Page 57 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘Oh, that’s not why I’m here… We were just in town and we thought we’d drop in,’ I reply.
‘Of course…’ she replies condescendingly.
Oh, wait. She thinks I’m here to try and wrangle my way into this show? Really? I’d have at least worn make-up for that, no? There is beef here, isn’t there? I hope I nailed Adam, hard. I hope I did, with the way she stands over me thinking she’s better than me.
‘I mean, Mario is out front. Maybe he can get you some front-of-house shifts if work is low on the ground.’
I would. If only to break into your dressing room and put Tabasco in your eye make-up. Don’t react, Lucy. Not now. Not like this.
‘It looks like you’re in the middle of something so we’ll go…’ I gesture, not wanting to draw this out.
‘Oh no, stay. Actually, can you tell us what looks better here? We’ve been doing piqué turns but the choreographer is thinking of changing it to chaîné-chaîné-chaîné-chaîné, ball-change, kick, step-step, leap.’
She showcases an example as the other girls look on. She’s peacocking now. Look at me traipsing about on these boards and all my success and slicked-back hair. You’re not here, you’re not even close. God, I can’t even translate half of her jazz dance language. Come on, Lucy. Remember. Fucking remember. But my body and mind aren’t playing ball. I look blankly at all of them.
‘Or maybe funky chicken, step, turn and jazz hands…?’ I say, completing the move in one swift motion. I did that for a panto I was in once, dressed as a mouse. I was fourteen. I even had a tail made out of old tights. The girls on that stage know I may be mocking a serious dance moment or that I may have indeed lost my mind. That wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
‘OK…’ Ashley says in reply, widening her eyes at me. ‘Good luck with whatever it is you do next. I guess I’ll see you around.’ She turns to look at her friends.
Give it back to her, Lucy. Go on. But I have nothing in my arsenal, whatsoever. I stand and look out at all those empty seats bar for three people who are sitting there, watching, hoping. How do you start at the bottom again? I was the lead once, the star of my own show, but I don’t know any of the lines, nothing. This feeling of disappointment, embarrassment, is unfamiliar but pierces so very deep and I turn away from the stage, doing all I can to try and hold back my tears.
13
‘Farah, there’s a quote on the wall. An actual quote about laughing and loving being the key to life. I can literally feel my stomach churning to look at it.’
‘Give it a chance.’
‘Before I set fire to the place?’
‘Lucy…’
Back in the day, Farah was my girl. She also had a streak of wanting to swim against the tide and, together, we were a little raucous. No, a lot raucous, to the point where our mothers had each other’s telephone numbers laminated to the fridge so they could check with the other to see if we’d been lying about our whereabouts and to lament at how we were both intent on testing their parental boundaries. In sixth form, we spent a lot of weekends in London ‘visiting my sisters’ but in fact partying hard at R&B/hip-hop nights wearing very little and having relations with people who were far too old and street for us. For example, C-Boss (twenty-three years old; abs for days; real name actually Clarence). In my memory, we’d made a pact that we’d be friends forever. We’d visit each other at university, call each other, still have mega nights out, getting off our faces in coloured contact lenses, bra straps on show and in skirts so short ‘you could see what we had for dinner’ (her father, circa 2019).
But Farah is not that girl any more. Farah has a family and she’s miles away from here in Amsterdam. That said, she dips in and out to check I’m all right and, today, she and the sisters have conspired to bring me here. After my trip to the theatre and my old home, my mind didn’t quite sit right and some deep funk set in. On the one hand, the world of old Lucy presented people like Tony, Darren and Cass to me, new friends and loves, but on the other the last decade has felt so eventful, so full of life and experience, and not being able to recognise any of it is terrifying and frustrating. The sisters knew it was bad when I actually cancelled my thirtieth birthday celebrations and some supposed grand plan I had to hold a music festival party in a field. That wasn’t the Lucy they knew. Therefore, they gave Farah a call – someone I know, someone I remember, someone I love.
‘You know this hypnotist person?’ I ask her over the phone.
‘Hypnotherapist, there’s a difference. I went to university with him. He’s a nice guy. Try it, worst-case scenario it doesn’t work but, best-case, your memory comes flooding back and you’re healed.’ I hear the gurgles of a newborn son over the phone and smile to myself.
‘Though if he’s wearing a cape, gets me down on all fours and tells me to bark like a dog then I will punch him,’ I say.
She knows I’m not even lying.
‘Please don’t punch him. He’s my friend.’
‘He’s a hypnotist. Maybe he’s hypnotised you into thinking that.’
‘Behave.’
‘Never.’
The baby gurgles again and it’s a pacifying sound to me, to hear that my friend is now a mother. I know her wife Astrid too and the idea of their growing family makes me glow.
‘How is little Zeke?’ I ask.
‘He misses his godmother…’ she says. ‘We all miss you.’
It still feels mad someone has entrusted that privilege and honour to me. ‘Hug him hard for me.’
