p in his Kensington mews house eating pizza and watching Netflix. Perhaps if she’d suggested nights out at the opera and afternoons at the polo then things would have been different now.
A tear trickled down her face and she wiped it away angrily and all her negative, defeatist thoughts with it. If Daniel Lyons didn’t like who she was, what she did, what she enjoyed doing, then screw him. Nobody in Queens ever judged her for the way she ate stupid vegetables or what she did for a living. No one on Carmichael Street ever made her feel she wasn’t good enough; on the contrary, they had always told her to get out of the old neighbourhood, to go out into the world and make something of herself, to make them proud. Back home – her real home – she was the star of the glee club, the girl-next-door made good, the little Carrell girl who had danced her way clean across to Europe. Sure, there would always be some people who would take a certain delight in her not quite having made it to the top, but screw them too. Amy allowed herself a smile; she could feel her old self creeping back, little by little. And what did she have to feel bad about anyway?
She was twenty-six and already she had danced on Broadway and in Berlin and the West End. To the goombahs back in Queens she was a star already, and she knew that simply being with them would make her feel infinitely better about herself. But the smile on her lips faded as she remembered that she was still three thousand miles from home and that her bank balance would not cope with the strain of the flight. Before Daniel – before the broken toe – money had been tight, but she had coped. Dancers didn’t exactly get paid a fortune, but when you were in a show, you danced eight performances a week and slept on your day off, so there was never time to spend what little you made. Being out of work for so long, despite the fortnightly pay packet from the Forge, had depleted her bank balance. No, depleted didn’t quite cover it: her bank account was empty. If you’d thrown a dime into it, it would have echoed.
Realising she was never going to sleep now, she sat up and clicked on the little lamp next to the sofa. She could hear Annie snoring loudly next door so she knew she wasn’t going to disturb her friend.
She looked around the Bird’s Nest – it did feel as if you were inside the treetop home of some garishly plumed magpie, with all the bric-a-brac casually strewn here and there. There was a wonderland quality about Annie’s flat that she loved; you never knew what you were going to find next. Reaching over to a rickety table to her right, Amy picked up a magazine from a pile and raised her eyebrows: The Lady. The cover featured a picture of a glamorous older woman standing next to a horse, and promised articles entitled ‘Baking up a storm’ and ‘Dressing for the opera’ and an interview with Dame Judi Dench. It seemed an unusual magazine for her friend to have in her flat, but then Annie Chapman had always walked a slightly off-kilter path.
Intrigued, Amy flicked through the magazine. It was actually strangely comforting, with features on winter perennials and recipes for jam and fruit cake. Amy felt a sort of distilled essence of Britishness coming through the pages, like an idealised version of what England was, where everyone lived in cottages with roses around the door. It was nice. As she flipped towards the back, she found herself drawn to the Appointments section, a series of advertisements unlike any she had ever seen before.
‘Wanted: housekeeper and groundskeeper for stately home. Would suit a couple. Some chauffeuring required. Accommodation and uniform provided.’
Uniform? thought Amy, imagining some strapping hunk in a peaked cap and white gloves opening the door of her vintage Rolls-Royce.
‘Mary Poppins required for children five and seven,’ read another. ‘Foreign languages and equestrian skills preferred!’
It was another world. Where were these extensive properties that required experienced groundsmen? Who could seriously require a gamekeeper or a valet in the twenty-first century? It was as if Downton Abbey had been a documentary not a drama – it was fascinating to imagine what stories lay behind each of these quirky adverts. And more than that: Amy found herself fantasising about actually applying for some of these positions. How hard could it be? ‘Driver wanted for South of France second home’ – she had a clean licence and she could certainly do with some sun. Or what about being a ‘governess to twin girls’? The advert actually stated that qualifications were negotiable. Perhaps they’d be impressed by Amy’s background in the arts – didn’t all little girls want to be ballet dancers? She smiled to herself – maybe not. Besides which, she almost had a job to go to. If Eduardo Drummond called her back, of course. She was about to fold the magazine when one ad caught her eye, or rather two words: New York. Amy looked closer. The advert was small, listed under the Situations Wanted header: ‘Mature lady seeks polite companion for Manhattan adventure. Must be available for travel 23–27 December. Flights and New York accommodation included.’
She paused for a moment and then reread it. Must be available for travel 23–27 December. Flights and New York accommodation included. Underneath the advertisement was an email address. She picked up her phone, logged into her mail and without hesitating another moment drafted her reply.
She had been in the shower when her phone had rung, so the message had been delivered by voicemail. Amy pulled her dressing gown tighter around her body and listened to it again, hoping she hadn’t heard it right the first time.
‘Darling. It’s Driscilla here. I’m afraid it’s a no from Eduardo about Tango Nights. They loved your audition, but they saw a lot of great girls, and between you and me, perhaps your toe still represents something of a problem . . .’
Amy snapped the phone shut, not wanting to hear her agent’s voice any longer. A no! She couldn’t believe it. It had been a great audition. She had danced her ass off, got on with the director; even Driscilla had said that it was in the bag, and she was an agent from the tough love school of showbiz, where nothing was a done deal until the ink was dry on the contract.
Amy sank to the sofa bed and took a sip of the glass of water that Annie had left on the table the night before. She needed it, she thought, gulping down the cool liquid and wishing she had some Nurofen to go with it. She had no idea how much she had drunk last night. There had been at least five glasses of champagne at the Tower of London dinner, and then Annie’s cocktail . . . Her eyes darted to the curvaceous glass containing a green neon straw and the residue of the daiquiri – all stale and curdled, which was precisely the effect the Ukrainian brandy seemed to be having on the contents of her stomach. Urgh, she thought, feeling suddenly quite nauseous, not helped by her flashback of the night before. The artichoke, the toxic comments and sideways glances from Vivienne Lyons, and Daniel’s effective dumping. She had geared herself up for a proposal and instead had got propositioned by her boyfriend’s dad. As she had lain awake in bed the previous night, mulling everything over, the only thing that had kept her going was the hope that she would get the Tango Nights job, and now that was a busted flush.
Annie bustled into the living room and kissed the top of her head.
‘How are you this morning? Sleep well?’
‘No,’ said Amy, rubbing her temples.
‘How about we go for some breakfast?’
‘Great. And then you can tell me what to do about my agent.’
‘What’s wrong with darling Driscilla?’
‘I think she’s going to get rid of me.’
Annie frowned and perched next to her on the sofa bed.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She just rang to tell me I haven’t got the job I auditioned for yesterday. Didn’t even speak to me – just left a message.’
‘I don’t think that’s very conclusive.’
‘It’s just a feeling,’ replied Amy, pressing her lips together. ‘I didn’t even get a Christmas card this year. When I first moved to London and signed with the agency, I’d get all these little lunches in Soho, phone calls twice a week to see how I was doing. Now my toe represents something of a problem and I think I’m about to get the kiss-off. Not even Driscilla wants me, Annie,’ she said, lying back and swinging her arms dramatically over her head.
‘You need protein. Eggs, bacon . . . Or maybe we could go to Fortnum’s for afternoon tea in the morning. I don’t have to be at work till two.’
‘And I gotta double shift at the Forge starting at one, which I need like a hole in the head,’ said Amy, wondering if she should just keep the Bird’s Nest curtains closed and not come out until the next decade.
Annie left the room to go and get dressed and Amy sat up, crossed her legs and reached for her phone, half hoping that Daniel had had a change of heart and been in touch. She was greeted by the stream of messages that usually filled her inbox each morning – Groupon and a host of other discount websites she had once subscribed to.