A Fanny Full of Soap by Nichola McAuliffe

Author:Nichola McAuliffe [Nichola McAuliffe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-78319-422-3
Publisher: OBERON BOOKS Ltd
Published: 2013-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

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Two hours later we lay back wet with sweat. Dan, the gentle and considerate lover, had persevered until, taking pity on him, I made the expected noises and did the hooked trout impression quite convincingly, allowing him to come in a rictus of gratitude.

He fell asleep, murmuring my name.

I looked at his beautiful pale face and saw, as I had each time I closed my eyes that night, or felt his fingers, or tasted his tongue, Gabriel. Black-bat thoughts flittered round my mind. What was I doing in bed with my director? What was I doing in this show? I’d had my chance, a moment of television notoriety, and that was it, the carousel of horses was full of new faces now. The rest of my life would be spent circling the country in dubious tours trading on a TV programme name not even recognised by audiences under fifty. And then, after a twilight of anecdotes in Denville Hall, a short obituary in The Stage. An almost-ran. A small talent promoted above its ability. A talent never fulfilled. A performer more than an actor.

How many paracetamol would it take to join Gabriel? But what right did I have to think about death when life had done nothing to offend? Yes, it had. The absence of unhappiness was not happiness. Life stretching ahead as a featureless landscape of mediocrity must be a form of death. Atrophy until it was too late to call upon muscles left too long unused. I longed for Dan to wake up and listen to my misery. Finally, disturbed by my restlessness, he woke at four a.m., but the time for talking was gone.

We padded into the hallway, pausing by the open front door for a last kiss. The lights went on like a PoW camp yard during an escape. The landlady stood at the top of the stairs, holding her walking stick aloft. I braced myself for a telling off: ‘No gentlemen callers, Miss Eleanor. This is not a knocking shop.’ She scowled down at us, then her face broke into a wrinkled mass of smiles. We weren’t young thieves come to kill her.

‘Oh, have you been for a curry? Lovely. They do make me fart though.’

The three of us laughed until we ached. The dirty cobwebs of the night blew away. There were just two shows to go, then it would be Sunday. We’d hire a car, drive to Burgh Island for art-deco sex and Izzy amnesia. Cut off from the world when the tide came in. Just another eighteen hours.

I went back to bed and slept. I was still asleep when aliens started firing thermonuclear shells at the window.

‘Nellie, you dozy cow. It’s me, KT. Get the kettle on.’

Realising I wasn’t about to be vaporised, I staggered to the door, bashing into various bits of furniture on the way, my knees skinned in a way they hadn’t been since I was ten.

‘N’em mind, love, think of the fun you’ll have with the scabs.’

He swept past me into the kitchen where he unloaded a bag of croissants.

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