‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘But I’m sure it won’t be long.’
‘Oh well,’ she says. ‘I’ll just have to keep my fingers crossed – or should I say claws!’ She guffaws out loud at her own joke, slapping my back. ‘Sorry,’ she says, wincing. ‘When I’m dressed up like this, I can’t help getting into character. By the way, is it true that that actor is here? You know, the one who played the gorgeous vicar in that show?’
‘Which show?’ I ask while noticing another client across the room. Jennifer has a truly remarkable memory and is forever bringing up actors who nobody else remembers, as though they were A-list stars.
‘Oh you know, what was it called … THAT’S IT! Peter’s Paradise. And the actor was Matthew Gordon.’
I start. My skin goosebumps. ‘Matthew Gordon?’ I repeat, incredulous.
Jennifer is looking at me with an odd expression, Swiftly, I try to pass off my shock. ‘Wow! That was years ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She seems, thank goodness, to accept the reason for my reaction. ‘Well, apparently Ronnie …’
She stops, cut off by a sharp tap on my shoulder that makes me turn round.
‘Poppy! Don’t you look wonderful.’ Sharon is one of my rivals who has never particularly liked me since a male client of mine got a plum walk-on role that she’d been after for someone on her own books. ‘Black leather trousers. Very cool.’
‘Actually, they’re my eldest daughter’s,’ I say. ‘I was rather pleased they fitted me.’ Too late I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Sharon isn’t exactly svelte. From the look on her face, she’s taken my comment as a dig at her own ample figure whereas in fact I was simply admitting the truth. I couldn’t decide what to wear tonight until Melissa really surprised me by offering to lend me the new trousers I had recently bought for her. They were a bit long as my daughter is taller than I am, so I had to fold them back into turn-ups. Luckily, these were hidden inside my black suede boots. ‘Wow, Mum,’ she’d said, leading me to the mirror. ‘They look amazing on you.’
This hadn’t always been the case. At the time when I still had hopes of the stage, one of the directors I’d auditioned with had described me as ‘Little Miss Dumpy’ to my agent. (I’d found this out through another girl on her books who had taken great delight in telling me.) It has to be said that my optimism for an acting career had been prompted by encouragement from my parents and school, rather than my five foot two and a half inches of average looks. My main assets, looks-wise, or so I’ve been told, were and are my glossy auburn hair, which curls naturally on the nape of my neck, plus my permanent smile, whatever the weather. ‘Poppy,’ Mum used to say to me when I was growing up. ‘You were born with a naturally sunny disposition like me. That’s a gift. Make the most of it.’
She certainly had. But you’re not her, I remind myself. You’re you.
If my mother were here now, she’d see that, by a stroke of luck, I’ve turned into one of those women who look better in their forties than they did in their twenties. My once podgy looks in the acting world have slimmed into a ‘sexily curvy body’, according to one roving-eyed casting producer who made it clear that he was interested in me from a very non-platonic point of view. Naturally, I’d brushed him off.
‘Your daughter’s trousers?’ repeats Sharon now in a sarcastic tone. ‘I’d have thought you could afford your own clothes.’
Bitch. I don’t normally use that word but trust me, this woman is one.
‘Very funny,’ I say. Then I gesticulate at Sharon’s shapeless navy silk shift; an expensive designer tent, contrived to hide bulges. ‘You look extraordinary.’
I’m not lying. She does. And yes I know that my choice of words could be taken either way. Guess which one she seems to have gone for, from the look on her face? To be fair, she wouldn’t be wrong. The problem with being in this business is that you can say or do some pretty awful things just to stay ahead of the game – even if you kid yourself that you’re really a nice person.
‘Sorry,’ I blurt out, spying Ronnie, another of my clients, in the corner and seeing an escape route. ‘There’s someone I have to talk to over there.’
‘Me too,’ she retorts in a cold, clipped voice. ‘Catch you later.’
‘Another drink, madam?’ asks a passing waiter.
‘Thanks.’ I stop to have my sparkling water topped up. I can’t drink because I’m driving home tonight. I only hope the weather isn’t too bad. It was freezing on the way over and there were warnings of snow.
But just before I can reach Ronnie, my mobile flashes. Home.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask.
‘No,’ sobs a small voice.
I can only just hear my younger daughter with the loud party music around us.
‘Melissa has taken my sketchpad and won’t give it back.’
Daisy has lived and breathed art from the moment she picked up a pencil. No one knows where this particular skill comes from. Betty tries to be arty with her various hobbies, but although we praise her efforts, she’s not a natural. Obviously, I’d never say so for fear of hurting her feelings.
‘Can’t Gran sort it out?’ I ask.
‘She’s meditating in her room.’
‘What about Dad?’
‘He’s going to be late again.’
I swallow my irritation. Stuart had promised to be back early from the surgery because of this party. Although Betty is brilliant at dealing with the girls, she’s not getting any younger and I don’t want to impose on her.
‘Give me that!’
It’s Melissa. ‘I only took it off her because she wouldn’t let me watch I Want to Be a Star.’
It should be said here that my eldest daughter’s entire aim in life is to get onto the stage. I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to talk her out of it, but the conversations always end so badly that I’ve given up now. ‘Just because you failed, doesn’t mean I will,’ Melissa had snapped the last time. Ouch!
‘Please, girls,’ I say down the line. ‘Can you get Gran to come downstairs?’
‘She says she will in a minute but that we’ve got to sort out our own arguments because it’s good for us.’
That’s all very well, but right now I’d rather Betty intervened.
‘And where have you put my leotard? I need it for dance class tomorrow.’
I try to think. ‘In the linen cupboard.’
‘I’ve looked and it’s not there.’
Maybe that’s because it’s a right old mess. I never seem to have time to fold everything so I just chuck it in. I can’t ask my mother-in-law to do everything.
‘In the dirty laundry bin?’ I suggest.
‘Nope.’
Then it comes to me. The gusset had torn and needed mending. So it was by my bed, waiting for me to ask Betty if she’d mind. I know my stuff when it comes to running an agency, but sewing is not one of my skills. ‘I remember now–’
Damn! My mobile’s just cut out. I meant to recharge it in the car on the way here but forgot to bring my lead. Now I’ll have to go and see if they have a spare at reception. If not, I’ll ask if I can use their phone to ring the children back.