Kitabı oxu: «The Start of Something Wonderful»

This book is dedicated to

my mum, who believed I could write,

and to my dad, who told me to get on with it.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Acknowledgements

Endpages

PROLOGUE

Reasons for and against giving up the glitzy, glamorous world of flying:

Pros:

No more cleaning up other people’s sick.

No more 2 a.m. wake-up calls, jet lag, swollen feet/stomach or shrivelled-up skin.

No more tedious questions like, ‘What’s that lake/mountain down there?’ and ‘Does the mile-high club really exist?’

No more serving kippers and poached eggs at 4 a.m. to passengers with dog-breath and smelly socks.

No more risk of dying from deep vein thrombosis, malaria, or yellow fever.

No more battles with passengers who insist that their flat-pack gazebo will fit into the overhead locker.

No more wearing a permanent smile and a name badge.

No danger of bumping into ex-boyfriend and his latest ‘I’m-Debbie-come-fly-me’.

Cons:

No more fake Prada, Louis Vuitton, or Gucci.

No more lazing by the pool in winter.

No more ten-hour retail therapy sessions in shopping malls the size of a small island – and getting paid for it.

No more posh hotel freebies (toiletries, slippers, fluffy bathrobes etc.).

Holidays (if any) now to be taken in Costa del Cheapo, as opposed to Barbados or Bora Bora.

No more horse riding around the pyramids, imagining I’m a desert queen.

No more ice-skating in Central Park, imagining I’m Ali MacGraw in Love Story.

Having to swap my riverside apartment for a shoebox, and my Mazda convertible for a pushbike.

‘Cabin crew, ten minutes to landing. Ten minutes, please,’ comes the captain’s olive-oil-smooth voice over the intercom. This is it. No going back. I’m past the point of no return.

The galley curtain swishes open – it’s showtime!

I switch on my full-beam smile and enter upstage left, pushing my trolley for the very last time …

‘Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard? Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard?’

Have I taken leave of my senses? The notion of an actress living in a garret, sacrificing everything for the sake of her art, seemed so romantic when I gaily handed in my notice three months ago, but now I’m not so sure …

Be positive! Just think, a couple of years from now, you could be sipping coffee with Phil and Holly on the This Morning sofa …

Yes, Phil, the rumours are true … I have been asked to appear on Strictly Come Dancing. God only knows how I’ll fit it around my filming commitments though.

Who are you kidding? A couple of years from now, the only place you’ll be appearing is the job centre, playing Woman On Income Support.

This follow-your-dreams stuff is all very well when you’re in your twenties, or thirties even, but I’m a forty-year-old woman with no rich husband (or any husband for that matter) to bail me out if it all goes pear-shaped. Just as everyone around me is having a loft extension or a late baby, I’m downsizing my whole lifestyle to enter a profession that boasts a ninety-two per cent unemployment rate.

Why in God’s name, in this wobbly economic climate, am I putting myself through all this angst and upheaval, when I could be pushing my trolley until I’m sixty, then retiring comfortably on an ample pension and one free flight a year?

Something happened, out of the blue, that catapulted me from my ordered, happy-go-lucky existence and forced me down a different road …

‘It’s not your fault. It’s me. I’m confused,’ Nigel had said.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, almost choking on my Marmite soldier. ‘What’s suddenly brought this on? Have you met someone else?’

‘No-ho!’ he spluttered, averting his gaze, handsome face flushed.

‘But you always said we were so perfect together …’

‘That’s exactly why we have to split. It’s too bloody perfect.’

‘What? Don’t talk nonsense …’

‘I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s like I’ve pushed a self-destruct button and there’s no going back.’

‘Self-destruct button? What are you talking about? Darling, you’re not well. Perhaps you should get some help …’

‘Look, don’t make this harder for me than it already is. It’s time for us both to move on. And please don’t cry, Em,’ he groaned, eyes looking heavenward. ‘You know how I hate it when you cry.’

I grovelled, begged him not to go, vowing I’d find myself a nine-to-five job so we could have more together time, swearing that I would never again talk during Match of the Day – anything as long as he didn’t leave me.

Firmly removing my hands from around his neck and straightening his epaulettes, he glanced at his watch, swigged the dregs of his espresso, and said blankly, ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I’ve got to check in in an hour. We’ll talk more when I get back from LA.’

‘NO!’ I wailed. ‘You know very well that I’ll be in Jeddah by then. We’ve got to talk about this now. Nigel … Nigel …!’

For three days I sat huddled on the sofa in semi-darkness, clutching the Minnie Mouse he’d bought me on our first trip to Disneyland, as if she were a life raft. I played Gabrielle’s ‘You Used to Love Me’ over and over. I wondered if Gabrielle’s boyfriend had dumped her without warning, leaving her heartbroken and bewildered, and the pain of it all had inspired her. If only I had a talent for song writing, but I don’t, so I channelled my pain into demolishing a family-sized tin of Celebrations chocolates instead.

Cue Wendy, my best friend, my angel on earth. We formed an instant friendship on our cabin crew training course. This was cemented when she saved me from drowning during a ditching drill. (I’d stupidly lied on the application form, assuming that it didn’t really matter if I couldn’t swim, because if I were ever unfortunate enough to crash-land in the sea, there would surely be enough lifejackets to go round.)

‘Look, hon, this has got to stop,’ she said in an uncharacteristically stern tone, a look of frustration on her porcelain, freckled face. (As a redhead, Wendy has been religiously applying sunscreen since she first set foot on Middle Eastern soil as a junior hostess twenty years ago; whereas I would roast myself like a pig on a spit in my quest to look like a Californian beach babe.) ‘Okay, so it’s not a crime to scrub the toilet with his toothbrush, but who knows where that could lead? You’ve got to stop playing the victim before we have a Fatal-Attraction scenario on our hands.’

‘Eight years, eight years of my life spent waiting for him to pop the question, and now he’s moving out to “find himself”. I think I’m entitled to be a little upset, Wendy.’

Prising Minnie out of my hands and hurling her against the wall, she straightened my shoulders and looked deep into my puffy eyes.

‘I promise you that, in time, you will see you’re better off without that moody, selfish, arrogant …’

‘I know you never thought he was right for me, but there is another side to him,’ I said defensively. ‘He can be the most caring and sweet man in the world when he wants to - and I can’t bear the thought that we won’t grow old together,’ I sobbed, running my damp sleeve across my stinging cheeks.

‘Come on now; take off that bobbly old cardie. I’m running you a Molton Brown bath, and you’re going to wash your hair, put on your uniform and high heels, slap on some make-up and your best air hostess smile, d’you hear?’ she said, pulling back the curtains. ‘And while you’re in Jeddah, I want you to seriously think about where you go from here.’

‘But I want to be home when Nigel …’

‘You always said you didn’t want to be pushing a trolley in your forties, and how you wished you’d had a go at acting. Well, maybe this is a sign,’ she said gently, tucking a strand of greasy hair behind my ear. ‘It’s high time you did something for you. You’ve spent far too long fitting in with what Nigel wants.’

‘It’s too late to be chasing dreams,’ I sniffed, shielding my eyes from the watery sunlight. ‘I just want things to go back to how they were. Where did I go wrong, Wendy? I should have made more effort. After all, he’s a good-looking guy, and every time he goes to work there are gorgeous women half my age fluttering their eyelashes at him, falling at his feet. He can take his pick - and maybe he did,’ I whimpered, another torrent of tears splashing onto my saggy, grey jogging bottoms.

‘Get this down you.’ Wendy sighed, shoving a mug of steaming tea into my hands as she frogmarched me into the bathroom. ‘And don’t you dare call him!’ she yelled through the door.

Perhaps she was right; she usually was. She may be a big kid at heart, but when the chips are down, Wendy is the one you’d want on your flight if you were struck by lightning or appendicitis at thirty-two thousand feet.

For the last year or so, hadn’t I likened myself to an aeroplane in a holding pattern, waiting until I was clear to land? Waiting for Nigel to call, waiting for Nigel to come home, waiting for Nigel to propose, waiting until Nigel finally felt ready to start a family?

Yes, deep down I knew she was right, but I was scared of being on my own. Did this make me a love addict? If so, could I be cured?

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

‘Hayyaa’ala-s-salah, hayya ’ala-l-falah …’ came the haunting call from the mosque across the square, summoning worshippers to evening prayer. It was almost time to meet up with the crew to mosey around the souk – again. Too hot to sunbathe, room service menu exhausted, library book finished, alcohol forbidden, and no decent telly (only heavily edited re-runs of The Good Life, where Tom goes to kiss Barbara, and next minute it cuts to Margo shooing a goat off her herbaceous border), so the gold market had become the highlight of my day.

Donning my abaya (a little black number that is a must-have for ladies in this part of the world), I scrutinised myself in the full-length mirror. No wonder Nigel was leaving me; far from looking like a mysterious, exotic, desert queen, full of eastern promise, it made me resemble a walking bin liner.

I read the fire evacuation drill on the back of the door and checked my mobile for the umpteenth time, then cast my eyes downwards, studying my toes. I know, I thought, giving them a wee wiggle, I’ll paint my nails. It’s amazing what a coat of Blue Ice lacquer can do to make a girl feel a little more glamorous, and less like Ugly Betty’s granny.

As I rummaged in my crew bag for my nail varnish, there, stuffed in between Hello! and Procedures To Be Followed in the Event of a Hijack, was an old copy of The Stage (with another DO NOT PHONE HIM!! Post-it Note stuck to it). Idly flicking through the pages, my eyes lit up at the headline:

DREAMS REALLY CAN COME TRUE

Former computer programmer, Kevin Wilcox, 40, went for broke when he gave up his 50k-a-year job to become a professional opera singer. ‘My advice to anyone contemplating giving up their job to follow their dream is to go for it,’ said Kevin, taking a break from rehearsals of La Traviata at La Scala.

That was my life-changing moment: an affirmation that there were other people out there – perfectly sane people – who were not in the first flush of youth either, but were taking a chance. That’s what I’d do. I’d become an actress, and Nigel would see my name in lights as he walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, or when he sat down to watch Holby City, there I’d be, shooting a doe-eyed look over a green surgical mask.

‘What a fool I was,’ he’d tell his friends ruefully, ‘to have ever let her go.’ Hah!

But revenge wasn’t my only motive. Faux designer bags and expensive makeovers were no longer important to me. I wanted the things that money can’t buy: like self-fulfilment, like the buzz you get on opening night, stepping out on stage in front of a live audience. Appearing through the galley curtains, proclaiming that well-rehearsed line, ‘Would you like chicken or beef?’ just wouldn’t do any more.

Inspired, I grabbed the telephone pad and pen from the bedside table, and started to scribble furiously.

Apply to RADA/CENTRAL any drama school that will have me.

Hand in notice.

Sign up with temping agencies and find part-time job.

Sell flat, shred Visa, store cards, cancel gym membership, and Vogue subscription (ouch!).

Ever since I’d played Bill Sikes in a school production of Oliver! I’d wanted to act. Being tall at an all-girls school meant I never got to play Nancy, Maria, or Dorothy. But I didn’t care. Even having to kiss Kirstie McCallum who played Fiona opposite my Tommy in Brigadoon hadn’t deterred me.

I’d write my own shows, which I’d perform for Mum, Dad, Sammy the dog, and the neighbours. I loved to tell stories; to share, to feel, to emote. I was a shy, gawky kid with a vivid imagination and acting allowed me to disappear into a role.

My bedroom walls were plastered with posters of Breakfast At Tiffany’s, Pretty Woman, Doctor Zhivago, and Dirty Dancing.

I’d dress up for the Oscars and pose on the red shag pile, tell the interviewer what an honour it was just to be nominated, rise slowly from my seat in disbelief, and accept my award, fighting back the tears as I thanked my parents, my friends, and God for making this possible.

So what got in the way?

‘Drama school?’ spluttered Miss Crabb, my head teacher. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Acting’s not a career! What about university?’

‘You need to wake up, Em,’ Mum said despairingly, rolling her eyes. ‘I should never have let you go to Saturday Showstoppers when you were ten. It’s put silly ideas in your head. Now, what about the Foreign Office? You’re good at languages …’

Persuaded that teachers and mums know best, I packed my dream away and scraped through university, where I spent more time acting in and producing plays than studying stuffy old Schiller or fusty Flaubert. I wisely left academia behind and joined Amy Air. If I wasn’t allowed to be an actress then I would at least pay off my student debt doing something fun and adventurous.

New York was my favourite route. While the rest of the crew would spend our brief stopover snuggled up in the hotel with room service and a movie, I’d dash along to Times Square on West 42nd Street and buy a ticket to a Broadway show. Jet lag miraculously forgotten, I’d be transported to a magical world far from turbulence and sick bags.

When the curtain came down, I’d skip along the shimmering streets of The Great White Way back to the hotel, reliving the performance in my mind, imagining the scene backstage: the post-show euphoria, the drinks, the conversation. And a bit of me regretted that I hadn’t believed in myself enough to ignore the naysayers and pursue the one thing I felt truly passionate about. Secretly I never stopped hoping though, that someday, somehow …

Then I met Nigel and the dream was buried once more. Charming, charismatic, athletic, sophisticated, dashing-in-uniform Nigel, a modern-day superman, in control of a 747 – and of my future happiness.

Now in my thirties, time was running out if I wanted to have children, and though he didn’t say as much, I knew Nigel and I were destined to be together for ever.

Fast-forward eight years, and here I am, forty, heartbroken, childless, and soon to be homeless.

But through all the despair, there’s a little voice deep down whispering to me, telling me to turn this crisis into an opportunity; to have the courage this time to follow my intuition, to listen to my heart, take responsibility for my own happiness, and not allow others to dictate the course of my life.

Okay, so it’s taken nearly a quarter of a century to reach this place, but this time nothing and no one is going to hold me back.

CHAPTER ONE

Finding my Inner Dog

January – new beginnings

WHERE THE HELL AM I? Blinking, I prop myself up on my elbows and slowly take in the swirling, green, psychedelic wallpaper, and the assortment of quirky knick-knacks that clutter every surface.

Three months have passed, and yet sometimes I still wake up expecting to be back in our king-size bed, in our White Company-esque bedroom, and for him to be lying beside me.

My watery gaze lands on Diana, Forever In Our Hearts. I smile as I remember the day I viewed the room when Beryl, my landlady, had proudly shown me her extensive collection of china figurines, which she guards as fiercely as The Crown Jewels.

‘This was at a high point in her short life,’ she’d told me mournfully, clutching Diana to her ample bosom. ‘The moment when she took to the floor with John Travolta during her state visit to the White House.’ There followed a moment of respectful silence, then pulling a hankie from her sleeve, she gave Di a little dust and returned her to her spot, next to the limited edition Smurf family, the matador, resembling a camp Action Man in white tights and cape, baby Jesus in swaddling clothes, and the Eiffel Tower snow globe with built-in music box.

Oh, how I long for my minimalist IKEA!

My throat tightens and hot tears prick my eyes. Come on now! Remember what the lady at the self-storage said: ‘You’re allowed access at any time,’ she’d explained in a sympathetic tone of voice, as if consoling a distraught mother who’d just lost custody of her children. That’s all right then, I tell myself, swallowing hard. Whenever I’m feeling low, I can pop along to the self-storage for some home-comfort therapy.

I swing my legs out of bed and Beryl’s burnt-orange shag pile tickles my toes. How I miss the cool, clean feel of polished wood underfoot.

I tiptoe along the landing to the bathroom and there, lurking in the shadows, like a feline Mrs Danvers, is Shirley, Beryl’s sluggish, obese, spoiled-rotten cat. Those speckled, almond-shaped eyes bore through me unflinchingly. Ever since I refused to open the back door for her and forced her through the cat-flap, I’ve had a chilling suspicion she’s been plotting her revenge.

I enter the avocado-green bathroom and tease the mildewy, slimy, plastic shower curtain across the rusty rail. I turn the tap full on, and the shower head – about as much use as a watering can – emits a trickle that would leave your petunia bed gasping. A startled spider tries to make a break for it up the side of the bath, but slithers back down, leaving me to do a kind of naked Riverdance as it swirls around my feet.

What I’d give to be languishing now in my sparkling-white, Italian-tiled bathroom, complete with walk-in power shower and scented candles.

Hey, don’t be such a wuss! Stay focused. This evening’s drama class will reaffirm that all this hardship is going to be worth it. It will. It will.

* * *

DRAMATIC AR S CENTRE

I peer through the driving rain at the shabby sign tilting dangerously in the wind, many of its bulbs burnt out.

As I chain my bike to the rack, a rush of feverish excitement and anticipation sweeps over me.

I run up the shimmering steps two at a time, my holdall containing new jazz shoes, sports bra, leotard, and leggings, swinging from my shoulder.

The heavy wooden door creaks as I push it open.

I make a dash for the loo, past a group of excited, young beautiful things who look like they belong on the TV series Glee.

I tie my soaking-wet hair into a high ponytail and put on some lippy.

‘Here we go,’ I say, high-fiving my Lycra-clad, slightly lumpy reflection. ‘You can do this.’

Putting on my air-stewardess smile, I bounce out of the door to the noticeboard.

Portia Howard’s method acting class for the over thirties takes place in the basement of this former church. As I enter the room, my springy gait quickly disintegrates into an apologetic tiptoe. Seated on benches at opposite ends of the room are other nervous newbies of all shapes and sizes, some staring at the floor, others checking their phones in absolute silence.

‘Hi,’ I whisper, squeezing in between a serious-looking chap in trackie bottoms, striped shirt, and tie and a mousey, bespectacled woman with frizzy hair. They both nod without making eye contact.

‘At my audition I had to imagine I was a plastic bag,’ I say eventually, in an attempt to break the ice. ‘In a force-ten gale.’

They both smile weakly. Why do I always feel it’s MY responsibility to fill awkward silences?

The door flies open and Portia, taller than I remember from the audition, enters centre stage, her black maxi skirt swaying, a red vintage shirt, and fingerless gloves complementing her boho-chic style.

‘Welcome, everyone. Whether you’re here with a view to becoming an actor, or simply to build your confidence, I hope by the end of the course you’ll leave with a better understanding of who you are, what you’re capable of, and a self-belief that will drive you forward in your personal life and career. So, let’s start by getting to know one another. Have any of you ever been speed dating?’

There’s a sharp, collective intake of breath.

‘Don’t worry,’ continues Portia quickly. ‘I don’t expect you to answer. What you do in your spare time is your affair.’ The room fills with air once more. ‘But this exercise works on the same principle. Let’s move the benches closer together with ten of you on either side. When I ring the bell you have two minutes to find out as much as you can about the person opposite you. When the bell rings again, the people on side A stay seated while those on side B slide along a space.’

The bell rings and the nervous, icy atmosphere of earlier melts away as the room is filled with noisy conversation and splutters of laughter, culminating in chaos when, in true Laurel and Hardy style, one of the benches tips, depositing two speed daters onto the floor.

Exercise over, Portia waits for everyone to settle down. The only sound is heavy breathing.

‘Breath control, projection, and body language – essential tools whether you’re addressing an audience of theatregoers or clients,’ she purrs in her resonant, velvety Joanna Lumley-esque voice, beckoning everyone to stand up. Placing her palm just below her breastbone, she continues, ‘Take a deep intake of breath, fill your lungs with air, like a balloon. Now, pushing the diaphragm in and out, I want you to pant like a dog.’

Pant like a dog? Oookay. Well, if I can successfully portray a plastic bag blowing in the wind, then a panting dog impression should be a breeze.

‘No, no, no!’ Portia says, gliding over to my side, her dangly earrings tinkling like wind chimes. ‘I don’t want to see any movement here.’ She firmly taps my shoulders. ‘It must all come from down here,’ she continues, as she prods my diaphragm.

‘Now try again. Fill those lungs … that’s it, and let out short, sharp breaths. I want my hand to feel that diaphragm bouncing. There, you see, you’ve got it!’

I’m chuffed I’ve got it, but all the same, I can’t help feeling I sound like a cross between a chat-line hostess and a woman in labour.

‘This strengthens the diaphragm, loosens the facial muscles, allows more air into your lungs, helps your voice to develop, and improves your posture,’ says Portia, as if reading my mind.

‘The next exercise is a good warm-up before an audition or performance. It’s called The Wet Dog Shake. Okay, everyone, let’s imagine you’ve just come bounding out of the sea, and now you’re going to shake yourselves dry,’ she says, as she drops to her knees, her long, tapered fingers splayed out in front of her on the grimy floorboards. ‘Let’s start from the top with the nose (she starts wiggling her nose), now the head, tongue, the shoulders (she shimmies her shoulders), legs … come on … bark if you wish … go for it … release your inner dog!’

James, Mr Respectable-Bank-Manager by day, catches my eye, and we exchange an incredulous look. Sally, the mousey, bespectacled, hitherto rather timid accountant has hurled herself into the exercise with rather more gay abandon than is necessary, tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth, resembling not so much a shaking dog, as someone having stuck a wet hand in the toaster.

‘Come on, you can do better than that!’ pants Portia. ‘Instead of huddling together like a pair of sniggering school kids – James, Emily – follow Sally’s lead. Let yourselves go! What are you afraid of? Making fools of yourselves? If you want to be actors, you have to learn to let go of your inhibitions. I want to see those tails wagging. I want to feel that sea spray flying off your coat. Wag that tail. Shake, shake, shake yourselves nice and dry. Wag, wag, wag. Come on …!’

A few nervous titters echo around the room, but then slowly, tentatively, like lemmings, we all follow Portia’s lead, and our class becomes less Glee, and more Geriatric Gym.

‘See, that’s not so bad, is it? Now roll onto your backs and kick those legs high in the air!’ she cries, her pewter bangles clinking like rigging against a sail mast.

As the Evening Standard’s Most Promising Newcomer of 1980 (I googled her), Portia Howard obviously knows her stuff, but is this what real actors do? I can’t quite picture Dames Judi or Helen kicking their legs high in the air and panting like a dog before a performance.

‘This is ridiculous,’ blurts out Poppy, whose every sentence ends with a question mark. ‘Basically, I don’t hold with all this horseshit.’

Her strained, cut-glass tones echo around the room as we all stare at her bug-eyed, legs suspended in mid-air.

Rising to her feet and smoothing her skinny jeans, she continues, ‘Release your inner dog? What has all this pretentious rubbish got to do with being an actor? I don’t believe for one moment that Keira Knightley has ever had to crawl around a filthy floor on all fours, pretending to be a dog, so I don’t see why I should.’

‘Good point, Poppy,’ says Portia calmly. ‘Keira has probably never done The Dog Shake, and you certainly don’t have to if you don’t wish. But exercises like this teach you to be more fluid in your movement, to release blockages in energy, so that you can express emotion through your body – as well as build up the stamina to cope with eight shows a week, without …’

‘Yah, but I’m basically not interested in theatre. I plan to go straight into TV and films. I don’t know about the rest of you,’ she says, scanning the class, perky nose in the air, ‘but I want to learn about camera technique, about close-ups and continuity, and … giving the director exactly what he wants …’