Authors: Kate Kray
Andrew was cut short by the arrival of the maître d’, armed with menus and the wine list. Rosie looked down and saw, to her horror that the menu was written entirely in Italian. She was suddenly completely out of her depth.
Reading her expression, Andrew intervened. ‘I know the menu quite well. May I be bold, and order for both of us?’ he asked. ‘I recommend the Lobster Thermidor. It’s really wonderful.’
She nodded, trying to hide her embarrassment. Andrew, in what sounded to Rosie like fluent Italian, gave their order.
‘I’ve ordered a Chablis. I hope you approve,’ he added, once the maître d’ had left.
‘So, tell me about you,’ Andrew asked, making Rosie laugh. ‘If that’s not too old a line.’
‘I think most of my life has been covered in the papers,’ she said. ‘But, if you insist…’
‘I do.’
‘Well, as you know, I have an estranged husband – more “strange” than “estranged”, actually – serving 18 years in one of Her Majesty’s finest. I was brought up by my aunt, Madge, who has a crazy dog called Dibble. And I live with the apple of my eye, my beautiful 12-year-old daughter, Ruby.’ Rosie dug into her handbag, and smiled as she passed a photo over to show Andrew. His eyes sparkled and he couldn’t suppress a smile as he gazed down at the picture.
‘This could almost be you,’ he told her. ‘She is a dazzling beauty, destined to turn heads. Just like her mum.’
Bursting with pride, Rosie took the photograph back and slipped it into her handbag.
‘That’s pretty much all there is, I’m afraid’ she said. ‘Does that make me very boring?’
‘Not in the least!’
‘But I know nothing… nothing
at all
about you. Apart from a wife and two children.’
Andrew took a deep breath before answering. ‘Sophie, my ex-wife, is a wonderful woman. In a way, I suppose, I’m still in love with her,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘But, as you know, things happen. Lives drift apart, and things change. It’s the loss of the children that I miss most.’
‘I’m so sorry’ said Rosie, reaching out and giving his hand an encouraging squeeze.
‘No… no, no. It’s fine, really,’ said Andrew, taking a moment to compose himself. Okay, they weren’t mine by birth, but I brought the girls up as if they were. But now, as their mother and I are no longer together, she thinks it’s best if they focus on building a relationship with her new boyfriend… while they… forget all about me.’
‘No!’ Rosie was horrified.
‘I miss them terribly.’
‘I can’t believe a mother could
do
that. How old are they?’
‘Amy is nearly 17 – she wants to be a photographer – and Marianna is almost 15.’
‘The same age as Ruby, give or take a year,’ said Rosie. Her heart really went out to Andrew. How could Sophie use the girls as a weapon against such a decent man?
Their conversation, which had become very intense in a very short space of time, was interrupted by the arrival of two spectacular dishes.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Rosie, looking down at her food. She had never eaten lobster before, and she desperately wanted to make a good impression. Deciding that the most sensible route to take was to simply copy what Andrew did, she watched as he confidently brandished what looked like a silver nutcracker, and deftly tore off a pincer. Moments later, and somehow with his hands not covered in sauce, Andrew was tucking in.
Unable to continue the pretence, Rosie laughed out loud.
‘That’s it,’ she cried. ‘I think I’ve actually turned into Eliza Dolittle! I haven’t got a clue what I’m eating, or how to go about it. Tell me, Andrew, did Stella bet you that you couldn’t make me pass as a lady?’
Andrew looked across at her, and a sympathetic smile grew on his face. Putting down his fork and ‘nutcracker’, he sat back, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a white linen napkin.
‘I am so… utterly thoughtless,’ he said, apologetically, ‘Oh, Rosie, can you ever forgive me? I didn’t think, for one moment… I’m so sorry.’
‘Is this art imitating life… or life imitating art? Oh, you know what I mean!’ Rosie laughed and, in turn, so did Andrew.
‘Well, it’s good casting, at least… what with you being the real Eliza Dolittle,’ he said.
From that moment on, the ice was broken between them. A mutual understanding was established. The evening continued in a flirtatious haze of champagne and Chablis. They enjoyed easy conversation, one topic flowing naturally into another, covering life, love, and expectation. Rosie found Andrew fascinating – well-read, broad-minded, but always interested in what she had to say. She had never met such an enigmatic, intriguing man in her life. He spoke five languages – Italian, French, Cambodian, Vietnamese, and Thai – he had business interests all around the world, and he knew absolutely
everyone
in the TV world.
After the meal, Andrew ordered a car to take them to their respective homes. On the way he explained that he wouldn’t be visiting the set for a while, as he had to go to Asia, scouting for locations for a new drama set during the Second World War.
‘I’ll be pretty much incommunicado, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘The phone networks are just terrible there. Still, I’m sure there won’t be any slacking off on set, not with Stella around.’
‘How long will you be gone?’ asked Rosie, looking lazily out at the wet streets as they drove east.
‘I not sure, but I suspect three weeks.’
‘Oh, three weeks? That long?’ After the words came out, Rosie wished that she hadn’t said anything. The evening had gone so well, she didn’t want to ruin the perfect atmosphere they had created by appearing even slightly possessive.
When the car stopped under the dim street lights of Hewitt Way, Andrew got out to open Rosie’s door. After a non-committal peck on the cheek, as they stood face to face, the atmosphere was electric. Rosie longed for Andrew to scoop her up in his arms, and hold her in a long, lingering embrace. But she knew it wasn’t to be – Andrew was too polite, too well mannered. He was a rare find – a true gentlemen.
That night, Rosie lay in her bed, engulfed in a warm and unfamiliar feeling. She was, perhaps for the first time in her life, on the threshold of something really special, really pure. As she drifted off into a deep contented sleep. She could only hope and pray that Andrew felt the same way,
A relentless ringing dragged her out of a sleep so deep that it took her a moment to register where she was. Eventually, Rosie rolled out of bed and stumbled downstairs, shaking her head, yawning, and wondering who would be calling her in the middle of the night.
Andrew?
Rosie lifted up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ she mumbled.
‘Rosie?’ She should have known… she recognised the voice at the end of the line straight away. ‘I
love
you, Rosie.’ Johnny was slurring.
Johnny hadn’t called in the middle of night for a while. Rosie was all too aware that this wouldn’t be the last time, either, and that she’d have to start unplugging the phone before she went to bed. It meant that Johnny had a new mobile phone, one that someone had smuggled into the prison, probably wrapped in cling film and hidden in some con’s backside.
‘This time next year, Rosie, we’ll be millionaires.’
Trust him to rain on her parade like this, Rosie thought as she felt her stomach tighten. He had no manners, no airs or graces – he was the polar opposite to Andrew. She had no feelings for him any more, apart from hatred and disgust. When would it end? How could he
still
disrupt her life like this, he was put away for 18 years, for God’s sake.
Rosie hung up, turned off the lights, and made her way back up the stairs. At least they weren’t living together any more, so she was free to do what she wanted, more or less. That hadn’t really meant much before, but now there was something that she wanted… or, rather, some
one
– Andrew.
S
tanding in her trailer, gazing out over the Edwardian London street scene, Rosie wondered if they would be able to shoot with so much mist – well, dry-ice – hanging thickly in the air. But it did look amazingly authentic. It was obvious that Stella was delighted with it. It was, she had said, just the environment that she imagined Eliza emerging from, through the fog, clutching her basket of flowers. Rain had been forecast later in the day, and the crew were intermittently looking up apprehensively at the looming clouds. Time was of the essence.
Becky, a friendly, middle-aged woman from Wardrobe, handed Rosie a basket of flowers and straightened her costume.
‘You look
fantastic
,’ she said. ‘You’ll be great.’
Rosie didn’t share Becky’s confidence. Everyone was depending on her, and the enormity of her responsibility was weighing heavy on her shoulders. She had hoped that, after filming for a few days, the nerves might have eased off… but it wasn’t the case.
‘Okay, I’ll be back in five minutes,’ said Becky, giving Rosie’s arm an encouraging squeeze. Just then, Rosie’s mobile rang.
‘Hey, Mum,’ Ruby chirped, ‘how’s it going?’
‘I’m still in my dressing room. I’m still so nervous, Rube. I’m going to pieces. I don’t know how to put myself back together.’
‘Okay, okay, Mum. Do like I said – deep breaths, think of England.’
Rosie laughed. She already felt better. ‘You know what? You’re just what I need to keep me grounded. Thank you, darling.’
‘No problem. That’s what daughters are for! Seriously though, Mum, you’ll be fine when they start rolling. You always are. I’m really rooting for you, you know? We all are. Here, Aunt Madge wants to talk to you.’
Rosie smiled. She felt so lucky to have such a considerate family.
‘Now, I don’t want any more of your nonsense, my girl. You can stop those nerves this instant. You’re a talented actress, remember? They wouldn’t have cast you if they didn’t think you were up to the job.’
‘I was just having a funny five minutes. I think I’m past it now. I call you later, okay? I’ve got to get going.’
‘Well, good luck! Or “break a leg”, or whatever I’m supposed to say.’
No sooner were the garter straps fastened to her boots, than Rosie was taken through for a final check of her make-up.
‘You look wonderful!’ Tom R Williams said, as Rosie arrived on set. ‘Let’s just hope the weather holds off, so we can get this one in the can. It would really be a shame to get all dolled up for nothing.’
Holding out his arm, he led her across the street to join a small group of extras. Finally, it was announced they were going for a take. The first assistant director called for quiet, and silence descended over the set. You could have heard a pin drop.
‘Speed… turn over…’ The cameras started to roll. The clapper boy snapped the board shut. ‘And… action.’
Rosie’s heart fluttered with a wonderful sensation of pride, mixed with nerves and elation. This was beyond anything she had ever dared to imagine. For a few seconds, nothing seemed to be happening. Then the camera began tracking across the scene, until it finally came to a halt, focusing on Rosie.
‘Wanna buy some flowers, guv’nor?’
Rosie counted to three, and gently raised her head to lock eyes with Tom.
‘And cut,’ came the voice again.
‘You were sensational,’ Tom said to Rosie. ‘I predict you’ll be a star before the year is out.’
‘No pressure, then,’ Rosie laughed.
‘Well done, everyone,’ Stella announced, cracking a rare smile. ‘Right, let’s push on. There’s still a lot to get through today.’
By the time the day’s shoot was over, Rosie was exhausted. One drawback of having such a major part, she had discovered, was that she was spending almost every day on set. It wasn’t the actual acting that was tiring, but more the endless standing around while lights and camera were set up.
Back in her dressing room, Rosie’s phone beeped a familiar sound. She went to the inbox and opened the text, which read: ‘Back in London weekend. Got 2 tickets for opera,
La Boh
è
me
. Would love you to join me, A x.’
Rosie’s heart skipped a beat, and she instantly typed her reply, ‘Yes please!’ Then it dawned on her: a trip to the opera? She really
was
turning into Eliza Dolittle.
For the next few days Rosie had something else, apart from the pressure of filming, to worry about. Actually, the anticipation she felt about her trip to see La Bohème was something she hadn’t experienced since her first date with Johnny, when she was just a teenager. Doubts and insecurities kept cropping up, and she lost count of the amount of times she came close to cancelling. She spent the hours in her trailer, between shots, both dreading and longing for the weekend to arrive. She wasn’t the only excited one, either –Ruby was so thrilled you would think that she was going on a date herself. True to form, she was full of advice about what her mum should wear, say, and even think.
Finally, the big night arrived. Filming had run on a little, so Rosie had precious little time to get ready after the driver had taken her home. Rosie kissed Ruby on the forehead and disappeared into her bedroom to get changed. Looking at her modest wardrobe, Rosie was still completely undecided about to what to wear. As she had never been to an opera before, she had asked for advice from anyone who would listen. ‘Don’t wear kitten heels,’ someone had said. She had been told by Tom’s personal assistant, ‘Don’t wear a long dress,’ which was all well and good… until Stella had said ‘Whatever you do, don’t wear a
short
dress’. A girl in Wardrobe had said ‘Wear black velvet’, which seemed like sound advice, if a little old fashioned. She really hadn’t a clue.