Page 34 of A Class Act

Ignoring me, Jayden went on, ‘We’ll make sure Sorrel gets to school in the morning and then go and see Lisa at the hospital. Where is she? The usual?’

The three of us knew ‘the usual’ was the Green Lea wing of the town’s main hospital, a dismal Victorian building a twenty-minute drive or so away from the village.

‘Come on,’ he said, leaning in to chuck Lola under the chin before picking up my case. ‘You got the key for next door, Jess?’

Nothing from Fabian. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t hoped he’d get in touch.

But there was nothing.

I knew, for my peace of mind, I should remove all means of contact, but I was hoping against hope he’d find out about my accident and whisk me back down to London and his apartment to recuperate now that I’d told Hasad, my landlord in Soho, I wouldn’t be back. Part of me, clutching at straws, had been about to pay Hasad two months’ rent – the net total of my savings from my work at the theatre – to keep my room at the flat, but then my sensible head had locked on. How was I going to live? I could just see Wallbanger Muffler offering me my old job back at Graphite: she’d never liked me much when I was fit, healthy and could do her bidding. No chance now with the black functional knee brace A&E had fitted on show beneath my white apron,while trying desperately not to limp through a seven-hour shift at the restaurant.

While waiting for Sorrel to appear, Jayden and I put together a makeshift supper of the bread and cheese we’d found in Mum’s fridge before settling ourselves somewhat uneasily into our respective rooms. Jayden had disappeared into the room he shared with Mum whenever he deigned to come home so I made my way to the tiny boxroom, relieved that the lumpy bed settee was still there – and actually made up – rather than a whole load of boxes and assorted stuff thrown there just for somewhere to put things. At nine forty-five I texted Sorrel.

Sorrel, Jayden and I are at home waiting for you. You don’t have to stay with Jess again tonight. But, if you’re not back in the next hour, am going to get the police out. And don’t think I won’t.

I lay on the bed, which was just as uncomfortable as I remembered, downed more painkillers than was probably wise to overcome the steady metronome throbbing in my knee, and closed my eyes as picture after picture of the last forty-eight hours played on a never-ending loop behind them.

Should I – could I – have reacted any differently to Gillian and Julius Carrington’s downright unpleasant and totally unacceptable attitude towards me? Taken on board that Fabian was about to defend what I considered to be the indefensible? Ignored the bitchiness of Yo Ming’s coterie of mates at the theatre? Informed Carl, the director, I needed to have another week off to ensure my knee wouldn’t let me down? As it had so spectacularly.

Was it only yesterday morning I was showering, slipping into the beautiful cream Roland Mouret dress and matching sandals?Doing my make-up and hair, desperate to impress, not only Fabian, but his family as well?

I wanted to wind the hours back, start again, go along with whatever Fabian was working on; accept his family were an unpleasant shower but that it was Fabian I wanted, not his bloody relatives. And I should have been up front from the very start with Fabian about my grandfather.

Anything, anything at all, to not be where I was now, back in Beddingfield, my life in tatters…

I broke off myif onlythoughts as I heard the front door open and bang. I struggled off the narrow bed, limping painfully down the steep cottage staircase.

‘Ah, you got my text, then?’

‘What areyoudoing here?’ Sorrel looked me up and down as only a disgruntled fifteen-year-old can. ‘I was looking forward to having the place to myself.’

‘There’s no way you can stay here by yourself,’ I snapped. ‘You’re fifteen, for God’s sake.’ I relented slightly. ‘Now Jayden and I are here, you obviously don’t need to go round to stay with Jess.’

‘Don’t tell me Jayden’s staying for more than one night. He never has before.’

‘I know, I know, he’s always been the same, Sorrel. But he does care.Icare.’

She snorted derisively, making her way to the fridge, leaving the scent of cheap hair product, fags and booze in her wake. Or was it dope?

‘I’m starving.’ She hacked at the loaf I’d just put back in the breadbin, cutting a huge doorstep, which she slathered generously with Philadelphia before shoving it unceremoniously into her mouth.

WhatwouldGillian Carrington think of that?

Sorrel stopped chewing for a second as she noticed the brace on my knee. ‘What’ve you done?’ Not overly interested in my response, she continued to make her way through the huge slice of bread and cream cheese.

‘Well, I won’t be doing any dancing for twelve months.’ I tried to smile, realising I was playing the sympathy card. I didn’t know much about fifteen-year-olds apart from obviously having been one myself once. And, latterly, having taught – without a great deal of success – whole bunches of the species. I shuddered, remembering.

‘Oh, dearie me.’ Sorrel almost sneered. ‘And you were going to be such a big West End star as well. Mum and Jess said you were, anyhow. Oh, God. You’re not back for good, are you? Thought you were just here to see Mum.’ She tutted, though the realisation obviously wasn’t putting her off her food.

‘So, we’ll get Mum sorted, get her back home as soon as we can. But, more importantly, get you back on track. School, for instance.’

‘What about it?’ Sorrel chewed up to the crusts, leaving them on the kitchen worktop before wiping her T-shirt sleeve across her mouth.

‘You have to go, Sorrel.’

‘Idon’t think so.I can leave when I’m sixteen.’

‘No, you can’t. And anyway, you’re fifteen. You have to be in some sort of work or education until you’re eighteen.’ I’d learntthat,if nothing else, from my PGCE course. ‘Jayden and I are going to come with you in the morning; speak to your…? Head? Head of year?’

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