Delphine Jones Takes a Chance by Beth Morrey

Author:Beth Morrey [Morrey, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-04-05T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 32

We squeezed in a last lesson before Christmas, after one of my shifts at Merhaba. Selassie had decorated the restaurant with an abundance of fairy lights, hanging enormous baubles from the ceiling and sprinkling fake snow on the shelves that I kept sweeping up along with cake crumbs. Roz came straight from school, settled herself in her usual seat and fixed me with her hard stare.

“This is better,” she said, waving my latest essay, which I’d finished before work that morning. “You actually have a point to make. Some of it is verging on original.”

I’d slaved over it, comparing Jane Eyre with Rebecca, exploring jealousy and obsessive love via Mrs. Reed and Mrs. Danvers. I was pleased with it, and tried not to be cast down by Roz’s faint praise—she’d clearly been taking pointers from Mrs. Boleyn. There was something buoyant about her, bouncing in her seat as she circled and underlined.

“You’re getting there,” she said, pushing the papers back to me, liberally scribbled with green pen. “You just need to loosen up a bit. Have some fun. Like Em.” She nodded at my daughter, who’d just arrived with her rucksack over her shoulder. “Her essays are wicked.”

I often invited Em to join us, because she liked Selassie’s lemonades, and listening to us talk—mostly listening to Roz talk. Just as I’d worshipped Miss Challoner, Em adored Mrs. Gill, and I loved watching her little face light up as Roz took us both through a new poem, or staged one of her literary quizzes. Something was different today though. Roz was cheery but distracted, checking her phone and messing with her hair, which was blonder, cascading around her shoulders. She also didn’t eat, whereas usually she would tuck into a slice of Abrihet’s cake and talk with her mouth full. After discussing my written work, we looked at an unfamiliar sonnet by Thomas Wyatt, but she kept fiddling with her phone like she was waiting for a message. Something was afoot, and Em noticed it too, her eyes narrowing as she watched us.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked finally.

Roz jumped, looking defensive. “Nothing, what? Nothing, why?”

“You seem like you’re on edge. What is it?”

She twirled a sachet of sugar around her fingers. “Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking about how I gave it all up. My degree. For the film. Obviously wanted that more, at the time.”

“Do you regret giving it up?” asked Em.

“The degree? Yes, all the time. I wonder where I’d be if I’d carried on. Maybe a professor somewhere, writing impenetrable books.”

“No,” Em said. “I meant, do you regret giving up acting?”

“Oh.” Roz seemed nonplussed. “Well, maybe I didn’t. Just . . . put it to one side, while I was teaching.”

“Past participle,” I said. “Aren’t you still teaching?”

“Yes, of course.” Roz tugged at her hair, flustered. “I’ve got an audition,” she blurted.

“Really? What for?”

“A big BBC drama. The lead role.” She was trying to sound casual but it was clear she was bursting to tell someone.

“What’s it about?”

She put her elbows on the table and whispered as if confiding a state secret.

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