Thirty-one

Essex, 1988

“I’ve got you some new tapes,” says Maggie, walking into my bedroom. She smells of hairspray and her number five perfume all at once. She’s wearing a yellow suit today, and for some reason the shoulders are padded to make them look bigger than they are. I’m pleased about the new tapes. I’ve listened to all the old ones over and over, and I know all the stories by heart.

“Now, these tapes are very special.” She slides one of them into my Fisher-Price cassette player and presses Play. A strange voice comes out of the machine.

“Today, children, we are going to learn about vowel sounds. Repeat after me: ‘How now brown cow.’”

Maggie hits the Pause button. “Well, go on then, do what she says.”

This story tape doesn’t sound fun at all. I open my mouth, but I’ve already forgotten what I am supposed to say. Maggie tuts. She hits another button, and when the sound of the tape rewinding stops, she presses Play again. I try hard to remember this time.

“Today, children, we are going to learn about vowel sounds. Repeat after me: ‘How now brown cow.’”

Maggie hits Pause and I repeat the words. “How now brown cow.” I think she will be pleased, but she isn’t.

“Not like that! You have to say it the way she says it. No more Irish, you need to start sounding more like her, like them. You need to fit in.”

“Why can’t I speak like you?”

“Because people judge you for what’s on the outside, for how you look and sound, nobody cares what’s on the inside. I want you to think of it like acting, that’s all it is, and there is nothing wrong with that. Some people make a pretty good living from it.”

“I don’t want to act.”

“Sure you do. That film you love so much, what’s it called? The NeverEnding bloody Story, that’s just actors acting, it’s not real.” She’s making me want to cry, but I know she’ll slap me if I do, so I blink the tears away. “Acting is super fun, and if you can learn to speak like them, then you’ll be able to have all kinds of amazing adventures when you’re older, just like the little boy in the film.”

“Can I fly a dragon dog one day?”

“Probably not, but you can do other things if you work hard and learn to speak nicely.”

“If I need to learn things, then why don’t I go to school?”

Maggie’s face starts to change. “Because you’re not old enough yet.”

I am.

“Then why is there a school uniform in my wardrobe?”

Maggie’s face twists and I think it might turn into her angry one, but it doesn’t do that, it does something different, something I don’t remember seeing before. She walks over to the wardrobe and opens the doors, slowly, as though she might be scared of what is inside. Her hand moves along all the little hangers, until her fingers find the one right at the end. She lifts it out. The price tags are still attached to the blue jacket, shirt, and stripy tie.

“You mean this?” she asks, so quietly I almost don’t hear her. I nod. “Well, this was meant to be a surprise, and I think the pinafore might still be a little too big for you, but by September, I reckon it will fit just right.”

“You mean I’m going to school in September?”

“Yes,” she says after a little while, and I stand up and jump on the bed. “If…” I sit back down. “If you learn to speak like them. You just need to listen to all these elocution tapes and do what the lady says. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

“But why do I have to? Why can’t I just sound like me?”

“People judge your dad and me because of how we speak, and I don’t want that for you, Baby Girl. I want you to grow up to be anyone you want to be. It’s just an act, that’s all. We all have to learn to act, Aimee. It’s never, ever, a good idea to let strangers see the real you. So long as you never forget who you really are, acting will save you.”

Thirty-two

London, 2017

I’m pretty good at acting as if I’m okay, even when I’m not. I’ve had a lot of practice. But the face I’m wearing today doesn’t feel like my own, and piece by piece, it feels like my life is falling apart. There seems to be nothing I can do to keep what remains of it together. And my agent thinks now is a good time to drop me, which will be career-ending.

Tony’s office is right in the middle of town. It’s a sunny day, so I walk some of the way, avoiding the tube and the army of people who crowd onto it. Just because I’ve chosen a life on-screen, it shouldn’t mean that I am no longer entitled to a life of my own, a life that is private. Despite today’s online attack, I’m not too worried about people recognizing me; people tend to see what they want nowadays rather than what is actually there. I’ve seen other actresses go out in hats and sunglasses, but that just draws attention. Leaving my hair curly, not wearing too much makeup, and dressing just like everyone else is a much better disguise. Sometimes people stare in my direction for a fraction longer than average, you can see it in their eyes, that moment of recognition. But they can’t place me, can’t remember where they’ve seen my face before.

And I like that.

I’m early, so I wander around Waterstones in Piccadilly. For the first time in days I lose myself just a little, and it is a nice place to get lost; there are so many books all under one roof. I come here quite often and love that nobody ever knows who I am. Sometimes I wish I could hide in here and only come out when everyone else has gone, and the staff have locked up and left for the day. I’d spend the night reading something old, and at dawn I’d read something new. You can’t allow the past to steal your present, but if you siphon off just the right amount, it can help fuel your future.

I’ve always felt safe in bookshops. It’s as though the stories inside them can rescue me from myself and the rest of the world. A literary sanctuary filled with shelves of paper-shaped parachutes, which will save you when you fall. Some people manage to blow their own childlike bubbles, to hide inside to protect themselves from the truth of the world. But even if you float through life, safe inside your own bubble, you can still see what’s going on all around you. You can’t shut the horror out completely, unless you close your eyes.

I buy a book. Surrounded by so many, it would seem rude not to. It’s a story written in 1958. I’ve read it before, but it brings a curious sense of comfort to slip it inside my bag. As I leave the shop, and the world of fiction, behind, it feels as if I’m taking a little bit of fantasy with me. A talisman made of paper and words to help ward off reality.

I stroll out with a little more hope in my heart than when I entered. I’m starting to think that everything might be okay after all. Then a woman grabs my arm, pulling me backwards out of the road, just as a double-decker bus hurtles past. A blur of red rushes right in front of my face as the driver’s horn fills my ears.

“Watch where you’re going!” snaps my rescuer, with a shake of her aggressively permed head.

I mumble a thank-you, not quite able to form the words or catch the breath that seems to have been stolen from me. That was close. Too close. Sometimes I just don’t know what is wrong with me; I seem to have spent my whole life looking the wrong way.