Page 5 of Second Act at Appleton Green
‘You will sing the roof off,’ Gran had told her.
She had let them all down.
Lily walked until she found herself at the Millennium Bridge and she stood looking down as tourists and locals alike streamed past her. Their chatter and laughter felt like a slap to her senses and she wanted to scream at them all, ‘Don’t you know I just ruined my first big opportunity? I ruined it and I’ve let everyone down!’
She leaned forward against the railing, staring out at St Paul’s Cathedral rising on the other side of the river.
‘There is nothing that’s broken that can’t be fixed. It might look the exact way it used to but perhaps it’s strong now,’ she heard someone say and she turned to see an elderly man who had paused beside her, his kind eyes crinkling as he smiled at her kindly.
Lily nodded, not trusting herself to speak as she stared ahead again.
The old man reached out and put his hand on hers, which was clutching the handrail. ‘You know,’ he continued, and turned to gaze out at the cityscape as he gave her hand a squeeze, ‘sometimes you wonder if this is the life you’re supposed to live, but if you can trust the path you’re on and not fight it, not try and escape it, you just never know what’s waiting in the wings for you. Step into your light, dear. Your time will come again. Today is not the day to exit stage left.’
Lily gasped and before she could respond, the man had already moved on, disappearing into the flow of pedestrians crossing the bridge. His words hung in the air, mingling with the mist rising from the river.
Who was he? What had just happened?
Lily’s eyes drifted to a street performer near the bridge’s entrance, silently acting out an elaborate mime scene to the delight of a small crowd. Here, with no spotlight or velvet curtains, was a performance filled with more life and joy than she’d managed to summon at the audition. Was she planning to jump? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
She sank onto a nearby bench, exhausted from the day. The last light faded from the London sky, the city’s lights flickering to life around her. As the Thames flowed steadily on, Lily wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was a role waiting for her somewhere else.
3
The key turned in the lock with a hollow click, and Lily stepped into the darkness of her flat. For a moment, she stood motionless in the doorway, letting the silence envelop her like a shroud. Outside, London pulsed with its usual frenetic energy – car horns blaring, night buses rumbling past, distant laughter floating up from the pub on the corner. But here, in the confines of her small Southwark flat, time seemed to stand still. Just this morning she had happily practised the song with no issues as she got ready.
Lily flicked on the lights, wincing as the sudden brightness assaulted her red and sore eyes, cried out so much they hurt to open. The shared flat was a study in organised chaos – a testament to two creative souls crammed into a space barely big enough for one. Sheet music littered every surface, competing for space with dog-eared scripts and a few of her half-empty mugs of long-cold tea. A garish poster forThe Wizard of Ozdominated one wall, a glittery Post-it note stuck to the corner:I’ll bring you back a pair of ruby slippers! x
The sight of his note made Lily’s heart clench. God, she was really giving herself a pity party, she thought as she shuffled into the tiny kitchenette, filled up the kettle and turned it on. The dishes from breakfast still sat in the sink – Nigel’s ‘lucky audition mug’ perched precariously atop a stack of plates. This morning, they’d laughed on the phone, trading show tunes and inside jokes. Now, the memory felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. He had told her she would nail it, had helped her practise the song a few more times over the phone on FaceTime, ignoring the banging on the floor from below, and she missed him more than ever.
A soft meow drew her attention to the windowsill, where Mr Mistoffelees sat watching her with knowing yellow eyes. ‘At least someone’s glad to see me,’ Lily murmured, reaching out to scratch behind his ears.
The cat butted his head against her hand, his purr a comforting rumble in the oppressive quiet of the flat. For a moment, Lily allowed herself to be soothed by his affection, but as her gaze drifted to the mirror hanging crookedly on the wall, reality came crashing back.
The girl staring back at her looked like a stranger – pale, hollow-eyed, the spark of ambition snuffed out. Her eyes were swollen and red, her face blotched and her usually bouncy curls hanging limp and lifeless over her shoulders. Lily turned away quickly, unable to bear the sight of her own defeat.
Her gaze drifted back to the mirror.
She was seventeen again, standing on a rickety stage in the community centre, the heat of the lights making her makeup run. The final notes of ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ hung in the air, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, like a wave crashing to shore, the applause erupted. Her drama teacher, Mrs Wilson, with tears in her eyes, mouthing, ‘Brilliant, absolutely brilliant!’
But truth be told, Lily had once aspired to become a music instructor. She had been taught by wonderful teachers at school in piano and singing, and she had imagined herself helping people find their voice and learn to play the piano. In fact, Lily was positive that teaching was her calling. She’d even started looking into universities with strong music education departments. However, that all changed when the school’s production ofWest Side Storytook place.
Lily had been cast as Maria, and she was enthralled from the moment she stepped onto the stage. The brilliant lights, the rush of adrenaline, the thunderous applause – it was exhilarating. Suddenly, the concept of teaching felt… less. Less interesting, less glamorous, and less everything.
‘You were born to be on stage, sweetie,’ her mother exclaimed following the performance. ‘You’re going to be a celebrity!’
So Lily’s dreams were waylaid, and she convinced herself that teaching was merely a phase, a backup plan. She was meant for bigger things, to have her name in lights on the West End.
When she started acting school, her teachers supported her new dream. One singing instructor had laughed when someone suggested teaching as a profession. ‘Teaching is for those who can’t make it as performers.’
So Lily had set aside her old desire, burying it behind new goals of fame and fortune. She poured herself into acting and singing, anxious to prove that she possessed the necessary talent to succeed.
But now, her voice mysteriously gone, Lily couldn’t help but question if she’d made the correct decision. She remembered the joy she had felt in assisting others in finding their voice, as well as the satisfaction of developing talent. Had she been too quick to discard that option?
She shook her head and pushed the thought aside. No, she was a performer. She’d worked too hard and made too many sacrifices to quit just now. When her voice returned, she would resume where she had left off. She had to. Hadn’t she?
Lily blinked, and the memories faded, replaced by the harsh reality of her dingy flat. That girl – the one with stars in her eyes and a voice that could shake the rafters – where had she gone? How had she ended up here, a hollowed-out shell of her former self, dreams lying shattered at her feet?
Her phone rang and she saw her mother’s name come up on the phone screen. She had been calling all afternoon, probably thinking Lily’s silence was a good sign. She noted there was a call from Paul. He could wait, she thought. The last thing she needed was her agent screaming bloody murder at her. But she did need to speak to Denise.
