I say ‘boy’; he sounds – and looks, now I’ve spun round to stare at him – fourteen or fifteen, so ‘young man’ might be a more accurate description. He’s tall, maybe over six foot, if his legs dangling over into Row G are anything to go by, and he’s wearing a light brown Stüssy sweatshirt that matches his hair and, because it’s too big across his shoulders, makes him look a little bit lanky.
‘The book, I mean,’ he goes on. ‘Anything good?’ Then, probably because I’m just staring at him with a startled-goldfish look on my face, he adds, hastily, ‘I didn’t follow you up here, or anything, by the way. I was just sitting and having a bit of a break when you came in.’
‘A break from the auditions?’ I ask, in the sort of flat, bored-sounding voice you’re meant to use with boys (and that I’m not very good at; I always end up sounding like a depressed robot).
‘Christ, no! I’m not actually doing an audition. I’m just here with my sisters. My mum had to take one of my other sisters to an audition for the Royal Ballet School today, and she didn’t want them travelling all the way to Wimbledon on the buses by themselves.’
Sisters – plural – auditioning for this show, and another one trying out for the Royal Ballet School …
‘You’re not one of the Showbiz Walkers, are you?’ I ask.
He looks startled for a moment, and then laughs.
‘Bloody hell. Is that what my family’s known as?’
‘Sorry … I’m really sorry … that sounded weird. It’s only me who calls you that. And only in my head, I don’t say it to anyone else.’
‘It’s all right. Do you want a sandwich?’
It’s my turn to look a bit startled, because it’s such a non sequitur, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busily opening a large plastic container on the seat next to him, and taking out a large wedge of something wrapped in waxed paper, some sliced tomatoes and fresh lettuce leaves, and a small penknife.
‘I always bring my own stuff when I know I’m going to get stuck waiting about at these stupid auditions,’ he’s saying, reaching down beneath his seat and producing, rather like a magician, an entire baguette in a paper bag. ‘And this cheddar is amazing. It’s Irish. My sisters got it for me for my birthday.’
‘They gave you cheese for your birthday?’
‘No, sorry, that sounds weird. They gave me membership of a cheese club. You get sent a different cheese through the post each month.’ He uses the penknife to hack, enthusiastically, at the cheddar. ‘So? Would you like a sandwich, or not?’
‘Yes. Please. I’d love a sandwich.’
‘Coming right up. I’m Olly, by the way. Olly Showbiz-Walker.’
I grin at him. ‘I’m Libby. Libby Lomax.’
‘So are you auditioning, then?’
I’m actually surprised he has to ask, thanks to the egg-yolk-yellow dirndl, and all. But it’s just possible he thinks I actually dress like this … I reach for my rucksack again and hastily drag out the grey hooded top I know is in there, pulling it on to disguise the worst of the faux-Austrian look.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘But only because of my little sister. She’s the showbiz one in our family. I’ve just ended up sort of sucked into it because of her.’
‘Oh? You look quite keen on the whole showbiz thing yourself.’ When I obviously look a bit confused, he gestures towards the book I’m holding. ‘Audrey Hepburn,’ he adds. ‘Are you a big fan?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m not. I don’t get what makes everyone so gaga about her.’
I stare at him. ‘Not even in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’
‘Never seen it. Never seen a single one of her films, now I come to think of it.’
‘Well, then, you can’t possibly say you don’t like her! And you really should see one of her films. There’s an Audrey Hepburn—’ I have to pause for a moment, because I almost always get this word wrong – ‘retrospective, right now, at the Prince Charles cinema in Leicester Square. A commemorative thing, because she would have been seventy this year. I’m going there with my dad this evening, in fact.’
‘Hmmm. You do know that The Matrix is on in Leicester Square, don’t you?’
‘The Matrix,’ I say, rather haughtily, ‘is not Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’
‘Right. OK. Well, you’re obviously a total Audrey Hepburn nut,’ Olly Walker says, cheerfully. ‘I can tell there’ll be no reasoning with you.’
‘I’m not an Audrey Hepburn nut!’ I protest.
On the other hand …
Well, I don’t tell many people this … in fact, I’ve never told anyone this, but I do sometimes have this … well, I don’t know what you’d call it. A daydream? A fantasy?
In which I imagine that I’m best friends with Audrey Hepburn; that she and I hang out together in amazing locations all over New York and Paris; that we window-shop on Fifth Avenue and take tea at the Ritz; and that, most of all, she’s always there to talk to me, to listen to me about stuff that’s going wrong in my life, to dispense calm and wise and perfectly judged advice, all the while looking breathtakingly chic in Givenchy couture and radiating her aura of gentle serenity.
Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed by now, but calmness and wisdom and gentle serenity aren’t things I have very much of in my real, non-fantasy life.
Or Givenchy couture, come to mention it.
And I know it might sound a bit weird – OK, I know it definitely sounds completely weird – but honestly, who wouldn’t want a best friend like Audrey Hepburn? Sweet, stylish, and utterly lovely in every imaginable way? Who better to ‘chat’ to, in your idle moments, about anything and everything that’s bothering you, from the unfortunate outbreak of zits along the entire length of your jawline the night before the end-of-term disco, to your mother’s refusal to accept that you might not be cut out for a career on the stage … to worrying, just occasionally, that your dad enjoys spending time in the company of long-dead movie stars more than he enjoys spending time with you …
‘Libby?’
Olly Walker is looking straight at me, a concerned expression on his face.
It’s a pretty good-looking face, now I come to notice it. He’s got these really interesting grey-coloured eyes, like pebbles on a Cornish beach, and his smile is sweet, and ever so slightly wonky, and – hang on, what’s going on here? – he’s reaching over the back of my seat, and taking my hand, and gently splaying out my fingers with his own, and …
Wrapping them around a large, freshly made cheese sandwich.
‘You look like you need this,’ he says, kindly.
Ridiculous
