Kathleen Tessaro - Innocence

And I’m forced to conclude that there is no point to having extra time. I’m one of the women who don’t know what to do with it anymore. In fact, the whole day runs much more smoothly if I have no time to think, feel, or deviate in any way from my set routine. Women’s magazines are always pontificating about the emotional rewards of luxurious baths, long walks, stolen hours spent reading or meditating or just being, whatever that may be. But what they don’t allow for are women like me, who simply panic if given an extra twenty minutes in the morning; whose fragile balance of identity can no longer negotiate a world filled with unanticipated freedom in any form without transforming it immediately into an obstacle course of right and wrong choices.

All because Ally took Alex to school today.

Enough. The twenty minutes are long gone now and I’m late again anyway. Part of me is relieved to default to my normal panic stations mode. And as I tear the silk scarf off my neck, fling the contents of the cute handbag back into the enormous canvas holdall that’s normally welded to my arm and shove my feet into a pair of black, stretchy pull-on boots which cover all sorts of leg-wear disasters and have for years and probably will for years to come, I feel the comforting rush of adrenalin through my veins. Better the chaos you know.

I force myself to leave my bedroom, averting my eyes to the mayhem I’m leaving behind (there’s no time, there’s no time, the voice chants over and over in my head) and head downstairs, throwing myself down each flight of steps as quickly as possible. When I reach the bottom, I stop abruptly.

Is that cigarette smoke? Thick, heavy, unmistakable, emanating from the drawing room?

I push open the tall double doors. It’s empty; radiant with sunlight. I’d forgotten that it caught the morning sun or that it was so pleasant; so elegant and inviting. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen it in anything but darkness.

But still the smell persists.

I move around the radius of the room.

Next to the marble fireplace, a Louis-Quatorze chair and a small round table sit, basking in a square of warm light. The chair bears the imprint of a curled figure on its seat and one of Bunny’s treasured collection of Halcyon Days enamel boxes is open; a small pile of ashes cooling in the lid.

‘It’s bad for you, you know’

I spin round. Piotr is standing in the doorway. He’s just woken up, his dark hair looks particularly Byronic, his beard unshaven. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt but his feet are bare.

‘It isn’t me,’ I assure him quickly. (There’s no way of saying that without sounding instantly guilty.) Tilting the ashes out into the palm of my hand, I replace the lid. ‘I don’t know who it is. None of us smokes.’

He digs his hands into his jeans pockets. ‘It’s OK.’ He grins; his eyes are almost amber in the daylight. ‘I won’t tell your dreadful secret.’

‘No, but it really wasn’t me!’ I insist. ‘I don’t smoke. Ever!’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘And yet you’re holding a handful of ashes.’

I pause. There’s that strange feeling again, the same sudden rush of transparency I had last night. ‘I found them,’ I say, avoiding his gaze.

‘I see.’ He stretches his long arms above his head, turning to run his fingers gently through the crystals of the hallway chandelier. A thousand rainbows appear.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ I follow him out. This is too unfair and irritating. ‘Do you honestly think I secretly sneak ciggies in Bunny’s front room, flick the ashes into one of her precious porcelain trinkets and then lie about it when I’m in danger of getting caught?’

He tilts his head. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ I sound like a parrot. ‘Why not? Because it’s…because it’s naughty!’

I flinch. I can’t believe I’ve just used that word in adult conversation.

Apparently, neither can he. ‘You’re a funny woman!’ He laughs, rocking back on his heels. ‘I haven’t met anyone like you in a long time!’

I don’t even want to know what this means.

‘I really don’t smoke,’ I add dejectedly but it only makes him laugh harder.

‘I’m making tea,’ he says at last, rubbing his eyes and pulling himself together. ‘Black tea. With sugar.’

Is this an invitation?

‘You do drink tea, don’t you? Or’—he can barely contain himself—‘I could just put it out on the table and then turn my back and if it should happen to go missing…’

He’s off again.

‘I’m late,’ I say, not moving; not quite sure what to do with the ashes in my hand. ‘I should’ve left ten minutes ago…and will you please stop laughing at me!’ This seems to be a trend today.

The phone rings.

He holds his hands up. ‘OK! OK!’

It rings again.

‘Excuse me.’ I stride purposefully across the hall to where the phone sits on a narrow table. ‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello! Who is this?’

It’s Melvin Bert, the Head of Drama at the City Lit. The rounded, plummy tones of his Eton education are unmistakable. My throat constricts instantly, as a hand tightens into a fist.

‘Melvin it’s me: Evie Garlick.’

‘How extraordinary! I…I was certain I’d dialled someone else…’ He pauses. ‘But…but now that I’m through to you, I think you might do just as well…’

I shake my head.

Piotr nods. Crossing, he takes my hand gently by the wrist and tips the ashes into his palm. He smiles, his fingers warm against my skin.

He disappears down the steps into the kitchen.

I yank my concentration back. ‘What can I do for you, Melvin?’

‘Well, the truth is, Edie…’ He’s never known my name. In the three years that I’ve worked for him, I’ve failed to register in any lasting way on his memory. ‘I need someone to take over Ingrid Davenport’s class on the three-year acting course. She’s been offered something at the National and, at her age, she really has to have a run at it!’

Ingrid’s only fifty. But Melvin, despite his professional career administrating in the dramatic arts, has never been an actor. It continues to baffle him that anyone over the age of thirty would be interested in acting professionally when they could have a nice, comfortable job teaching instead. ‘As I said, I was originally going to ask Sheila but, now that I’ve got you on the phone…’ His voice trails off, ripe with possibility.

This is a rare and exceptional opportunity: a chance to move out of the lower depths of teaching pensioners and night students; to pull myself into the proper, professionally accredited three-year drama course. Maybe even to direct. My heart surges with excitement. And terror.

All I need to do is to say something. Anything at all.

‘Well, Melvin.’ I take a deep breath, determined not to betray my nerves. ‘That’s a…an interesting offer…May I ask what times she teaches?’

There’s the sound of him riffling through papers. ‘Let’s see…yes, the first years are from eleven until one, then the third years are from two until four thirty. She has private tutorials on Wednesday afternoons until six thirty’

He pauses; a sharp, abrupt full stop. It shrieks for some sort of decisive, enthusiastic response. A clock ticks away in my head.

‘Oh.’ My mind’s reeling. ‘It’s just, you see, my son is still in school,’ I fumble, thinking out loud, ‘and…I…I…’

God! Pull yourself together!

‘Let me think…’ I stall, ‘he’s usually out by three…’

Melvin sighs indulgently. The clock ticks louder.

‘I need to get from Drury Lane to St John’s Wood before he…you know…’

I can’t even finish a sentence! There’s no way I’m capable of taking over Ingrid’s workload.