At Home With The Templetons (20 page)

‘Would you want me to watch her at Templeton Hall or here?’

‘You’d even consider it?’

‘I spent my teenage years working as a babysitter. I’m guessing Hope and I don’t both get to stay up until midnight and eat as many snacks as I did back then, though?’

‘You’d do it? Really?’ Eleanor’s face changed, became younger, more carefree, in an instant. ‘Oh, Nina. Thank you.’

Gracie was over within the hour. ‘Nina, thank you! Mum couldn’t believe it. I heard her calling to Dad as soon as she got home. “She said yes! She’ll do it!” Hope heard her, of course, and there was a huge row, but Dad was so quick-thinking, he said it wasn’t Hope you would be minding, it was Templeton Hall. They said that they felt it wasn’t fair to leave her with so much responsibility, that if she wanted to have an early night, it was better to have someone else there. So

when you come, Mum is going to ask you to pretend that it’s all about the Hall, not Hope. I thought I’d warn you now so that you could get your expression ready. Thanks again, Nina!’ With a cheery farewell wave, Gracie let herself out again.

At their boarding school in Melbourne, Audrey and Charlotte were in Charlotte’s room, arguing. They’d been arguing about the same subject for the past two days.

‘But it’s not fair. You have to let me come,’ Audrey said again, close to tears now.

‘No, I don’t, actually,’ Charlotte answered. ‘And it’s not about being fair. I’ve got your wellbeing at heart, Audrey. You told me yourself you need to learn your lines. That this is the performance that might change the course of your life. A weekend away with my friends is the very last thing you should be doing.’

‘I know my lines perfectly already. Oh, please, let me come.’ ‘There’s no point begging. I’m not going to change my mind. This isn’t just an outing. I need to do some serious networking. Now I can’t go back to Templeton Hall for weekends, I need a lot of friends with large weekender homes, very quickly.’

‘You are so selfish. It’s always about you, isn’t it?’

‘If it wasn’t about me, it would have to be about you, and quite frankly I’m much more interesting,’ Charlotte said, lifting down her suitcase from the wardrobe.

‘You’re a bitch, Charlotte Templeton. A selfish, self-centred bitch.’

Charlotte put her hands on her hips. ‘You’re one to talk. Who brags about nothing but her so far unproven acting career or her stupid artistic spirit, spends hours each day gazing in the mirror and is, in my opinion, becoming completely and utterly obsessed with herself?’

‘You just don’t understand how it feels to be sensitive, do you? How much I hurt inside sometimes. You’re just mean, you know that? Mean. Mean and bitter and a horrible selfish cow.’

‘And I love you too,’ Charlotte said, not looking up as her sister flounced out of the room.

By nine o’clock the next night Charlotte was wishing she had let Audrey come with her. At least she could have bribed her sister to use her alleged acting skills to fake a stomach ache or migraine and given her an excuse to leave this excruciatingly boring party.

It was being held in a large, luxurious split-level house in the exclusive Melbourne beachside suburb of Brighton. Celia’s cousin from America was sub-letting the property while he was here on holiday, or something like that. Charlotte hadn’t really been listening. Celia had promised her it would be filled to the brim with family friends and eligible bachelors, the wealthy sons of even wealthier property barons. Farm boys, in other words. All Charlotte had seen so far was an endless parade of cartoon cut-out boys. Boys, not men. They were all dressed alike, in moleskin trousers, pale-blue shirts, jumpers tied casually around their necks. They had ruddy faces, sunburnt arms and zero conversational skills. If she’d wanted to learn so much about the Australian farming industry, she’d have gone to agricultural college. At least there’d have been a degree at the end of it. If the amount she was drinking to stave away the boredom tonight was any indication, the only thing she’d have to show for this tedious evening was a bad hangover tomorrow.

‘… largest in the state, ten thousand head of cattle and cropping too, of course.’

Of course, Charlotte thought, so bored she was astonished she was keeping her eyes open. She glanced around for Celia. She was in a corner of the room, gazing up at another young man, either very interested in everything he was saying or very good at pretending.

‘And your family?’

‘Sorry?’ Charlotte said, dragging her attention back to the man beside her.

‘Your family’s on the land?’

‘We walk on it every day, yes.’

He didn’t get her joke. ‘Where’s your property?’ ‘North.’

‘Of where?’

‘Here,’ Charlotte said. ‘Excuse me, would you?’ She crossed the room, moving swiftly between the different groups, catching snippets of conversation, each more land-obsessed than the other. She didn’t even try to be polite by the time she reached Celia, taking her forcibly by the arm and moving her away from her still-talking new friend.

‘Charlotte! What are you ‘

‘Sorry, Celia, but I’ve never been so bored in my life.’ ‘He’s just asked me out! Next weekend!’

‘To what, a shearing demonstration?’ ‘Yes, actually. Are you coming too?’

‘Forget it,’ Charlotte said. ‘Go back to him. I’ll talk to you later.’

If only this was the movies, Charlotte thought, as she stood outside on the balcony on her own. If this was on screen, a handsome man, her intellectual equal, would follow her out now, light her cigarette with an expensive silver lighter and an expert touch, engage her in witty, flirtatious conversation and the two of them would fall instantly in love.

‘Are you here on your own?’

She spun around. There was no one there. She looked down. Yes, there was. A boy. Seven or eight years old. Younger than Spencer, anyway. He was holding something in his right hand. For a moment she thought it was a cigarette lighter and nearly laughed.

‘Yes, I am,’ she said. ‘Are you?’

He gestured back into the room. ‘My dad’s in there somewhere.’

‘What’s that accent of yours?’ Charlotte said. ‘American or Canadian?’

‘American,’ the boy said. ‘Want to play Space Invaders with me?’

Oh, why not? Charlotte thought. It was better than anything else on offer here tonight.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But you better watch out. I’ll murder you.’

On the train on the way back to their boarding school the next day, Celia didn’t hesitate to let Charlotte know how unhappy she was. ‘I invited you to do some serious matchmaking with the right sort of person, not fix you up with my ancient cousin’s seven-year-old son,’ Celia said. ‘What a waste of a weekend

I was looking for you everywhere last night. And where do I find you? Stuck in front of a TV set with a kid half your age.’

‘Nearly a third of my age, actually. Ethan’s a great kid. You should be proud of him. He beat the pants off me at Space Invaders as well.’ Charlotte looked more closely at her friend. ‘You’re seriously mad at me, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am. All the trouble I went to, inviting all the right people, the right guys, and you didn’t even try to talk to them.’ ‘It wasn’t a waste for you, meeting Mr Sheepdip 1993. And it wasn’t a waste for me either. I think Ethan and I have a very happy future ahead of us.’

Celia started to thaw. ‘He’s fallen in love with you, you know. I was talking to his father this morning. Apparently Ethan didn’t shut up about you all night.’

Charlotte grinned. ‘There. See? I was a hit.’

‘With a kid, Charlotte. A little kid.’ Celia pulled out a magazine, opening it with a sharp, cross flick. ‘Next time, lift your sights a little higher, would you? A little older, even.’

‘Next time? I thought you’d washed your hands of me.’ ‘Not yet. You get one more chance.’

‘I do? When?’

‘Next weekend. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Ethan’s invited you to his eighth birthday party. As his guest of honour.’

,,he was going to be sick, Audrey knew it. She was going to be physically sick, on her costume, on her shoes, on the floor. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go out there.

From her position in the wings, she could hear the other actors saying their lines, word-perfect, their timing spot on. The scene was moving swiftly, leading up to the moment of her entrance. She wanted to run away. She would run except she was suddenly frozen. She knew with complete certainty that if she stepped from here to there, onto that stage, in front of that audience, she would not be able to speak. All her preparation had been for nothing. There were no lines in her head, just white noise, the sound of her fear. Her breathing was shallow and noisy, too noisy. She felt a touch on her hand, the drama teacher, there beside her, an encouraging smile on his face, but it was too late. She couldn’t do it. She thought of her family in the audience. Her friends and classmates. No one would applaud her, she knew it. They’d laugh at her, talk about her dismal performance. She couldn’t go out there. She couldn’t.

Her entrance line came. Once. Twice. She heard the actor say it a third time, her expression changing, alarm registering, knew she was thinking, ‘What’s wrong? Get out here.’ Audrey couldn’t move. Her teacher touched her arm. ‘Audrey, that’s your cue. Go.’ She couldn’t. Something had happened to her body. It had turned to stone.

‘Audrey, go!’

She went. His push - not gentle that time - propelled her. Before she knew what had happened she was on the stage. The spotlights were shining on her. She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, under her arms, in the small of her back. The other girls on the stage were staring at her. Waiting for her. She took a step back. She heard her line being hissed from the prompter at the side of the stage. It sounded like more white noise.

She took another step back and bumped against a piece of scenery. Her eyes adjusted to the lights. She could see the audience now. Hundreds of people. Rows of them, staring at her. Waiting for her. Wanting to hear her talk. But there was nothing in her head, no words on her tongue. She was speechless, movement-less, filled with only terror.

A hiss from off-stage. ‘Come on, Audrey. Do something. Say something.’

Do what? Say what? She couldn’t remember anything. Anything at all. She heard the laughter and the chatter start from the back of the hall. It was like a wave coming at her, building into

a flood. They were laughing at her. All of them. She heard voices from close by, the other actors, hissing at her. She could see the hatred in their faces. They’d always hated her. They’d made that clear in the final rehearsals, gossiping about her, jealous of her. She’d known that, but now they were furious with her too. More laughter from the audience. How long had she been standing there? A minute? More? Less?

She opened her mouth. Nothing. No sound. She tried again. A squeak. A squeak like a mouse, like a door needing oil. A stupid, silly, ridiculous sound. This time there was no mistaking the laughter. One of the other girls on the stage had the giggles now too. Audrey could hear her, mocking her, laughing at her. Everyone in the auditorium was staring at her now, laughing at her, laughing at her. She couldn’t bear it. Didn’t anyone understand what this meant to her? This was everything to her. She turned, eyes panicked, to see the teacher preparing the understudy, to see the other girl struggling into a costume …

No, it couldn’t happen. They had to let her stay on. She’d find her voice, she would. She was trying. Couldn’t they see that? She opened her mouth. Another squeak.

She felt a hand on her arm, one of the other actors. Her face was angry, her grip tight, her nails digging into Audrey’s arm, as if she was going to drag her off the stage, there, now, in front of everyone. No. No! She wouldn’t let her. How dare she even try. Audrey took a step back, wrenching her arm away, bumping into another actor she hadn’t seen. She turned to apologise, no sound, still nothing, turned again, tripped on her long dress and started to fall. For a second she found her balance, but as quickly she lost it again. The sound she made as she crashed to the floor, her dress riding up around her bare legs, sounded like a thunderclap.

‘Is she drunk?’ she heard someone ask, their voice loud, too loud. More ripples of sound from the audience, whispering, giggling, laughing. She tried to get up. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. Her dress was tangled a

round her body, her limbs felt numb. She wanted to talk, she wanted to say her lines, she wanted to insist she wasn’t drunk, of course she wasn’t drunk, but she couldn’t seem to move, to talk, to find even a single word.

She started crying, the tears spilling from her eyes. Somehow dragging herself to the edge of the stage, she curled into a tight ball, her head tucked against her knees, wishing, hoping, feeling as though she was going to die. She could barely hear the commotion around her, hisses, brief arguments, until somehow she registered that the play was continuing. Against a murmur of voices, even laughs from the audience, she saw from her huddled position on the floor that the understudy was now on stage, her dress only half done up, reading from a battered script, her voice like a monotone, instead of Audrey, in her costume, her lines perfect, delivering a moving and triumphant performance …

The rest of the play passed in a daze for her. Within minutes of the curtain falling, she was surrounded by the actors, the stagehands, anyone who’d had anything to do with the play. The play she had just ruined. She still couldn’t talk, couldn’t explain, couldn’t untangle her limbs, couldn’t stand up. All she could do was stay curled in that ball, unable to stop crying silent tears, sick and heartbroken and as lonely as she had ever felt. She had not just ruined her acting career. She had ruined her life.

Charlotte appeared, pushing through the crowd, grabbing her arm. ‘What is it? Are you sick?’

Audrey could only shake her head.

‘What is it, then? Audrey, what happened?’

A girl beside them spoke up, her voice angry. ‘Stage fright, allegedly.’

Another girl scoffed. ‘She’s the one who said she knew this whole play backwards. She’s been telling us all for weeks how to do our parts.’