Page 5 of A Class Act

Could this evening get any better?

3

That summer was one I’ll never forget.

Walking back towards Soho, the streets, despite the late hour, still alive with Friday night revellers enjoying the warm evening after what had been a fairly miserable spring, Bess and Claude advised me to play it cool with Carrington.

‘Play it cool?’ I scoffed. ‘I’m not in the sixth form, playing hard to get with the school’s star football jock, for heaven’s sake. I’m pushing thirty. I really can’t be doing with playing games at my age.’

‘I bet ’e was,’ Claude replied dreamily, sidestepping a couple on the pavement.

‘Was what?’ Bess and I both turned to Claude.

‘You know, captain ofle rugbyquinzeandle footballteam.’

‘Can you playboth?’ I frowned. ‘Wehad to make a choice between hockey and netball when I was at school. We weren’t allowed to play both at Beddingfield Comp.’

‘Well, tennis squad, then,’ Claude replied. ‘Mon Dieu, I can see ’im in leetle white shorts on the centre court.’

‘He’s abarrister,’ Bess jeered. ‘In thecriminalcourt. If he plays anything, it’ll be golf. You know, like they all do oncethey’re in the city and clawing their way to the top. They all end up joining Daddy’s golf club and turning into their fathers.’

‘Stop it.’ I laughed. ‘I’m rapidly going off him.’

‘Oh, you did fancy him, then?’ Bess glanced at me sideways as we came to Lisle Street just off Leicester Square. She stopped. ‘Did you know him? Had you met him before?’

‘Of course, she fancy him,’ Claude put in, before I could reply. ‘Who wouldn’t? Right, we ’ere now, Robyn. Do not phone ’im ’til at least tomorrow. ’Ang on until Sunday if eet at all possible. I amun ’ommeand I know these things.’ Claude kissed me on both cheeks before disappearing up the steps and through the entrance of Ku, his attention now on other pleasures.

‘You OK the rest of the way by yourself?’ Bess asked, turning to follow Claude. ‘You don’t need to get an Uber now that the Soho Slasher has apparently been caught?’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

And I was.

I left it until Saturday evening before ringing Carrington. This wasn’t a conscious attempt at ‘playing hard to get’, which, now I was twenty-eight I was more than ready to denounce as juvenile and overrated – as well as full of nuance and subtlety, which, without practice, is not always easy to pull off. Not only was I utterly beyond playing such games at my age, I was genuinely busy the next day. As I went about my Saturday tasks of launderette, food shopping and going over some lines for a forthcoming voice-over job (a tin of famous baked beans being hoovered up in a kitchen up north), I knew that, in reality, Fabian Carrington in the flesh wouldn’t be able to live up to thefantasy I was enjoying of the man. I didn’t want my bubble to burst in a soggy mess of disappointment.

It didn’t.

I’d actually managed to persuade myself that no one could be so attractive as the man I’d been fantasising about for three weeks. That, in reality, he would be boring, right wing, lack a sense of humour, be disparaging about the acting profession: the list of his demeanours was endless. At 9p.m. on the Saturday, with a glass of wine on the tiny kitchen table in front of me, I finally made myself sit down with my phone and rang the number. I assumed he’d be out wining and dining, entertaining any number of women to whom he’d passed his phone number, and I’d just be able to leave a message.

‘Hello?’ He answered on the second ring and, expecting voicemail, I felt the power of speech desert me.

‘Hello?’ he repeated. ‘Fabian Carrington.’

‘Hello, Fabian. This is Robyn.’

‘Robyn?’ I heard puzzlement in his voice.

‘Robyn, the waitress at Graphite? Last night?’ Oh, hell, he’d no idea who I was.

‘Ah, Robyn. I’m so sorry, I didn’t actually know your name. How lovely that you’ve rung.’

‘And did you want me to ring you so you could work out where you think you’ve seen me before?’

He laughed. ‘No, not at all – although that would be good. I was hoping you’d come out for lunch with me.’ His voice was teasing.

‘Lunch?’ I didn’t really do lunch. A coffee and slice of toast with Marmite and peanut butter late morning usually took me, via a packet of digestives and an apple, through to whatever was left in the shared kitchen fridge in the evening. I was a whizz with a pot of cottage cheese and a bag of rocket leaves.

‘You know, that meal one sometimes manages to fit in between breakfast and dinner?’ His voice, educated, warm, held humour.

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