.She closed the diary, the air thick with dust and nostalgia.
Through the wall she could hear her parents talking over their morning cups of tea; in hushed tones, but not hushed enough. Words likeworryandmistakefiltered through the plaster.
She stared up at the glow-in-the-dark stars still faintly visible on the ceiling. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since she’d left this room, certain she was bound for greatness. And here she was again, thirty-three years old, no husband, no stage career, no degree. Just a typing certificate she’d been forced to take as a back-up plan in case everything went wrong. Which, apparently, it had.
She sat there flicking through the pages, rereading diary snippets full of teenage angst, embarrassing sketches of her and Jack kissing, and lists of all those famous shows she was going to star in, along with the amazing celebrities she was going to meet. She’d even sketched a Hollywood Walk of Fame star with her name in it.
‘Urrgh! Really?’ Bridie’s eyes went wide at her name in the Hollywood star. She’d forgotten about those diary entries. She shook her head.I should have listened to them, she thought.Got a proper job. Been sensible.
But then another voice, quiet and stubborn, whispered back, as she turned the page to see a sketch of a theatre:You couldn’t. You had to try.
Bridie heard the final rustle of a newspaper through the walls, and then her parents moving about their bedroom. Next came the sound of the en suite shower in their room. She sighed. She felt like hiding away in her room all day and avoiding them.
Instead, she used the bathroom along the hall to wash and dress. She didn’t feel like unpacking her suitcase just yet. It would just make the move back home seem permanent – rather than what she was pretending it was; a flying visit before something else came up. Like her grandad getting in touch. That was Bridie’s plan. Not that she had any plans whatsoever, but she realised that the sooner she returned to London, the sooner she could visit some producers, see if she could get a spot on another show, and try to forget the words her influential producer ex had uttered –you’ll never work in this town again.
Bridie glanced at her makeup-free face in the mirror and frowned at her reflection. Who was she kidding? After her shameful outburst on stage, she didn’t have a hope of getting another part – not straight away, anyway. She knew her best bet was to wait, let the social media furore die down. Very soon her antics on stage would be forgotten. She hoped so, anyway.
Thinking of which, perhaps London wasn’t the best place for her to be just then. It would only remind her of her disgrace.
As much as she hadn’t wanted to return home to her parents, perhaps in hindsight her grandad had done her a huge favour by not being in when she had turned up the previous night. Ifhe had, she’d have woken up in London instead of putting some physical distance, between herself and what had happened.
This place, her childhood home in the middle of a small, sleepy village in the heart of the Suffolk countryside was probably just what she needed. At least she wouldn’t be in London, walking down familiar streets, seeing the favourite cafés she and Julian had frequented, and worse still, being tempted to visit theatres to look for a job that wouldn’t materialise for a while – if ever.
