Brigid Coady - Persuading Austen

‘Really, Annie, there is no need to be so dramatic,’ Immy said.

Annie managed to dislodge the crumb and staggered to the sink. She stuck her head straight under the tap. The water flowed over her face and her neck but enough got down her throat to soothe the rawness.

‘When you have quite finished …’ Immy even stomped her foot. Annie noticed that she had new shoes again. That was probably next month’s electricity bill, the spiked heels making more marks on the wood floors.

‘What is it?’ she croaked.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that Sam Mendes was casting for his new imagining of Romeo and Juliet ? You know I’d make a perfect Juliet. When I played her at the National the papers said my performance was sublime.’

‘Immy, that was over ten years ago. You do remember that Juliet is supposed to be a teenager? Anyway Sam was looking for an unknown actress.’ Annie left off the age range bit. At thirty-three, Imogen was ten years over the upper range.

‘Don’t you think I can act like a teenager?’ Immy demanded.

Annie would have sniggered if her throat weren’t so scratched. She did in her head; she had enough self-preservation not to point out that her sister always acted like a teenager.

‘Look, Immy,’ she said forcing her voice into the cajoling tone that she hoped would work. This was the problem with working in the same industry. Immy and her dad expected her to be their eyes and ears. And Cassie, her boss, was working with Sam. ‘I hear he was thinking of going all low class on the casting. Soap actors.’ She nodded and rolled her eyes to pretend to Immy that this was a fate worse than death. Which in the Elliot family it was.

‘I even heard that Will Elliot was being considered as Romeo. I mean if Sam is thinking of casting him … Well it isn’t really something you want to be involved in. Can you imagine?’

Annie didn’t have any particular issue with their cousin, Will, who had made a name for himself on EastEnders . And of course, there were those unfortunate stories in the tabloids about that affair he’d had with a married co-star.

In fact, she’d only met him once when they were kids, which she didn’t remember, but the mere mention of his name made her dad start foaming at the mouth. She was sure it was the EastEnders connection that annoyed him more than the affair – the Elliot name connected to such mundane TV. In the Elliot world, soap actors might as well be reality TV stars. Annie had always felt an affinity to Will. As soon as it became clear to Dad that she had no interest in acting she had ceased to be of interest.

‘Well, hmm.’ Imogen’s face screwed up as much as it was able against the chemicals that she injected into it every six months.

‘I’ll let you off this time, but really, Annie, you know it should always be family first.’ And on that line she swept out of the kitchen.

Annie leant back against the sink and wiped her mouth.

Family first? Ha. But on that list she knew she came last.

Sighing she folded over the top of the crisp packet and secured it with a clip. The TV flung bright images of Marie, who was smirking at her. She needed to grow a backbone where her family was concerned.

‘They need to be grounded; they need to feel taken care of. That is our job.’ She could hear her mother’s voice as if she were standing right next to her. There had been a low huskiness to it. It was the voice that had kept them all fed and clothed through the years. She had been the narrator of a thousand TV commercials and the true caretaker of their family. Her beautiful talented mother who took jobs because the family needed the money while her husband wouldn’t deign to sully his reputation. And he’d let her. And now it was Annie’s turn.

Annie who tried to fill the gaping hole left but didn’t quite manage: sister, daughter, and caretaker. Her mum’s stand-in, but she didn’t fill the gap quite well enough no matter how she squished or pulled herself.

Annie wasn’t sure she wanted to do it any more but what was she without it? Maybe eight years ago there had been an alternative but now … She shook her head. Annie wouldn’t think about it. She’d lost her chance and now she had to get on with the choices she’d made. Maybe she could at least start looking at moving out. If she could put some distance between them maybe things would get better.

Suddenly the taste in her mouth was too cloying, less like a hug and more like a vice.

She put the lid back on the hummus tub, only just remembering to put the tub in the fridge and the crisps in the cupboard as opposed to the other way round. She turned off the TV and felt guilty for the sense of relief from wiping Marie’s face out with the press of a button.

Annie wondered if she could get a remote that did that in real life.

That was harsh. She felt a shiver of guilt at the thought but then a bigger swoop hit her stomach when she had to admit it was true.

Slamming the front door of the house a few minutes later, she clattered down the steps, noticing the replacement tiles she’d ordered when she’d realized some cracks were showing. She looked back. The house was shone and the brass was sparkling on the door. It was always camera ready in case Immy was papped leaving it.

The house overlooked a part of Clapham Common that, when her parents had bought it, had been down at heel. A house with four floors and a back garden had been a steal. Clapham had pulled itself up by its bootstraps in the past thirty years. Now their house, which had always looked a bit too polished and slick for its neighbours, almost fitted in.

But Annie knew that the other houses had interior-designed kitchens, fittings that would cost her a year’s salary. Whilst their house was a façade, with everything inside stagnated and crumbling. She was glad Mum couldn’t see it.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered as she pulled her jacket round her, trying for protection from the chill February wind, and rushed up the street to Clapham Common station. But she wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to or what for.

Chapter Two

Annie breathed out and felt the tension leach from her body as soon as she clattered down the steps and through the front door of work. The Northanger Agency office was in the basement of a terraced house on a road parallel to Notting Hill Gate. Three rooms, a toilet, and a small kitchen, and not another Elliot in sight, bliss.

She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the rickety hat stand that leaned lopsided just inside the door.

‘Crap,’ she said as it fell into the wall and took another small flake of paint off the wall. She rubbed it as if that would make a difference, instead merely managing to spread the red plaster underneath.

‘Are you taking chunks out of the office? You know the boss will take that out of your wages?’ Annie smiled when she heard the dry voice coming from one of the offices.

‘She’s such a slave driver,’ Annie replied as she walked through to the kitchen and flipped the switch on the kettle. She turned and leant against the counter, smiling at her boss who was now leaning against the doorjamb. The only reason Annie had a boss was Annie had enough responsibility without adding in running their tiny two-person agency. And Annie didn’t trust her family not to get their fingers into the firm’s finances.

‘I know. I mean if she didn’t chain you to the desk you’d never do any work.’ Cassie grinned. Cassie Steventon was all of five foot and with her mass of curls, dimples, and curvy figure most people dismissed her as a pretty doll. Which she was, if the doll had a spine of steel, a mind that ran rings round everyone else’s, and the ability to deal with the financial running of a production with the ferocity of a honey badger. So, yes, a really scary doll.