‘You should have a go,’ she said. ‘They’re a good bunch. Not your usual am-dram types. It’ll be a real laugh.’
‘But I can’t act. Or sing,’ objected Richenda. ‘At least, not properly’.
She could sing, she knew that. Sometimes, when Mick organized an impromptu jamming session, she’d join in. She’d received a couple of grudging compliments from the less self-obsessed inhabitants of The Farm. One had compared her to Stevie Nicks, which had earned her a scowl from her mother, who’d always harboured ambitions of stardom but couldn’t sing a note.
‘Nor can any of them,’ said the postmistress cheerfully. ‘You should give it a go. They’ll make you very welcome. And if the worst comes to the worst, you can help paint the scenery. Whatever happens, you’ll have fun.’
The postmistress watched Richenda go, hoping she’d follow her advice. The poor girl never seemed to have any fun. She was like a little Dickensian drudge, in her own way. She always looked pale and ill. It would do her good to get involved in something outside that dreadful commune she lived in.
For three days Richenda mulled over the prospect. The auditions were on a Saturday afternoon. Somehow, she managed to persuade one of the more sympathetic mothers at the commune to look after the kids, muttering that she had to go to the doctor. Then she screwed up her courage and began her journey to the village hall. The urge to run back home was overwhelming. But something inside told her it was time for her to take control of her life, grab this opportunity. Otherwise she would be facing a lifetime of drudgery at Mick and Sally’s beck and call, a courier-cum-nursemaid.
To her surprise, she
was
made welcome. No one questioned her right to be there. When it was her turn to audition, the director made her feel relaxed, and thanked her warmly afterwards. His name was Neil Ormerod, and he was quite good-looking in a boyish way, in his collar-less denim shirt and little round glasses, even though he was quite old; at least forty.
To her amazement, she got a part. She was the girl who sold strawberries in the market place, and she had a solo – ‘Strawberries Ripe’. To add to her joy, she was to be Nancy’s understudy. And Neil had hinted that she was good enough to have played Nancy. ‘I can’t give you that part, though,’ he said regretfully, ‘because you don’t really have the experience and I’d be lynched. But stick with us
and who knows what might happen next year? You’ve got a lot of promise.’
Richenda was beside herself with excitement. Each night, she managed to get the children in bed by half past six so she could slip across the fields to the village hall for rehearsals. It benefited her, as by getting a proper night’s sleep they were better behaved the next day anyway. And even if she wasn’t required at the rehearsal, she sat and absorbed every moment of what was going on; how Neil coaxed a better performance out of each member of cast.
One afternoon, Mick cornered her in the kitchen. She’d curled up to learn her lines as Nancy just in case. She thrust the script under a cushion as he came in.
‘You seem very perky these days. You must be getting it from somewhere.
What?’
‘Sex. A bit of cock. That’s the only reason I know for a woman to be happy. Who’s the lucky bloke?’
Richenda tilted her chin into the air indignantly.
‘Don’t be stupid. I’m only fourteen.’
Mick leered.
‘If you’re old enough to bleed, you’re old enough to breed.’
Richenda recoiled in disgust. He tugged at her shirt.
‘I bet you’ve got a nice little pair of titties under there.’
‘Stop it!’
He wrenched the fabric and the buttons fell off, revealing her breasts. Mick guffawed in triumph.
‘There you are. Told you. Beautiful.’
Richenda pulled the shirt back round her and went to
get off the chair and run away, but Mick grabbed her.
‘Come on, sweetheart. Let me give you something to smile about. God knows I’ve been keeping your mother happy long enough…’
She was more surprised by her weakness than his strength. He was wiry, not particularly heavy, but she was still unable to push him away. Eventually, she submitted with a sigh.
‘That’s it. You’ve got to learn to relax a bit,’ he said as he thrust away. After what seemed an eternity, he rolled off her. Richenda lay on the flagstones, staring mutely at the ceiling.
‘Where do you fuck off to every night, anyway?’ He looked at her with interest as he did up his flies.
‘Nowhere…’ Richenda replied dully. She couldn’t think of a lie quickly enough. She sat up sharply as he pulled back the cushion on the chair to reveal her script. He studied it closely for a moment, frowning, then tossed it back on the chair and walked out.
He didn’t mention the incident again, and neither did she, pushing it to the back of her mind. If it hadn’t been for
Oliver!
, she thought she might have gone mad. While she was at the rehearsals, she could forget her miserable existence. She loved everything about the play, especially the camaraderie. Yes, there was competitiveness, but it was banter rather than bitchiness. There was no cynicism. Everyone was out to enjoy themselves. And she adored being on stage. Each rehearsal she gained in confidence; her voice grew stronger. One night she stood in for Nancy, who had a cold, and was praised warmly by Neil, told that she had real promise, real talent. And no one seemed
to resent the fact that she had shone; they all told her she was brilliant. She felt filled with a warm glow that was pride and excitement – she’d found something she was good at and loved doing. She couldn’t wait for the opening night. Each performer was given two free tickets to give to family or friends. She gave hers to the girl playing Betsy. No one at The Farm would want to come. They’d sneer and scoff. She didn’t want them to come, anyway. This was her escape, her little world, and she didn’t want it invaded.
The night of the dress rehearsal she came flying out on air and bumped smack bang into Mick.
‘Thought you were up to something,’ he taunted.
Richenda looked at her feet, her excitement withering away, knowing that somehow she was never going to end up back on the stage, that Mick would see to it that she wouldn’t have her moment of glory.
Later that night she found herself being pulled out of bed by her mother, who’d turned into a screaming, hysterical banshee. She tugged at Richenda’s hair, scratched her face.
‘You fucking little slag!’ she screeched. ‘Mick told me you seduced him. Said you couldn’t wait for his cock inside you!’
Richenda looked at Mick lounging in the doorway, surveying the scene with a mocking detachment. She was shocked by the brazenness of the lie, and was met with a cold, blank stare that told her he wasn’t going to help her out of this situation. Her mother would never believe it if she told the truth, that he’d forced himself upon her.
Later, as she packed up her things, she found the
Jungle
Book
jumper, still hanging from its needles. It summed up her life so perfectly. Empty promises.
She ran. Across the fields and on to the main road. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it would burst. She pounded up the road through the village, past the post office where she’d seen the sign for the audition, past the pub and into the cul-de-sac of modern homes where she knew the director, Neil Ormerod, lived.
She ran over the crunchy gravel of the drive to his reassuringly sensible mock-Georgian house with lights that worked and curtains that closed and two neatly parked cars outside and a dog that did as it was told. She rang the bell. It had a merry, welcoming chime, and she felt heartened. He’d give her a bed for a couple of nights, she felt sure of it. He’d been so kind, encouraged her; he really seemed to care.
Ten minutes later, she was disillusioned.
‘You can’t stay here, love,’ he said awkwardly, his eyes flicking behind him. Richenda wasn’t to know that he had a history of affairs with his leading ladies that his wife didn’t take kindly to; that she wouldn’t look upon Richenda as a waif and stray but as a threat. Richenda didn’t make a scene, just turned disconsolately to go.
‘Wait!’ he said and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, took out his wallet. He handed her two crumpled five-pound notes.
‘I know it’s not much…’ he trailed off, feeling suddenly ashamed. ‘If you get into real trouble, ring me at the office.’ He fumbled in his wallet again and handed her a business card.
Richenda managed a grateful smile.
‘Thank you.’
For the last time, she took the bus into Reading, where she changed and took a bus to Victoria.
It was surprising how easy she found life over the next couple of years, and how her existence had equipped her to think on her feet. She’d had the foresight to pinch the family allowance books before she left, which gave her a small lump sum to tide her over. The first thing she did was go into Top Shop and buy herself two new outfits and a pair of shoes, working on the basis that one had to spend money to make money. Then she booked herself an appointment at a smart hairdresser in Covent Garden – she went to the models’ evening, so the price was minimal. By the end of the evening she had a head of shining hair and a job sweeping up and shampooing clients, cash paid and no questions asked. And a new name. When the boss had asked her name, she’d given the stage name she’d invented for herself in bed one night. From that day on, she was Richenda Fox.
By the end of the week she had feigned a terrible argument with her parents and moved into the flat of one of the stylists who needed help with the rent. She only had a sofa bed to sleep on, but it was better than moving from one late-night café to the next, snatching sleep on her folded arms until she was told to leave.
For the first time in her life she could relax. She was in control, and didn’t have to live in fear of someone spoiling what she’d worked so hard to achieve. She loved working at the hairdresser’s; the clients were glamorous and interesting and she picked up lots of tips on what to wear and how to look good. Soon she blossomed. She
had a figure to die for, her hair was done for free and she spent carefully on bargains that she accessorized cleverly so she always looked bang up to date; a proper girl about town. Eventually, she was promoted to receptionist, which gave her a little more money. And to supplement her income, she did a stint as a tequila girl at a Mexican restaurant near Leicester Square, scarcely dressed but for a belt studded with shot glasses slung round her body, flogging slugs of eye-watering liquor to tourists who were already too far gone to know any better.
Two years later, she was offered her own room and bathroom in a wealthy client’s house in Islington – not so very far away from where she and her mother had once lived – in return for help with the housework and children. It was a very carefree time: the family were noisy and loving, the children boisterous but affectionate, the parents overworked but very fair to her. And, to her surprise, they were interested in her as well. When they discovered that she had a burning desire to go to drama school that she feared would never be realized, they sent her off to evening classes to get some qualifications, pushed her to join the local drama group, took her out to the theatre, introduced her to friends of theirs who were involved in film and television. For the first time she saw that people didn’t always have their own interests at heart. She stayed with them for four years. They were as close to a real family as she’d ever got. The day she left to join the Central School of Speech and Drama, she sobbed.
At drama school, she thrived. She emerged as one of the most promising students of her year, and straight
away walked into a minor role as a nurse on a long-running hospital drama. She soon gained notoriety when a disc jockey on national radio began fantasizing about her on air during his afternoon show, stirring up a storm. Delighted by the publicity, the producers responded by giving her a storyline of her own. That Christmas she played Cinderella in a panto and legions of fans turned up. All the while she networked, smiled, gave polite interviews and waited for the plum role. Meanwhile, her character in the hospital drama embarked on a sizzling affair with a consultant and viewing figures rose.
The press called her the ice queen, but she didn’t mind. Better to remain an enigma than embark on a string of failed showbiz relationships. Cleverly, she supported her leading man through his marriage break-up, using the old adage ‘we’re just good friends’ to heighten media speculation. When he turned out to have been screwing another member of the cast, Richenda came out smelling of roses, and the press surmised that she might have been disappointed in love. She landed the role of Lady Jane not long afterwards.
She trod a fine line between maximizing her coverage, but not wanting anyone to dig too deep, to ferret about in her past for skeletons. She certainly didn’t want Sally and Mick tumbling out of the woodwork. They would never watch TV or read the sort of magazines she appeared in. They lived in their own little self-indulgent bubble; a parallel universe that wasn’t inhabited by TV stars. Anyway, she was certain they wouldn’t recognize her.
For gone was the skin sallow from undernourishment
and fatigue. Now it was suffused with a glow that came from a healthy diet, several litres of water a day, daily exfoliation, moisturizing and regular skin peels. The long mousy hair with its frizzy cloud of split ends was a lustrous, gleaming chestnut brown. Her lips were plumped up with the minutest injection of collagen once every three months. And, courtesy of contact lenses, her once pale, insipid blue eyes were now a vivid green.
She’d invented an anodyne, uninteresting past for herself, a past that hopefully no journalist would want to go digging around in. And she’d neatly disposed of her fictional parents, by sending them off to Australia in pursuit of her fictional brother, where they were all living in the sun-drenched luxury of Adelaide, and where she joined them for family get-togethers from time to time.
Mousy little Rowan Collins had totally reinvented herself.
She was now the ravishing and successful Richenda Fox. And given her past, was it so surprising that she craved recognition, security and status? That the prospect of a mouth-watering manor house and a mouth-watering husband was so attractive to her, when she’d had anti-establishment claptrap rammed down her throat from an early age?