Billy and Me

  ‘Shit!’ I blurt out as Billy just turns to me, looking stunned. I hastily pull off my apron and cap. ‘Why didn’t I take these off before I left work? I was still in my apron, for God’s sake! I look like the world’s biggest loser!’

  ‘No, you don’t!’

  I don’t say anything, I just raise my eyebrows at him, letting him know that I know he is spouting rubbish. I look a state – this is far worse than being caught with some flour on my face.

  ‘Seriously, Soph, you look cute. Anyway, they probably won’t even use those pictures, they’ll just end up clogging up the bloke’s computer memory, forcing him to delete them,’ he claims with a shrug.

  ‘Billy, your girlfriend works in Coffee Matters …’ I explain to him slowly. ‘As if that won’t be turned into some sort of story? They’re going to have a field day with that!’

  Billy looks down at the floor and bites his lip. I knew he didn’t want me to take the job on, probably for this exact reason, and he just didn’t know how to say it without offending me or sounding snobby. Therefore, it’s unfair of me to make him feel bad for something that is clearly not his fault.

  I pull him to me and bury my head in his chest.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault,’ I say.

  ‘Baby, you don’t need to work!’

  ‘Shush you. I do,’ I say, as I pull his face towards mine for a kiss.

  ‘But baby, it’s not what you want to do. At least let me take care of you until something better comes along,’ he pleads.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’ I say, pulling away from him and tugging at his arm so that we can continue walking home. ‘The hilarious thing is, of course, that Andrezj specifically said that staff are not permitted to take aprons or caps home with them … that’ll teach me!’

  The next morning when I leave for work I grab my mobile phone (something I’ve been using more than ever now that I’ve moved to London – it’s my lifeline to my old life) and find I have five missed calls from Molly at the shop and one from Mum. I unlock it by swiping my finger across the screen and listen to the voicemails Molly and Mum have left.

  Molly’s is short and to the point. ‘Orange doesn’t suit you. That is all,’ she says tartly, before hanging up.

  Mum’s message explains Molly’s outburst, although, needless to say, I already know what she was referring to. ‘Soph, just a little warning, Mr Tucker took the papers up to Molly this morning because you’re in a couple. Don’t think she was impressed with the whole Coffee Matters thing … I thought you were going to tell her? Anyway, don’t worry too much about it. I think she’s just still a bit down about you going. Plus she said the new girl Sally is useless. Give her a call. Speak to you later. Love to Billy. Love you. Bye!’

  I decide to bite the bullet and call Molly straight back, knowing the longer I leave it the more agitated she’ll get.

  ‘Hello, Tea-on-the-Hill, how may I help?’ says a voice I don’t recognize, who I decide must be the Sally Mum mentioned.

  ‘Hello, is Molly there, please?’

  ‘Yep, can I ask who’s calling?’ she squeaks.

  ‘It’s Sophie.’

  ‘Ohhh. I seeeee,’ she says, elongating the words, letting me know she’s aware of who I am. I wonder what Molly has told her about me. ‘How are you finding London? Full of glitz and glamour?’

  ‘Erm … yeah, it’s great. Sorry, is Molly there?’

  ‘Sure,’ she sighs, seemingly deflated.

  Molly is on the phone within seconds.

  ‘Coffee Matters?’ she squeaks. ‘Coffee-blooming-Matters?’

  I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘I know, Molly, but it’s not forever. I tried all sorts of places, but nobody had any jobs going.’

  ‘There must have been something else,’ she insists.

  ‘Honestly, Molly, do you think I’d voluntarily work there if I had any other option?’

  There’s silence from Molly on the other end. I know she won’t stay mad at me, but she’ll still want me to know that she’s disappointed with the fact that I’ve left her wonderful, homely boutique of a teashop to work in what she sees as a heartless corporation which churns out loveless products.

  ‘Is it as awful as I imagine?’ she finally asks in a sympathetic tone, taking me by surprise.

  ‘Far worse. No one cracks a smile and the only words exchanged are orders or complaints.’

  ‘Complaints? Who’s complaining about you, dear? Did I not spend eight years teaching you everything I know?’ she says, stunned, making me laugh.

  ‘There’s just so much choice. Plus everyone is in such a rush.’

  ‘Well, it’s to be expected I guess, everyone just wants their early morning fix. They don’t have the luxury of time.’

  ‘Exactly, they aren’t there to make friends and they’ve got places to be.’

  ‘More fool them, then.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it, you know,’ she says suddenly.

  ‘Mean what?’

  ‘About orange not suiting you … you look lovely in the pictures. Tired, but lovely.’ Typical Molly, I think, honest but fair.

  Walking into work that day I’m asked thousands of questions by my colleagues thanks to the pictures in the papers. I think they all received quite a shock when they opened their Metro newspapers on the way into work this morning and saw the new girl’s face inside. Therefore, I’ve abruptly gone from the new-girl-who-no-one-wanted-to-talk-to to the most-fascinating-person-who-ever-existed. It’s alarming to see the change in them.

  Surprisingly, Andrezj is the most intrigued by the situation and keeps firing questions at me throughout the day, regularly getting disgruntled with my answers as he starts to realize I’m still the extremely normal girl who he employed a few days ago.

  ‘Your boyfriend is God, though, so why are you here?’ he asks, in his thick Polish accent, while helping me to gather up dirty mugs from the tables (it was a one-person job yesterday, but suddenly requires two people now I’ve awoken their interest in me).

  ‘Because …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want my independence.’

  He tuts and rolls his eyes, wiping his long brown hair out of his face.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  Although part of me is cautious about what I say because he is a stranger, who hardly spoke to me before knowing about Billy, I still enjoy the feeling of talking to someone new, which, given my history, is a miracle. It’s as though being with Billy has given me a topic I feel comfortable talking about; perhaps it has given me something to hide my own shortcomings behind, making me feel more confident.

  ‘If it was me, I would be living the role – I’d get driven around in style by his chauffeur, and I’d buy everything from Harrods – even my weekly shop. I’d be off getting haircuts, facials and manicures all the time, getting ready for all the dinners and parties with his famous friends,’ he says, snapping his fingers through the air with flamboyant flare. ‘I’d be making the most of it, not picking up people’s dirty tissues and chewed-up leftovers. That is not independence. It’s stupidity.’

  ‘I just don’t see it like that, plus, Billy doesn’t lead that kind of life. He’s honestly as normal as I am – he just has a far more interesting job.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘I don’t want to have to ask someone for money every time I do something.’

  ‘Get him to give you an allowance, then.’

  I stare at Andrezj in shock.

  ‘I’d never do that!’

  ‘Then you’re foolish,’ he insists, in such a matter-of-fact tone it makes me giggle. ‘When I finally meet a rich man and get swept off my feet, I’ll be out of here within seconds. Now, go grab the mop and give the toilets a quick wash.’

  10

  Over the next week I barely see Billy as the previews of his show start. Previews are when members of the public can buy discounted tickets to an unfi
nished show, while the actors try out new ideas and discover what works and, more importantly, what doesn’t work within the piece. Each day the actors go in and are given notes from the director about the previous show and rehearse new changes before the next preview that evening. It’s tough work and keeps Billy away from home all day and most of the night. I clearly hadn’t thought my working hours at Coffee Matters through properly as we see hardly anything of each other. However, I always wait up for him to come home in the evenings so that we can spend a bit of quality time together – even if it is just half an hour.

  The four or five hours spent in my own company at the flat drift by in a slow and painful manner as I try to find little tasks to do to keep my brain occupied. Reading and baking have continued to be the two things that successfully make the time go quicker, aside from speaking on the phone to Mum or Molly. Each night I whisk together a little treat for us to nibble on when Billy walks through the door. Sometimes it’s a cheesecake, other times it’s a batch of cupcakes … anything that tickles my fancy. I love it. The time spent mixing, concocting and whipping make me realize how much I miss this part of my old job. And the smell … wow! I love filling the flat with that homeliness that comes from home baking.

  Tonight I have baked us a mini Victoria sponge, his favourite, which is sitting, perfectly dusted with icing sugar, on a cake stand in the middle of the kitchen table, ready for when he comes through the door.

  ‘Hello, baby! That smells delicious!’ he chimes from the hallway as he closes the front door behind him and walks into the kitchen, taking me into his arms.

  ‘Why thank you, mister! Want a tea?’ I offer as I pull away and make for the kettle.

  ‘Actually, I’m going to have a brandy,’ he says as he releases me and reaches for the drinks cabinet. ‘It’s been all I could think about on the walk home! Something to help me unwind.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, cutting two healthy slices of cake for us and putting them on plates.

  ‘Are you going to have one with me?’

  ‘No. Not when I’ve got to be up so early,’ I say, taking the plates and snuggling into him on the sofa once he’s poured his drink. ‘So, how was tonight?’

  ‘Bit of a quiet audience,’ he says, screwing up his nose. ‘It freaked me out because it’s not what we’ve been used to, but they went berserk at the curtain call, so they must’ve loved it.’

  ‘Well, that sounds good.’

  ‘Yeah, just different,’ he says, stuffing a piece of cake into his mouth. ‘Probably best actually, Press Night audiences are notoriously bizarre with critics sitting in silence and friends and family getting into it, so it’s good to have something like that before tomorrow.’

  From what Billy’s told me, Press Night is the most important night in a play’s run. It’s the night when critics, journalists and important people from the industry go to watch, and then tell the world what they think. It’s seen as the play’s official opening and so carries a huge amount of importance and pressure.

  ‘How are you feeling about it?’

  ‘I’m excited to have you there,’ he says with a smile as he grabs one of my hands, giving it a squeeze.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it!’

  ‘Paul’s going to be looking out for you when you get there,’ he informs me.

  Paul is Billy’s manager, who I haven’t met yet, but have heard a fair bit about. The two times Billy and I have been splashed across the tabloids Paul has been straight on the phone to Billy for more details of what’s going on and to keep the journalists at bay. From what I can make out, Billy owes a lot of his success to Paul’s tough negotiations and pool of wealthy contacts. Knowing he is such an important figure in Billy’s life has left me nervous about meeting him.

  ‘He’s looking forward to spending a bit of time with you, I think … see what the fuss is about,’ he adds, smiling. ‘You’re sat together, which is good. At least you won’t be on your own.’

  ‘Great. It’ll be good to meet him at last.’

  The next night I turn up at the theatre wearing the most glamorous dress in my wardrobe – a little black number with gorgeous red flowers printed all over it which hangs a couple of inches above my knee, opaque black tights and black patent stiletto heels – not killer heels, mind, just something to give me a bit of height and grace on Billy’s important night. I did think about wearing something higher, especially as I know Billy’s usual girlfriends wear tower-like heels, but I’m a nervous wreck as it is in this completely alien environment. God knows how I’d cope if I had to concentrate on not tripping over my own feet all night as well. So I’ve played it safe, choosing comfort and control over a broken ankle.

  I walk down the tiny strip of red carpet that has been placed outside the theatre, and straight past the cameramen who are waiting for newsworthy people to arrive. Without Billy, people have no idea who I am and my picture is worthless, clearly, and rightly so as I am in fact a ‘nobody’. A notion I’ve always been happy with.

  Anxiety and fear of the unknown make my insides bubble in apprehension. I wipe the palms of my hands casually down my dress, trying to rid them of the sweat that has formulated, but they stay clammy, refusing to dry out.

  With only twenty minutes to go until the show starts I stand in the foyer waiting for Paul to arrive. My eyes scan the room, taking in the glamorous people arriving, wondering who’s who. A lot of them seem to know each other as flamboyant greetings are exchanged and air kisses are being given everywhere I look.

  I start to feel paranoid when a few girls walking by stare at me a bit longer than I find comfortable before turning to each other and whispering. They’re younger than the majority of the gathered crowd and not your typical-looking theatregoers, so I assume they’re fans of Billy. Feeling flustered, I bury my head in my programme in an attempt to hide myself. Out of nowhere the horrible comments on the website spring to mind – I wonder if any of them were behind the cruel remarks? As the thought occurs to me the girls continue to walk past. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘Sophie?’ asks a man’s voice a few minutes later. Standing before me is a man wearing a grey suit, white shirt and salmon tie, his blond hair gelled to the side in a sleek and tidy fashion, his green eyes piercing. He is groomed to perfection and looking at me with a tight and unconvincing smile.

  ‘Paul?’ I question.

  He sticks out a hand for me to shake, which feels like a terribly formal greeting after spotting the air kisses that have been flying around the room since I arrived.

  ‘Great to meet you at last after hearing so much about you from Billy,’ he says.

  ‘Likewise. It’s good to –’

  ‘Shall we go in?’ he asks, interrupting me as he hands me a ticket and starts to wander off into the auditorium. ‘It’s about to start, after all,’ he adds, slightly turning back in my direction with another forced smile.

  Shocked at being cut off so abruptly I follow in silence. Perhaps he didn’t mean it – the show is about to start, after all. I’m sure the pleasantries will come later.

  Paul leads us to our seats, squeezing past all those who have already made themselves comfortable in theirs, although they don’t seem to mind as many of them appear to know Paul and stop him for a double air kiss, a quick hello, or to tell him how excited they are to see Billy up on stage at last. Paul doesn’t introduce me, and so I just linger behind him uncomfortably, trying not to squash the person who either has my bum in their face, my boobs by their head or whose bags I’m straddling uncomfortably. By the time we get into our seats there’s no time for us to talk further; the house lights dim slowly as the show begins.

  My hand flies up to my mouth to cover the gasp that escapes it at the sight of seeing Billy onstage with his bum fully exposed, supposedly receiving oral sex from the naked girl on her knees in front of him (who swishes her long blonde hair all over the place with enthusiasm). Luckily, the rest of the theatre erupts in giggles at seeing Billy’s bum, so my gasp is hidde
n, although I know Paul’s heard me when he leans into me and quietly says into my ear, ‘I hope he warned you about that. What an unnecessary shock that would be if he hadn’t.’

  Quite.

  Why didn’t Billy think it would be a good idea to warn me beforehand? Was he scared I’d overreact? Or didn’t he see how it might make me feel to see that on stage while surrounded by a room full of strangers?

  I somehow manage to put Paul’s comment (and the vision of the play’s opening tableau) out of my mind for the rest of the show, which is not an easy feat, but I get sucked into what’s happening on stage and the intricate telling of the story. It’s gripping, shocking and intensely heartfelt. Billy is every inch the wonderful actor I thought he would be – I’m amazed at his believable transformation into this moody and stern character. Honestly, I’m not just saying this because I’m his girlfriend, but I completely forget that it’s him up there. As the cast come out to take their bow, I, as well as the rest of the audience, leap to my feet with cheers of praise and applause. I can’t help beaming with pride in Billy’s direction. He is magnificent – I’m surprised anyone has ever doubted that fact.

  As soon as the curtain falls for the final time (the cast had to come out for three lots of bows, thanks to the relentless applause), Paul leads us to the stage door so that we can go up to see Billy.

  On our way up the stairs Paul stops and turns to me with another one of his forced smiles.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sensitive about certain elements of the play if I were you,’ he warns as he purses his lips. ‘It’s his big night. Let’s not ruin it,’ he adds before turning and continuing up the stairs.

  His unhelpful words manage to unleash my briefly forgotten feelings from the start of the show, and they start to niggle at me once more, causing me to feel dishevelled as we arrive at Billy’s dressing-room door.

  As soon as it’s opened Billy excitedly jumps towards me.

  ‘So, what did you think?’ he asks.

  The smile on his face says it all, he isn’t aware of how that particular scene could have affected me, which is odd because that omission goes completely against the sensitive and caring character I know him to be. However, now would be the wrong time to broach the subject.