For a second or two they stood in silence, panting and wild-eyed, grateful to be out of that room. Then Marc grinned at her and said, ‘You can’t half shift in those heels, girlfriend. I’m proud of you!’
The taxi pulled up outside Ryan and Jess’s flat. The street looked dull and drab after the brightly garish colours of Thailand. The dark and threatening clouds above were only highlighted by the steel grey of the sky. As Ryan paid the cab driver, and signed an autograph for the cabbie’s wife, Jess stood on the damp pavement and looked up at the windows of their top-floor flat. She’d soon be alone again. Ryan was off filming in two days’ time. The carefree relaxed mood of her holiday was dissolving like an aspirin in water, yet without the benefits of analgesia.
She had asked Ryan, as they’d sat by the pool in Thailand one day, if he thought she might be depressed.
He’d looked at her in surprise, then told her to pull herself together; she didn’t have a mental illness, all she needed was to get a job under her belt. When she pointed out that it wasn’t that easy and started to list the humiliating auditions she’d endured of late, his response had been to suggest that she give up acting and try something else.
‘You’re a jolly good organiser,’ he told her. ‘You’d make an excellent school secretary.’
‘Like your mother?’
‘Yes. Like my mother. She was always home in time to cook supper for me and Dad, plus she had all those long holidays.’ He’d smiled and kissed her. ‘It would suit you very well.’
‘So you don’t think I’ve got what it takes to make it as an actress?’
‘Hey, babe, it’s not that.’ Ryan put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s just that this business is really tough and I don’t want to see you brought down by it.’
Despite the many hours she’d spent torturing herself with the notion that she was a failure as an actress, this unexpected career advice had knocked her sideways. She’d wanted to be an actress ever since she could remember. If that was taken from her, what did she have left? The only thing she could come up with was Ryan. Apart from one (major) indiscretion with a young actress, he’d stuck with Jess for seven years. But there had been no mention of marriage, or children. All they shared was a rented flat at the top of a converted Edwardian house in Willesden and two dachshunds. Lucky girl.
Ryan broke into her thoughts. ‘Jess, carry my holdall would you? I’ll get the cases.’
Together they hauled themselves and their luggage up the four flights of stairs.
Panting, Ryan put his key in the front door and pushed it open. Jess heard the sound of mail swishing over the stripped floorboards of the small hall.
‘Here we are then: home sweet home!’ declared Ryan. ‘Put the kettle on, love. I’m dying for a whizz.’
While he disappeared into the loo she shoved the holdall and the suitcases further into the hall in order to close the door, then bent down to scoop up the pile of post. She carried it into the kitchen and dumped it on the table, then set about making the tea.
Ryan returned just as she realised there was no milk.
‘I’ll nip out and get some.’ He grinned at her and gave her a hug. ‘Happy?’
‘Yeah.’ She allowed herself to fold into his arms. ‘You?’
‘What a silly question! Of course I am. Lovely girlfriend, lovely holiday and six months’ filming ahead of me. What’s not to be happy about?’ He rummaged in his trouser pockets, looking for cash. ‘Got any change, darling? I’ve got nothing but Thai baht on me.’
‘In my purse.’
Alone in the kitchen she poured the boiling water on to the teabags, then covered the teapot with an old cosy she’d embroidered for her GCSE sewing exam.
Over the next fifteen minutes she emptied the cases, sorted the washing and loaded up the machine. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and began going through the post, sorting it into two piles: one for Ryan, one for her. Bills, catalogues, a postcard from an old school friend, junk mail and a cheque for £27.44 from her agent for a repeat of a television programme in which she’d made a brief appearance. She’d need that to help with the exorbitant kennel bill when she collected the girls in the morning.
She heard Ryan’s key in the lock. ‘Tea’s brewed,’ she called.
He came into the kitchen puffing. ‘Either those stairs are getting longer or I’m getting older.’ He put a carrier bag on the table, its damp edges resting on her £27.44 cheque, smudging the ink. Silently she lifted the bag and slipped the cheque out of the way.
He poured them both some tea and sat down. Jess sipped her tea in silence. His larger-than-life presence was irritating her for no reason. Maybe she should go to the doctor. She was definitely not feeling herself.
‘I got a few essentials: cooked chicken, salad, fruit … That way you won’t have to cook on your first night home.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I think I’ll have a shower and then a nap. Want to join me?’
‘Would you run me a bath?’
‘Sure.’
The familiarity of their bed and the feel of their own bed linen combined with the light-headedness of jet lag allowed them to sleep the deepest of sleeps.
It was dark outside when Jess woke. They’d slept all afternoon. Ryan was lying on his side, his hand resting under his cheek. His mouth was pursed like a baby’s. She left him and went to the living room to turn on her computer.
A message from her agent was waiting for her.
From: Alana Chowdhury
Subject: Availability
Darling Jess,
Tried phoning but you must have it turned off.
Give me a bell soonest.
Alana
Jess reached for her phone and checked the battery. Dead. She found the charger, finally, at the bottom of her handbag and plugged it in.
‘Alana Chowdhury.’
‘Alana, it’s me – Jess.’
‘Jess darling, where’ve you been? I couldn’t raise you.’
‘I’ve been on holiday. In Thailand. With Ryan. Remember?’
‘You must tell me if you’re going away.’
‘I did.’ Jess knew that she was only one name on a long list of actors represented by Alana, but now she felt as if she’d gone from minor to minuscule.
Alana
