“I promise.” It’s a small price to pay for being allowed to stay. Although the thought of going home to our safe little town is very tempting right now. I miss them. I’m not going to let her know that, though.
“I love you, Niamh.”
“Love you too, Mammy. Say hi to Daddy for me and tell Meghan I’ll send some pictures later.”
“Bye, love—” She’s cut off as my money finally runs out.
“Bye,” I whisper into the handset before setting it back in its cradle. I stare at the silent phone. Am I doing the right thing? Should I be staying here at all? I liberally coat my hands in sanitizer and rub it in, wishing it worked on memories, too.
A loud tap on the glass makes my skin shrink on my bones.
“You done?” A tall, scruffy lad is glaring at me through the window, eyes sharp between long, greasy strands of hair.
“Yeah, sure.” I push the door open. “All yours.” He grunts and pushes past me. Honestly, city people. So rude. “You’re welcome,” I mutter, hoisting my bag on to my shoulder and crossing the quiet road, my damp hands tingling in the morning breeze.
There it is. The London Academy of Dramatic Arts rears up in front of me, a grey concrete building that manages to look both imposing and dated. It feels silly to be coming and enrolling on a drama course after what happened this morning, frivolous, almost. I tell myself it’s what Sara would have wanted.
Well, I’m pretty sure it is. It’s definitely what Granny H would have wanted, if she remembered who I was. She was the actress of the family, back in her heyday, a semi-famous soap starlet in Dublin. One of us has to carry on the tradition.
Right?
“Walk! You, yes, you, walk! Walk to a space with PURPOSE! Walk like you really MEAN IT! Walk like you have SOMEWHERE TO GO!”
Oh, Lord. I’ve made a terrible mistake.
I furrow my brow and march to the other side of the room. Was I going to be doing this for the next six weeks? Walking? When I landed a spot on one of the UK’s most prestigious acting courses, trudging around a drab studio was not what I had in mind. Where was the stage? The dressing rooms? A script?
Anything but walking.
“Stop,” Miss Joanne, the instructor, bellows. Her voice belies her size; she’s tiny and was evidently a dancer at some point. Her feet are perpetually turned out and her hair is slicked back in an immaculate bun. “Find a space in the room. Now. Make yourself as small as possible, a tiny seed in the earth.”
I peek at the others in the room. Twenty kids, all curling their bodies into the foetal position. I make sure my backside is facing the wall, so I don’t flash anyone on the first day. Honestly, what possessed me to put a T-shirt dress on for a workshop? I’ll stick to leggings, next time.
“Now, grow! Become tall, stretch, raise those arms like branches towards the sun. . .”
I glance around again, watching arms flail in the air and faces earnestly turn to the ceiling.
I thought the walking was bad.
I endure the rest of the class, which seems to last for ever, including some excruciating “ice-breakers”. (Seriously, does anyone ever enjoy those things? Painful.) I’m grateful when lunch is called; I haven’t eaten properly since I arrived. The downside is, at least the morning activities had kept me busy.
Now I can’t stop thinking about Sara, how she should be here, how we should be rolling our eyes about that class together. Her eyes. Sara’s wide, staring eyes sear into my eyelids every time I blink. I shake my head. Stop it. Try to carry on.
I follow the crowd to the small canteen on site, but the food is expensive, which I didn’t think about. I should at least have a drink, though, so I grab a Coke, Derek’s advice about sugar being good for shock echoing in my ears. He was great last night, a welcome surprise. I hope he’s stationed at the new halls, too.
Little pockets of people have already formed on tables and I try desperately to look like I know what I’m doing. I’m about to escape to the toilets so I don’t have to sit alone when a girl, a petite blonde sitting at one of the tables, waves me over. Jasmine, I think her name is.
“Hi!” She pats the space next to her. “It’s Niamh, right? Come and sit down.”
I grin at her in relief and nod, sliding on to the edge of the bench. There are two guys and another girl from class at the table. The guys nod in greeting. The girl smiles at me, then drops her head, studying the label of her flapjack intently.
“I love your accent,” Jasmine says, putting a tiny hand on my arm. I think of Sara, and a lump forms in my throat. “My great-grandma was Irish, you know.” I nod politely. Wasn’t everyone’s?
“Thanks,” I murmur, wishing I’d just legged it to the loos. I feel huge next to Jasmine, she’s so teeny. I eye the festival wristbands that decorate both wrists and idly wonder how old she is. Mammy said I wasn’t to go to a festival until I was eighteen – unless you counted the Kilkenny music festival, which I did not. “Cool wristbands.”
“Oh, cheers. They’re from last summer.” She takes a sip on her reusable water bottle. “It was pretty epic.”
I nod, unsure of what to say next, and so I follow her lead and take a sip of my Coke. “So, Niamh, tell us.” Her voice drops to a stage whisper and her eyes dart around the table, as though she’s checking for an audience. “Is it true?”
