Jane Lambert - The Start of Something Wonderful

Bloody typical! There was a time when I could have won Mastermind with ‘The World’s Leading Designers’ as my specialist subject, but just when I’m under the spotlight, the names escape me.

Miss Cutler, meanwhile, is scrutinising me as if I’ve just stepped off the set of some Tim Burton scary movie; then I catch sight of my reflection in the antique, gilt-framed mirror opposite, and do a double take. What the …? I have blood-red rivulets trickling down my face. Oh my God, the heavy rain must have caused the dye from my beret to run! (£3 from Primark, what do you expect, Emily?) I pull out a length of loo paper from my pocket, and a chewing gum wrapper falls to the floor.

There’s a stony silence. Here it comes, another helping of ‘I’ll keep you on file’ – not sure I can handle two rejections in one day.

‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh, holding out my damp, crumpled CV, like it’s a snotty hankie. ‘I have been left in the lurch rather, so you can start tomorrow at nine – sharp.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, vigorously shaking her hand, sending the charms on her bracelet jingling.

Giving me a final once-over, she says pointedly, ‘Just one more thing – dress code here is smart.’

I resist the temptation to tell her to stuff her job and her precious things, and head out onto the bustling street. I jump astride my bike, leaving drizzly, grey commuterville behind, and pedal towards the bright lights of Dramatic Ar s Centre.

* * *

The next morning

‘You bastard!’ I mutter. ‘How can you let me down like this?’ As fast as I pump the air in, the faster it is released with a loud hisssss . I knew I should have caught the bus this morning. Fired on my first day. Great!

I fumble in my voluminous bag for my mobile and dial Galbraith’s number.

You have used all your calling credit, comes the unsympathetic, recorded voice. Heavy rain starts to pound the pavement. Shit! Right, that’s it! Wielding the pump, I unleash my pent-up anger and frustration on my bike, much to the sly amusement of early morning commuters, as they scuttle to the station, clutching their takeaway coffee, ears wired to iPods and hands-free.

Squelching and wheezing my way up the hill, I make a mental note to a) learn how to mend a puncture and b) invest in waterproofs.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Miss Cutler,’ I pant. ‘I would have got here quicker if I hadn’t had to wheel my bike and I wanted to call you, but my mobile was out of credit and …’

‘You’d better clean yourself up,’ she says, her steely gaze resting on my oil-stained hands. ‘And may I remind you, Emily, you are on probation. If you are serious about working here, then you had better pull your socks up.’

Blimey, I haven’t felt like this since fourth form, when I was hauled up in front of the headmistress for not wearing regulation knickers at gym.

‘The stock room looks like a bomb’s hit it,’ she snarls, giving me a death stare. ‘Health and Safety are visiting next week, so I’d appreciate it if you could tidy the place up, and ensure the fire exits are kept clear.’

‘Sure,’ I say in a sugary sort of way, jaw clenched.

(Another tip gleaned from years spent bowing to the whims of rude passengers: whatever verbal abuse flies your way, DO NOT rise to the bait. Respond in an overly polite manner, and it will annoy the hell out of your antagonist.)

‘“A bottle of Blue Grass eau de toilette is hardly a Rolex watch, is it?”’ I mutter, giving my best JC impression from the top of the stepladder, as I fight with piles of slippery plastic bags that are refusing to stay on the stock room shelf. Huh! I’ve sold Rolex, Raymond Weil, Piaget, Mont Blanc to Arab kings, I’ll have her know.

‘Emily! A customer!’ comes Miss Cutler’s shrill voice from the top of the stairs, sounding for all the world like Mrs Lovett in Sweeney Todd .

God, five-thirty and seeing my girls can’t arrive quick enough.

‘Coming!’

* * *

As I chain my bike to the railing, I spy them through the dimpled glass, sitting in our favourite spot, by the open fireplace, and I smile inwardly.

My life may be starting to resemble a black comedy, but with a supporting cast like mine, I can just about deal with the fact that I’ve got Cruella De Vil for a boss, and that my acting dream is fast turning into a horror movie.

With abundant hugs and vats of wine, our gaggle of five have cried, advised, sympathised, and propped one another up through divorce, cancer, and single parenthood, so what’s a mere midlife career crisis and a broken heart in the grand scheme of things?

‘Darling!’ squeals Wendy, jumping up and wrapping me in an Eternity-fragranced hug. ‘We’ve missed you. How are you? You look … fantastic.’

‘I don’t,’ I snort, pulling at my fluorescent-yellow sash, suddenly conscious of my bare, rain-washed face and baggy, unflattering clothes.

‘Come and sit down,’ she says, patting a space on the banquette between her and Céline.

‘ Chérie !’ says, Céline, kissing me four times, as is customary in her native Paris. She is French 1960s’ Vogue personified: translucent skin, sculpted cheekbones, and a natural, wide-mouthed smile (something we see little of nowadays).

‘Well, how’s it going?’ asks Wendy eagerly, extricating my arms from my dripping-wet anorak.

‘Fab,’ I say with forced gaiety. They both look at me searchingly. ‘Well, no, actually … awful.’

I feel someone tug my hastily tied, damp ponytail. I spin round, and there, brandishing a bottle of Sauvignon, is Rachel.

‘Hey, how’s our aspiring actress?’ she says, stooping down to kiss me, her silky, chestnut hair tickling my cheek. ‘Let’s take a look at you,’ she says, sloshing wine into my glass, as she studies me with her perfectly made-up eyes.

‘You look more relaxed than when we last met, not long after you and Ni …’

‘Ahem! To new beginnings!’ Wendy says quickly, raising her glass.

‘New beginnings!’ we chorus, happy to be together once more.

‘You’re missing all the fun, you know,’ says Wendy sarcastically. ‘The new first class service means the darlings can now eat whatever they want when they want; one minute you’re serving Chicken Chasseur to 5B, then 1E is asking you for boiled eggs and toast, whilst the group at the bar are crying out for crème de menthe frappé and canapés. Gaah!’

I pretend to wince, but the way I feel right now, I’d gladly serve a Jumbo-load of raucous, drunk, demanding passengers single-handedly every day until I’m sixty-five, if it meant having my old life back.

‘Now, who’s for some houmous and warm pitta bread?’ says Wendy, heading for the bar.

Turning to Céline, I ask dutifully, ‘How’s Mike?’

‘On a ten-day Sydney/Melbourne,’ she says, letting out a wistful sigh. ‘But he’s coming straight from the airport to stay at the flat for two days when he gets back,’ she adds quickly, face lighting up.

I shoot her a knowing glance over the rim of my glass.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she says in that to-die-for accent of hers.

‘Like what?’

‘That you-are-wasting-your-time look.’

I open my mouth to speak, but close it again and swirl my wine around my glass, eyes down.

‘He’s leaving after Christmas … next year,’ she says, voice falling away.

‘Why not this year, Céline? How many more Christmases must you wait?’

‘The twins have their final exams this year and it’s his wife’s parents’ Golden Wedding next June. So, I must be patient.’ She smiles weakly, fixing my gaze from under the eyebrow-brushing fringe of her sleek, ebony bob.