Page 20 of A Class Act

Now, unable to sit a minute longer, I left my window seat in Pret, my Fitbit clocking up the steps as I walked the length and breadth of the West End, from Shaftesbury Avenue and down James Street to Covent Garden before heading down The Strand to Charing Cross. I was passing in front of the National Gallery, considering taking myself in there to kill some time, when my phone rang.

‘Ms Allen? Could you make your way back to The Mercury? We’d like you to come back in, if you’re happy to do that?’

‘Oh, Robyn, you got it?’ Jess was almost as ecstatic as I was, and I loved her all the more for it. Some sisters, some mates (I was thinking here of Tanya back at the flat) are not averse to finding little ways to burst one’s bubble of success in order to bolster their own sense of importance:Is that all they’re paying you?That producer is the absolute devil to work for. My cousin’s best friend’s sister couldn’t stand the other members of the cast – totally bullied, she was – left with a nervous breakdown…But not Jess. Her excitement down the phone was palpable, and I knew she was already mentally scanning her kitchen calendar, as well as her credit-card statement, to see when she could bring Lola down to see her Aunty Robyn on stage.

Jayden, characteristically, sent an over-the-top bouquet of flowers and a bottle of champagne: it was all or nothing with my father – boom or bust – but apparently my successful audition coincided with a new record release, which, for once, was not only selling well but was even being played on the radio.

A couple of hours after Dorcas, my agent, rang with the wonderful news that I was successful, a text came through from Fabian:

Come and celebrate.

How on earth do you know whether I’m celebrating or not?

Aren’t you?

Yes.

There you go, then. I’ll pick you up at 7.30, if you’re free.

Was I really going to waste time and energy playing games by replying that I already had plans or by not responding foran hour or so? Of course not: I was far too old for such juvenile nonsense, and I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather be celebrating with.

Thank you, I’d like that.

I’ll cook dinner. Don’t go eating sweets and spoiling your appetite

That made me laugh.

Don’t pick me up. I’ll get the bus. Where are you?

Westminster

Bloody hell, posh or what?

88 bus. No problem. Text me your address. I’ll find you.

It was another beautiful evening and, after showering, I found my trusty trainers and set off, eschewing any transport except my own two feet. The great thing about living in central London was that, by walking everywhere in order to save money, it had become something of a challenge – like doingThe Knowledge,so loved by the city’s black cab drivers. London had become a village for me and not a huge metropolis. Now that the alleged Soho Slasher–Rupert Henderson-Smith, I saw from the free newspaper reports – was in police custody, I was even up for walking the streets after dark.

I walked a route taking me along Wardour Street, Shaftesbury Avenue and Drury Lane relishing as I always did, the buzz of London’s theatreland and, although I sometimes longed for the green fields and unspoiled woods surrounding Mum’s place, I’d lived so long away from the countryside that I was beginning to consider myself a city girl. I knew, as I made my way past myriad theatres and then on towards Fabian’s apartment, I was right where I wanted to be.

It took me twenty minutes of brisk walking, using my phone to navigate to Fabian’s place. I’d assumed it would be a bit more upmarket than the dive I was renting in Soho, but even this assumption didn’t prepare me for the actual reality of his apartment in St James’s Place between Mayfair and Westminster.

‘You found me?’ Fabian said as he let me in.

‘You were hiding?’ I quipped, immediately wishing I didn’t turn every question into another. An old boyfriend had once said this habit of mine used to infuriate him. Why couldn’t I just float in serenely and say ‘hi’ before arranging myself seductively on the leather sofa to await being served a cocktail?

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’ Fabian smiled, taking the bottle of champagne from me.

‘I didn’t really. My father was exceptionally quick off the mark and sent over the bottle, together with some flowers. Don’t know if it’s any good… Not sure how he managed it within a couple of hours of me knowing I’d got the part…’ I was gabbling now.

‘Sounds an interesting bloke. I’d like to meet him.’

‘I don’t think you would… Oh, wow—’ I broke off, moving over to the huge picture window through which, from four floors up, a huge expanse of Green Park was on view.

‘Forty acres of greenery down there apparently.’ Fabian smiled, coming to stand behind me and handing me a glassof champagne, which, being deliciously ice cold, couldn’t have come from the bottle I’d carted in my hot sweaty mitts all the way from Soho. ‘It’s one of eight Royal Parks in London, the royal being Charles II who decided to build a wall around an area of the Poultenay estate, a former lepers’ ground on the city outskirts, before renaming it Upper St James’s Park.’

‘So originally a leper colony?’ I gazed down at the park, now awash with evening joggers, dog walkers and those late leaving work from the many surrounding offices.

‘Congratulations, Robyn,’ Fabian said, clinking my glass with his own. ‘You must be very happy?’

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