then Mum’s Nokia starts ringing, right at the bottom of my rucksack.
Annoyingly, I don’t get to the phone in time before it stops ringing.
‘You’ve got your own mobile phone?’ Olly Walker glances up from his sandwich-making, looking impressed.
‘God, no. This is my mum’s.’ I glance at the screen, which is displaying Dad’s number as the last caller. ‘I’d better call my dad back, if you don’t mind? He’s picking me up here after my audition.’
‘Of course. For your Audrey Hepburn retrospective.’
‘Yep. And,’ I add, because I’m getting the ever-so-slight impression that Olly Walker thinks the Audrey Hepburn retrospective is a little bit pompous, ‘to go for a meal in Chinatown.’
‘Hey, great, where?’ He’s looking a lot more interested in the Chinese meal than in the retrospective. ‘I know a couple of really amazing Chinese restaurants in Soho, if you’re interested? I did some work experience in a bistro in Soho last summer – I’m going to catering college when I leave school – and after we’d finished our shifts, all the kitchen staff would always head to this fantastic Chinese on Lisle Street …’
‘It’s OK. My dad’s booked his favourite place already. The Jade Dragon, on Gerrard Street. He’s a regular there.’
‘Oh, right.’ He looks a bit crushed, and it occurs to me, a moment too late, that – maybe? – he was trying to impress me with his work experience story. ‘Is it good?’ he asks me.
I can’t say whether it is or it isn’t, because I’ve never actually been to The Jade Dragon before. Dad’s planned to take me several times, but it’s never actually worked out. He’s been really, really busy over the last few months – well, years, I suppose – and a lot of our plans to go and have a nice meal together after a movie end up getting cancelled at the last minute.
Oh, the phone’s going again. I get to it quickly this time.
‘Marilyn, hi,’ comes Dad’s voice, as soon as I answer. ‘Look, you’re going to have to tell Libby I’m not going to make—’
‘Dad! Hi!’ (I remember, too late, that he prefers to be called by his first name, Eddie, rather than being boring old Dad.) ‘I mean, Eddie, sorry. It’s not Mum, it’s me.’
‘Libby!’ He sounds startled. ‘I didn’t expect you.’
‘No, Mum gave me her phone, I was meant to be calling you, actually, to remind you that you’re picking me up outside the theatre in Wimbledon. Not at the house.’
‘Yeah, that’s why I’m calling, sweetheart. I can’t make it.’
‘You can’t …’ I stop. I take a deep breath. ‘But I thought we were going to celebrate my birthday.’
‘Mm. That’s right. But we’ll do it another time, sweetheart, I promise.’
You said that, I almost say, the last time. And the time before that.
‘I’m just pushing really, really hard for this new deadline, and the college isn’t giving me any time off teaching like they said they were going to—’
‘That’s OK.’ I use my calmest, most mature voice, because I want Dad to know I’m not going to be a baby about this. ‘Obviously you need time and space to write, Dad. I mean, Eddie. It’s perfectly OK. We’ll do it another time, like you said.’
‘Exactly. I can always rely on you to understand, Libby. I’ll call with some dates, yeah?’
‘Well, I’m pretty free next weekend, and the weekend after that, or …’
‘Great. So I’ll call. And I’ll see you really soon, OK?’
‘OK, Eddie, just let me know wh—’
‘Bye, sweetheart.’
He’s gone.
I drop the phone, casually, back into my rucksack, and busy myself nibbling the outer edge of my sandwich. ‘It’s really good,’ I say. I don’t meet Olly Walker’s eye.
‘It’s your birthday?’ he asks, after a moment, in this weird voice – like, a super-gentle voice, all of a sudden, as if he thinks I might break or something.
‘No, no! My birthday was weeks ago. Well, months, actually, back in February.’
‘But you said, on the phone …’
‘Oh, that’s just because I didn’t get to see my dad on my actual birthday. He was … we were both really busy around then. So today was going to be a belated birthday thing. It’s no big deal. We’ll do it in a couple of weeks, or whenever.’
‘Right.’ He falls silent for a moment, then clears his throat and says, ‘Hey, you know, if you wanted to see a film and have dinner this evening anyway, I could always take you to The Matrix and a Chinese restaurant. If your mum would let you, I mean.’
‘Oh!’ I look at him properly now, startled. Is this … is a boy asking me on a date, for the first time ever?
‘I … I don’t—’
‘I’d get my sister Nora to come, too!’ he says, hastily, ‘so it wouldn’t just be, like, us two, or anything.’
Oh. Right. So it wasn’t a date, then. Of course it wasn’t.
Suddenly – I don’t know why, because it’s not like I’ve never been disappointed by something a boy has said or done before – I feel these awful, sharp tears pricking at the backs of my eyes. Without any further warning, three of them – I can feel each individual one – stop pricking the backs of my eyes and start sliding out of the fronts.
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Olly Walker, who can’t have failed to notice the tears, is looking agonized, as if he wishes he’d never mentioned films or Chinese food. As if he’d never heard of films or Chinese food. Or – most of all – as if he’d never met me. ‘I didn’t mean to … look, it doesn’t even have to be The Matrix! I’ll go and see your Audrey Hepburn retro-whatsit, if you want to. I’m sure Nora would much prefer that, anyway … oh, here she is now!’ he practically gasps with relief, waving like a drowning man towards the Upper Circle entrance several rows down, where a girl has just appeared.
Nora is, of course, the pretty, blonde, prospective Louisa who told the littlest Showbiz-Walker off for doing showy-off splits downstairs.
‘Olly, hi.’ She starts to make her way up the aisle towards us, squinting through the gloom, while I scrub away the tears with the back of my hand. ‘I just came to say they’ve moved Kitty’s audition fifteen minutes later – something to do with another girl having a family emergency – so … oh,’ she stops next to row F, noticing me. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ I gulp. ‘I’m Libby.’
‘I’m Nora. I’m Olly’s …’ She stops. ‘Are you crying?’
‘No!
