style="font-size:15px;"> ‘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
