Based on a True Story (22 page)

forty-three

It was 10:19 a.m., or, less than a minute since she’d last checked the time. Frances forced herself to put her phone away. Staring at it wouldn’t help. She tried to smile at Augusta’s agent, sitting opposite her, but his expression was frozen in dismay. He looked as if his face had been caught in a bus door.

For the fourth time in ten minutes, David got out of his seat, went to the outer door of the waiting room, and peered down the hall. He came back to his seat, lips working, and pulled his phone from his inside pocket. Even in her own anxiety, Frances felt sorry for him: he had no extra hair to lose.

“Her phone’s off,” said Frances.

She wished there was a window to look out of, but they were in the basement of a brutalist building in the South Bank. A water cooler with no cups sat in one corner of the little waiting room. Illustrious actors projected seriousness from the four walls. Their intensity somehow made her anxiety worse.

“The traffic was terrible on Waterloo Bridge,” Frances said into the silence. “I noticed it when I got out of the Tube.” She had arrived at the rehearsal space a half-hour before Augusta’s audition appointment; David was already there. He looked at her blankly.

A second door swung open and a woman with reading glasses and a clipboard in her arms looked through. “Any sign?” Her voice had been friendly twenty minutes before. David shook his head and the woman withdrew without a word.

“I will kill her with my own two hands,” David whispered. He went to the door again.

Frances couldn’t resist looking at her phone: 10:23. She felt sick. “I think,” she said, “that you had better go get some coffee. Black coffee.”

David turned from the doorway, stared at her for a minute, then nodded. “I swore I would not let this happen to me again,” he said, and then he was gone.

Her head fell back against the wall. She tried to push the feeling of dread away.

A door banged at the end of the corridor, and Frances sat up. An erratic clattering, like footsteps at the end of a dance marathon. She heard a familiar voice: “Coming, darlings!” She caught her breath. Maybe everything would be all right.

Or not. Alma Patridge lurched into the room, an ancient Sherpa with familiar baggage. She balanced precariously on her stick, staggering under a load of Augusta.

“Oh, shit,” Frances muttered and leapt to her feet.

She took Augusta’s other arm and led her, wobbling, to a chair. Frances stepped back to survey the damage: Augusta’s dark eyes were half-shuttered and strands of red hair escaped her careful chignon, but at least she was wearing a blouse that buttoned somewhere near the top. The problem was her head: it lolled like a peony on a broken stem.

David appeared in the doorway with a cup in either hand. Without a word, he handed one to Alma. Like a practiced pit crew, they worked together: David held Augusta’s head, and Alma put the coffee to her lips.

“Goddamn Velvet Hammer,” whispered Augusta.

David looked at her, confused, and Frances said, “Painkillers and vodka, I think.”

The agent closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.

“I’ve seen her worse,” Alma said. “She did an entire run of
Lady Windermere’s Fan
and couldn’t recall a single performance.”

“Alma, you are singularly failing to cheer me,” David said.

Frances, kneeling at their feet, wanted to shake Augusta. How could she have thrown away such a perfect last chance? Why did she have such a gift for self-sabotage?

The door to the studio opened again and the woman with the clipboard came out. Seeing Augusta splayed in the chair, she gave a little snort of derision. And that was all it took: somewhere in Augusta’s brain the snort registered. A challenge!

Majestically, she unfurled herself. Her eyes opened, her pupils bloomed. With one graceful hand she pushed Alma’s proffered coffee cup away.

“Darling,” she said. “Are we ready to begin?”

“We were ready a half-hour ago,” the clipboard lady sniffed.

Augusta played the penitent. “I am truly sorry. We witnessed a terrible motorcycle accident on Southampton Row and we had to stop so my companion here” — she placed a gentle hand on scowling Alma — “could collect her wits.”

“All right, then,” said the clipboard lady, softening. “Come through when you’re ready.”

Augusta rose to her feet, inhaled, and marched to the door. The three of them followed her into a small auditorium. Two men sat in the second row of seats, scripts in their laps, and she paused to greet them, laughing and smiling.

“Producers,” David whispered.

Augusta climbed the stairs onto the stage without a wobble; there was no indication that she’d been nearly comatose ten minutes before.

“How does she do that?” Frances whispered.

Alma shrugged. “Actors like to be looked at.”

There was already another actor on stage, a slim, grey-haired man with a resigned expression. He rose for a greeting and Frances noted, with a start, that Augusta’s hands were shaking.
Nerves
, Frances thought.
It’s just nerves. She can do this.

Augusta sat on the other folding chair. The stage lights were turned on full, glinting off the grey-haired actor’s glasses, reflecting the sudden sheen on Augusta’s forehead. She had dressed carefully for this audition, a grey skirt suit and raspberry suede pumps. Nervously, she unbuttoned her jacket and picked up the script.

Frances could see the backs of the producers’ heads from her vantage point. They sat still, expectant. A hush filled the auditorium. Frances could hear a technician whispering backstage.

“Augusta?” said one of the producers. “When you’re ready. The line is yours.”

Clearing her throat, Augusta bent to open the script. Frances could see the pages tremble in her hands. The bravado of a minute before had dissipated. Alma’s knuckles were white on the head of her walking stick.

David whispered, “Come on. You can do this.”

Augusta licked her lips, looked out into the darkness of the seats. Frances knew, suddenly and with a lurch, what was wrong.
She needs a drink
.

“Augusta?” said the producer, and there was less patience in his voice now. His partner was checking his phone. Augusta stared at them, frozen. Frances felt tears rise, except this time it wasn’t self-pity bringing them on.

With as much dignity as she could pull around herself, Augusta stood and placed the script on the seat.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m not well.”

forty-four

Across the top of the bulletin board, the word MINDFULNESS was spelled out in pushpins. At least Augusta thought it was MINDFULNESS. So many pins had been plundered to hold up other notices — offers of babysitting services, complaints about the staff fridge going uncleaned — that it was hard to tell.

This clinic wasn’t so bad, so far as clinics went. She had a room to herself, and from its window she could see the river, which gave her comfort. There were chores morning and afternoon, and meetings when there weren’t chores, so she had little time to think. After supper each evening, she used one of the communal computers to work on an email to Charles. It hadn’t been sent yet.

Augusta wandered into the central meeting room, pulling her scarf tight around her. It was family recrimination day, a torture familiar from Wreckford Hall. At this clinic, it was called Full Circle, and when the facilitator asked Augusta if she would like to join, it was a rhetorical question. She would have much preferred to stay upstairs and scrub the loo. You knew when a toilet was clean, but it was never apparent how long a hostile family member would speak. Always she underestimated the capacity for misery.

The chairs were arranged in a rough circle, and nearly half of them were already taken, patients and their families seated in clumps. There was little friendly chatter at the coffee urn or at the table holding a plate of gluten-free biscuits. Instead the air thrummed with the tension of unvoiced grievance.

In one corner of the room French doors opened onto the river path. Augusta walked over to look out at the muddy Thames. To think that she had ended up here, in dreary Chiswick, once again admitting defeat. She felt ancient. There were teenagers at the meetings who’d taken drugs she’d never even heard of.

“Augusta?” Petra, one of the therapists, beckoned her from across the hall. “Come see who’s here. You’ve got a visitor.” The therapist cupped a hand to her mouth, stage-whispered: “From America!”

Augusta froze by the door and put a hand up to smooth her hair. So Charles did want to see her, even if she hadn’t properly apologized. Making the first peace offering. He had come here, to be heard, in front of these strangers. She wasn’t sure she was ready.

Slowly she walked across the room, with Petra beckoning her forward. The therapist had waist-length dark hair done in a braid, and in one hand she carried a little doll from the Andes, which was meant to encourage the airing of complaints.

“Look, Augusta,” said Petra, as she might to a five-year-old. “It’s your first visitor at Full Circle.”

When she saw Kenneth at the door, she wasn’t sure whether it was disappointment she felt or something else. All of her emotions were close to the surface these days, roiling and uncontrolled. It was deeply unpleasant.

Unfortunately, he looked well. She’d grown used to a visual landscape of grey fleece and pilled wool, and here was Ken sleek in a dark suit with California colour in his face. He’d probably come to London to buy shirts, the vain bastard. Visiting her would have been an afterthought.

“Actually,” he said to Petra. “I’ve been to these family therapy sessions before.”

“You have never,” said Augusta, outraged.

“Yes, I came twice when you were in that other place, in Hertfordshire.”

Augusta opened her mouth to protest, but Petra held up the doll between them. “Julia says save it for the meeting.” She walked to the centre of the room, calling the group together.

Ken took a step toward Augusta, and she didn’t back away. He took another, then pulled her into his arms and held her for longer than was necessary. Her nose was buried in his shoulder. He’d smelled the same for thirty years.

“I did come to visit you twice,” he scolded. “And I brought Charles, too. But you loathed those sessions. You said never to come again.”

“Liar,” she said.

He murmured against the top of her head, “You know you hate to be the audience, Augusta.”

She was shoving him away just as Petra clapped for the meeting to begin. Everyone took a seat, the patients with their eyes downcast and arms crossed, their put-upon families looking nervously around. Who would speak first?

“What about you, Kenneth? Is there anything you’d like to tell Augusta about how her behaviour has affected you?”

Ken crisply shot the cuffs on his shirt, and sat down. “I think I’ll wait a bit. See how it’s done.”

“Don’t be embarrassed.” Petra shook the doll under his nose. “If you feel uncomfortable talking to Augusta, talk to Julia instead.”

Grimacing, he pushed the doll away. “Thanks. I’ll wait for wiser minds to speak.”

Augusta slumped in her seat with relief. Now she could tune out the various tales of woe, dinner dates and concerts missed, babies left crying in pushchairs, bottles hidden in the laundry basket. It was old hat. If she closed her eyes now, she could catch fifteen minutes’ sleep.

She felt a sharp finger poke her shoulder and sat up with a start. “On the other hand,” Ken was saying, “maybe I will add something.”

Augusta slumped again. She couldn’t meet his eyes, but she felt the weight of his gaze, heavy with thirty years of disappointment.

He drew in a breath, started to say something, stopped. Around the circle, tired, sympathetic faces waited.

“I can’t speak for our son,” he began, “because it’s not for me to say. Augusta knows what happened. She knows what’s true and . . . what is less true. And that is something they will need to work out themselves. I’m not sure that will ever happen, because they’ve both cocked it up so badly.”

A few rueful laughs. Augusta balled the ends of her sleeves in her fists, clenching them tightly. She wasn’t going to cry in front of all these strangers.

He swung around to face her, and she felt her eyes rise to his, against her will. He took her hand, and she didn’t resist.

“What I will say is this. I am angry with you, Augusta, and with myself. I’m angry that I still give a shit. I’m angry that you probably go months without thinking about me and yet you’re in my head all the time.” He paused, shook his head. “I know what happens. I know one person is always the horse and one is the rider . . .” His voice trailed off, and for some reason she couldn’t fathom, she squeezed his hand.

The group waited, but when Kenneth spoke again, he was talking to Augusta alone. “I took a cabin in Big Bear last summer and when I was driving back to the city I saw a woman on a bridge who had shoulders exactly like yours. I nearly drove off the road. The woman startled me, because I hadn’t been thinking about you. I thought,
My God, that’s the first time Augusta’s crossed my mind in three whole days.
And I was elated.
Elated
.”

They sat facing each other, the rest of the group forgotten. “That’s all I came to say.” He touched the back of his hand to her cheek, as he had in the hospital. “I don’t want to be the horse anymore.”

forty-five

A wind off the river ruffled the piece of paper in Augusta’s hand, and Frances stole a glance at her friend. She was barely recognizable in a saggy blue Marks & Spencer cardigan, her bosom hidden from view, face makeup-free. Frances thought she looked magnificent.

Without glancing over, Augusta handed her the slip of paper. Frances unfolded it. Across the top, in blue pen, it said, “A True Story.” Underneath, she had written, “I like to drink.”

Frances folded the paper and sat looking across the river. There was a rowing eight in the centre, pulling against the wind and the tide. She could hear the cox berating them, his voice carrying on the cold air. An elderly couple came toward them along the river path, buttressing each other against the wind.

“I already know that,” Frances said. She watched the couple approach, the old man leaning on his cane, his wife holding his other arm and propelling him along. Would she and Stanley be walking this same path one day, infirm but intact? She turned to Augusta. “I know you like to drink. But you’ve got to remind yourself that it’s been ten days now, and you haven’t had a drink, or anything else.”

“That’s true,” Augusta admitted. “It feels like someone’s arse-fucked my head.”

The old lady spun around, horrified, and Frances put a hand up to cover her face. The couple scuttled off, the wife tugging her husband’s arm.

The rowers slid under a bridge. Frances said, “I imagine you’ll feel better soon. And when you get out, David said he’s willing to —”

Augusta held up a hand; the nails were bitten short. “Don’t. I can’t bear to think about it at the moment.”

They watched two seagulls fight over a chip at the edge of the path. Frances sat up suddenly. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. Your editor really liked the outline of the book.”

“You mean
Bitch in a Ditch
?”

“Sadly, she’s rejected your new title.” Frances fished for her phone in her purse, and scrolled through the messages. “I mean, now we actually have to write the thing, but she liked the direction we proposed. Apparently she’s quite thrilled that you’re in rehab —”

“Wellness retreat.”

“Fine, she’s happy you’re in a ‘wellness retreat,’ because it gives the whole story a redemptive arc.”

“The only problem is, for a redemption story I would need to be redeemed.” Augusta pulled a cigarette from her pocket. She’d cadged it from the sad-eyed therapist who worked with the self-harming teens. Menthol. It was like smoking toothpaste. “You know, my counsellor asked me the other day what I saw when I looked back. And I said, ‘I see all my failures behind me, like a trail of breadcrumbs.’” She lit the cigarette and took a long drag. “He told me I needed to work on my visualization technique.”

Frances started to say something, closed her mouth. Tentatively, she reached over to put a hand on Augusta’s shoulder. She was worried it would be shrugged off, but Augusta didn’t move. They watched the gull snatch the fleshy chip from its rival and back away. The river hypnotized with its slow swell.

Augusta said, “Don’t give the best of yourself to the world, Frances.”

“What?” She was awake again.

“You’ll be tempted to, but don’t. Save the best part of yourself, the kindest and most resourceful part, for yourself.” Augusta crushed the cigarette butt under her heel. “And for whatever annoying children you might have.”

The wind had picked up, and Frances pushed the hair out of her eyes. She said, “Because you didn’t.”

“Darling,” said Augusta, exasperated. “Clearly not.”

Together they watched the triumphant gull lift toward the sky. Burdened by its trophy chip, hampered by the wind, it beat its wings against the heavy air until it finally broke free, soaring on an updraft. It disappeared from sight.

“Come on,” said Augusta, “let’s get inside. We have work to do.”