Page 71 of A Class Act

‘Can you hurry up in there?’ Sorrel was banging on the bathroom door, bringing me back to the reality of my cooling bath in a rather damp cottage in Beddingfield. ‘I’m off out in ten minutes.’

‘So am I,’ I retorted, refusing to pander to her. ‘Wait your turn.’

‘You’re not actually going out with Mr Donoghue and Ms Waters, are you?’ This was progress – Sorrel actually taking an interest in what I was up to.

‘Might be,’ I shouted through the closed door.

‘Bloody hell, whatareyou turning into?’ She sniggered. ‘I’ll never live this down if it gets out.’

‘So you have made friends at St Mede’s?’ I called hopefully. ‘You know, with whom you apparentlyneed to live this down?’ I knew that didn’t make a great deal of sense, but it soon became apparent it really didn’t matter. In the time it took to quickly dry myself and rub in what was left of my precious Clarins body lotion, Sorrel was gone, the fading tail-lights of the Uber winking conspiratorially down the lane.

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‘Oh, you came? Good.’ There was genuine pleasure on both Petra and Mason’s faces as I walked towards the pair waiting outside the town’s main theatre. ‘I hope you’ve a pen and paper with you?’ Mason added.

‘Pen and paper?’

‘To make notes for St Mede’s production next term.’ Mason grinned, taking my arm and leading the pair of us towards the main entrance.

‘In your dreams,’ I said, eyebrow raised. ‘I’m here for a free night out to one of my favourite musicals.’

‘We’ll see.’ Mason laughed, showing us to our seats.

‘You OK?’ I asked Petra, who I noticed didn’t seem her usual self.

‘Think so.’ She smiled. ‘Hope so.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ The three of us sat down, Petra in the middle and, for that, I was grateful. I wanted to take in every bit of the production without worrying that my arm might be making contact with Mason’s, that his leg might brush against mine.

‘Pregnant,’ Petra whispered.

‘Sorry?’ I stared.

‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Oh, wow! Gosh. And are you happy to be pregnant?’ I realised as soon as I said it that this was a totally personal question and hurriedly added, ‘I mean, you appear to be such a career girl, loving your job.’

Petra laughed. ‘I do love my job and I’ll have to go back to it once the baby is born. But I’m so excited, I can’t tell you. Mind you, I thought the sickness would have finished now I’m twelve weeks and can tell people.’

I glanced across her towards Mason, who was studying the theatre programme intently. ‘Mason won’t know what to do without you.’

She laughed. ‘His face did fall when I told him, but there you go. We have to produce the next generation or there’ll be no one to teach.’ She laughed again. ‘You know, Robyn, I realise you think you’re no good at this teaching lark, but both Mason and I have watched you. You’re a natural.’

‘A natural?’ I scoffed. ‘I hate it.’

‘No, you’ve just had to handle exceptionally difficult kids at the beginning of your career. If you move to an easier school, where kids aren’t bringing baggage from home with them, where they’ve been given breakfast before they set off, where the whole family’s not living in one room in a B&B…’

‘Shhh,’ Mason warned, smiling across at us while conspicuously brushing at his sleeve. ‘Leave the chalk dust where it belongs, you two. We’re here to enjoy the performance.’

‘And make notes.’ Petra grinned, nudging me. ‘We’re here for a purpose, don’t forget.’

I didn’t need to make notes: the whole performance was stamped on my memory from the very beginning of what turned out to be a quite spectacular production from joint local amateur companies. Both leads – Sandy and Danny – were, according tothe programme, professional performers who had worked in big productions in Birmingham and Leeds.

I was so envious. I jumped, Ipliéd, shimmied, leapt and danced with them all on stage, but particularly Sandy, a nineteen-year-old who, I could tell, had a whole performing life in front of her. With a thud of my heart, I had the sudden realisation that at twenty-eight, with a knackered knee and my early dance career chances scuppered by bloody Covid, I was maybe on a one-way track to the elephants’ graveyard of spent musical theatre performers. There must be loads of us, desperately trying to claw our way back out of the mire that both age and injury had had a hand in toppling us into. But with gorgeous young things like this Sandy ready to tread on our heads and push us back down, what producer would even look at us?

‘You OK?’ Petra whispered, putting a hand on my arm. I realised I was crying.

‘Sorry, just a bit hormonal,’ I whispered back, trying to smile.

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