LITMIR.BIZ

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about self-destruct buttons and “finding yourself” was a cover-up?’

      ‘Not exactly … no. Let me finish, please. You don’t know how hard this is for me …’

      ‘You had me believing that you were having some sort of mental breakdown, when all the time you were sleeping with some young bimbo. How could you?’ I snap, throwing down my napkin, unsure of whether to fling myself on the floor or fly out of the door.

      ‘Keep your voice down, Em, please,’ he says through clenched teeth, nervously looking around at the other diners.

      I stare at him in disbelief.

      ‘Typical! That’s all you care about: what people think of you. You are so damned self-centred! You invited me for dinner to relieve your guilt. Worried about me? Hah! Don’t bother. I’ll be fine,’ I say, snatching my jacket, helmet, and bag.

      Grabbing my wrist, he mumbles, ‘I still care about you, Em. You’re like family to me … I can only move on with my life if I know you’re going to be okay. Maybe in time, we could even be …’

      ‘Oh, pur-lease, don’t say it! Let go of me! What an idiot I was to even think of getting back with you.’

      I stagger out of the restaurant into the street, finding it hard to breathe. I unchain my bike from the lamppost, hands trembling.

      ‘Don’t be like this,’ comes a voice in my ear. ‘At least let me give you a lift home, Em, please.’

      ‘Not necessary,’ I hiss, jamming on my helmet and flicking on my lights.

      ‘There’s just one more thing you should know,’ he blurts out, face ghostly in the silvery beam of the streetlight. ‘Maddie’s pregnant.’

CHAPTER THREE

      Looking for Lara

      September

      IT’S 5.30 A.M. I’M WEARING RUBBER GLOVES and wielding a loo brush. How did my life come to this? I left Amy Air so full of hope and promise, now here I am, not even a year later, with my arm stuck down a toilet. I hate my job, I hate my life, and I hate myself for having got into this mess.

      What was I thinking of? I should have carried on flying; okay, so it wouldn’t have altered the fact that Nigel left me and some other woman stole the life I should have had, but at least I would have been a comfortably off singleton. Thanks to some hare-brained that I could become the next Meryl Streep, I am now an impoverished forty-something without a place to call home, my life packed away in bubble wrap at a warehouse off the M4.

      Who needs therapy or self-help books to mend a broken heart? All you need do is follow these three easy steps: a) Give up your well-paid, secure, and interesting job. b) Sell your comfortable home and move into someone’s poky back room, complete with resident psychocat. c) Forgo all luxuries and live from hand to mouth doing menial jobs.

      Et voilà! You’ll have so many majorly serious problems to contend with (like SURVIVAL) that being dumped by your boyfriend will seem a minor blip by comparison.

      My positive side tries to persuade me that jobs like this are all good, character-building stuff. Besides, should The Rovers Return or The Queen Vic be casting for a cleaning lady, my hands-on experience may just give me the edge over actresses who’ve never operated a squeezy mop or emptied a Dyson.

      Pah! Dream on. It’s time I faced up to the fact that I’ll never make it as an actress. One thing I have learned over the last few months is that acting isn’t just about remembering lines and moves; you have to let go of your inhibitions, be a little bit daring, and take the plunge. Something always holds me back – fear of making an idiot of myself, I guess, and the harder I try, the more awkward and nervous I feel.

      ‘Stop thinking so much,’ Portia keeps telling me. ‘Thinking about how we sound or look makes us self-conscious. Be brave, go with your instinct, and don’t analyse situations. It destroys the magic.’

      I shudder when I think of the huge sacrifice I’ve made – and for what? I squirt another dollop of Toilet Duck and scrub furiously, tears plopping into the bowl.

      ‘G’day!’

      Startled, I wheel around, toppling over onto my bucket of cleaning stuff.

      ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ says the tall, young stranger, crouching down and handing me my grubby J-cloth and can of Mr Muscle. His Pacific-blue eyes hold my gaze.

      ‘I’m Dean. New night security. I must have been on patrol when you arrived.’

      ‘Emily,’ I sniffle, proffering a yellow, rubber-gloved hand. ‘The cleaner … in case you were wondering.’

      ‘Well, Emily, nice to meet you,’ he says, treating me to a dazzling smile. ‘Maybe see you around tomorrow.’ And with that he is gone.

      * * *

      That evening, as I climb the steps of Dramatic Ar s for the very last time, I stop to admire the full moon.

      I close my eyes and centre myself by breathing deeply. Faye believes this is a time for cleansing, for new beginnings, for emotional and spiritual growth. She told me to make a wish out loud in front of the moon then visualise it coming true.

      She also said it’s a time for looking in the mirror and saying nice things to yourself. I draw the line at that one though.

      I came to drama school to learn how to make sense of Shakespeare, how to walk in a bustle and corset without keeling over, to flirtatiously flutter a fan, and to move and sing simultaneously without getting breathless. No one warned me that you had to take part in a Jeremy-Kyle-type reality show before you were allowed to pass ‘GO’. If they had, I think I would have stuck to serving chicken and beef at thirty-two thousand feet.

      Maybe now it’s time to put stability back into my life. I should forget my dream, wake up, and behave like any normal middle-aged woman, by getting a proper job with a pension scheme and Christmas bonus.

      * * *

      ‘You’ve had twenty-four hours to think about this, and now you’re telling me that your motive, the event that’s going to get those anger juices flowing, that’s going to fuel your performances in time to come, is the fact that you had a puncture, were late for your first day at work, and your boss was mean to you?’ says Portia, scrutinising me with a look of despair in her kohl-rimmed, piercing green eyes.

      Here we go again. I must be some kind of masochist, to have spent the last nine months putting myself through this kind of torture.

      I’m realising that the optimist in me has been telling lies – encouraging me to keep on keeping on, because any day now I’ll find the key to that secret door that leads to the actor’s holy grail; that special place that separates the truly talented from the merely mediocre. But let’s be realistic for once: I’m never going to find the key, am I? With no Plan B, where does that leave me? Bitter tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard. God, please don’t let me cry. My toes clench together in my jazz shoes, my face and neck flushing the colour of a strawberry smoothie.

      ‘Come on, Emily, surely you can do better than that? Haven’t you ever been accused of something unfairly or had your heart broken in two?’

      ‘Sure, but …’

      ‘Well then, how did that make you feel?’

      ‘I … I …’ I murmur, shrugging my shoulders and casting my eyes downwards, wishing I could silently slither down a gap between the floorboards.

      ‘Didn’t you feel betrayed, wounded, bloody furious?’ she probes.

      ‘Of course, but …’

      ‘Well then, now’s your opportunity to break through those emotional boundaries and tell us what’s in your heart. No one’s going to laugh at you. If you’re

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