“Yes,” she says after a little while, and I stand up and jump on the bed. “If…” I sit back down. “If you learn to speak like them. You just need to listen to all these elocution tapes and do what the lady says. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”
“But why do I have to? Why can’t I just sound like me?”
“People judge your dad and me because of how we speak, and I don’t want that for you, Baby Girl. I want you to grow up to be anyone you want to be. It’s just an act, that’s all. We all have to learn to act, Aimee. It’s never, ever, a good idea to let strangers see the real you. So long as you never forget who you really are, acting will save you.”
Thirty-two
London, 2017
I’m pretty good at acting as if I’m okay, even when I’m not. I’ve had a lot of practice. But the face I’m wearing today doesn’t feel like my own, and piece by piece, it feels like my life is falling apart. There seems to be nothing I can do to keep what remains of it together. And my agent thinks now is a good time to drop me, which will be career-ending.
Tony’s office is right in the middle of town. It’s a sunny day, so I walk some of the way, avoiding the tube and the army of people who crowd onto it. Just because I’ve chosen a life on-screen, it shouldn’t mean that I am no longer entitled to a life of my own, a life that is private. Despite today’s online attack, I’m not too worried about people recognizing me; people tend to see what they want nowadays rather than what is actually there. I’ve seen other actresses go out in hats and sunglasses, but that just draws attention. Leaving my hair curly, not wearing too much makeup, and dressing just like everyone else is a much better disguise. Sometimes people stare in my direction for a fraction longer than average, you can see it in their eyes, that moment of recognition. But they can’t place me, can’t remember where they’ve seen my face before.
And I like that.
I’m early, so I wander around Waterstones in Piccadilly. For the first time in days I lose myself just a little, and it is a nice place to get lost; there are so many books all under one roof. I come here quite often and love that nobody ever knows who I am. Sometimes I wish I could hide in here and only come out when everyone else has gone, and the staff have locked up and left for the day. I’d spend the night reading something old, and at dawn I’d read something new. You can’t allow the past to steal your present, but if you siphon off just the right amount, it can help fuel your future.
I’ve always felt safe in bookshops. It’s as though the stories inside them can rescue me from myself and the rest of the world. A literary sanctuary filled with shelves of paper-shaped parachutes, which will save you when you fall. Some people manage to blow their own childlike bubbles, to hide inside to protect themselves from the truth of the world. But even if you float through life, safe inside your own bubble, you can still see what’s going on all around you. You can’t shut the horror out completely, unless you close your eyes.
I buy a book. Surrounded by so many, it would seem rude not to. It’s a story written in 1958. I’ve read it before, but it brings a curious sense of comfort to slip it inside my bag. As I leave the shop, and the world of fiction, behind, it feels as if I’m taking a little bit of fantasy with me. A talisman made of paper and words to help ward off reality.
I stroll out with a little more hope in my heart than when I entered. I’m starting to think that everything might be okay after all. Then a woman grabs my arm, pulling me backwards out of the road, just as a double-decker bus hurtles past. A blur of red rushes right in front of my face as the driver’s horn fills my ears.
“Watch where you’re going!” snaps my rescuer, with a shake of her aggressively permed head.