Page 99 of The Start of Something Wonderful

‘I see,’ she says, a surge of unspoken despair mixed with agitation crackling down the phone line.

I’m sorely tempted to tell her about Francesco, tofill the sudden cheerless silence, to offer her a morsel of hope that her middle-aged daughter is not going to end up an old maid with whiskers and a cat. But I stop myself in time because I know from experience that I’ll be bombarded with questions like, ‘Couldhebe THE ONE?’

She’ll get her hopes up, only to have them dashed – again.

Since Nigel left and I set out on this crazy journey,a part of me has felt selfish and guilty for the anguish I cause my ageing parents. Like Chelsea, I long to prove something to them, and now here’s my big chance to demonstrate that their life-long investment has matured at last: the private school, the extra maths tuition to get me through my GCSE (failed), the piano lessons (abandoned), the summer course at etiquette academy to turn me fromtwenty-something ladette with attitude to lady (expelled) weren’t all a complete waste of time and money.

I may not have turned out to be the high-flying United Nations interpreter, Supermum, or Kirstie-Allsop homemaker they wanted me to be, but surely success is not necessarily a financial thing? I’m doing what makes me happyandgetting paid for it. As a parent, surely you can’t wish morefor your child?

With Norman about to turn eighty and showing early signs of memory loss, the play is a reminder of my real parents’ mortality and the significance of each passing day.

* * *

‘They’ll be here now, Mags. In their seats,’ I say, glancing at my watch and continuing to pace up and down. ‘Row C. I’m scared if I look down and catch their eye, I might forget my lines. In fact,a part of me wishes they weren’t coming …’

‘You’re going to wear out what’s left of this tatty carpet,’ says Mags in an unusually firm tone. ‘If you carry on like this, youwillmess it up. Forget they’re there. The auditorium is the fourth wall, remember? If you’re thinking about your parents sitting a few feet away from you, then you’re not playing it for real. Chelsea will become a caricature– a phoney. I’ve watched you grow into her these last few weeks, and I will not allow you to lose sight of her. If your parents don’t like the life you’ve chosen, then that’s up to them. My son wasn’t happy about me coming here, leaving his father behind in the care home. I visit my guilt every day, not only off stage, but on stage too.’

(There’s a particular scene before I come on, whereEthel sends Norman strawberry picking, but he returns early because he gets disoriented. The emotional undercurrent of fear, frustration, and helplessness between them rips your heart.)

‘We can use our real emotions to bring a character to life, but whatever happens, we mustn’t let those emotions get out of control and overwhelm us. We get one shot at this, Emily,’ she says, clasping my shoulders.‘As the old saying goes, “life is not a dress rehearsal”.’

I channel all my pent-up emotion into that afternoon’s performance, and am aware of a subtle shift, in that Chelsea and I connect on an even deeper level than before. Through her I am forced to confront those negative feelings of inadequacy and guilt that I still haven’t gotten my life together. The scene where Ethel tells me to growup, forget the past, and move on has an added frisson of realism today, the like of which I haven’t experienced before. Chelsea is teaching me about myself. All that stuff at drama school – about Stanislavski and ‘being a role’ – suddenly makes real sense.

* * *

‘Visitors at stage door for Fraulein Forsyth,’ Olaf’s voice announces over the intercom. I bound down the stairs, leaping offthe last three steps into Dad’s arms, just as I did when I was a child.

‘What can I say, love?’ he says, squeezing me tight. ‘We couldn’t believe that was our wee girl up there, could we, Brenda?’

I turn to face Mum. Is that approval I see in her eyes – pride even?

‘I don’t know what to say … I …’ she says, quickly dabbing her eyes.

‘Now, that’s a first,’ says Dad.

‘That’senough, Brian!’ she says, blowing her nose then checking her appearance in the full-length mirror.

* * *

Mags and Oliver join us for a traditional supper ofWienerschnitzel, Erdapfelsalat(boiled potatoes and red onion marinated in oil, salt, and pepper), and a local wine, from the proprietor’s own vineyard in Grinzing, on the outskirts of Vienna.

This being a special occasion, I breakmy pre-show, zero-alcohol rule. (This regulation came into force following the Rep Season from hell. I still have nightmares about Margo’s gin-fuelled, unpredictable performances and probably will for many years to come.)

‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ says Mum later, as their taxi pulls up outside the stage door. ‘Oliver and Mags – still treading the boards at their age. And they have no intentionof retiring.’

‘Precisely,’ I say. ‘And neither do I. To find what you love to do and be paid for doing it – well, you can’t get luckier than that, can you?’

‘It’s all very well doing what you love, but it doesn’t always pay the bills,’ says Mum pointedly.

I take a deep breath. ‘Let’s put it this way – if someone had told you when you were young,we know how much you love nursing, butsorry, we can’t possibly allow you to do it.How would that have made you feel?’

‘That’s … that’s different,’ says Mum.

‘How different?’

‘Well, for starters, I was in my twenties. You’re …’

‘… middle-aged, I know. But I don’t have any responsibilities, so why not? Why shouldn’t I have a shot at this before it’s too late?’

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