You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) Read online

  It was a week later, and Jonathan was giving the kids their bath while I tried to make some impact on the chaos that had taken over our kitchen, which I’d tidied just that morning. Darcey had wanted to make cupcakes; Owen had insisted on helping and dolloped chocolate batter all over the floor and made his sister cry. So I’d packed them off to the park with Jonathan, and then it had rained and he’d forgotten to make them take their wellies off at the front door, so the spilled cake mix was indistinguishable from the smears of mud that decorated the so-modern, so-impractical white rubber floor.

  Was six thirty too early for a glass of wine, I wondered, and immediately decided it certainly was not. A glass of wine, maybe several, and Jonathan could sort something out for our dinner, and if it ended up being yet another takeaway I wouldn’t complain, as long as I didn’t have to lift another finger in this kitchen all weekend.

  I was just twisting the corkscrew into a bottle of chardonnay when I heard my phone ring. I almost didn’t answer – it would be Sadie ringing for a chat, which would be far more enjoyable later over a drink. Or one of the school mums wanting to arrange something for tomorrow, in which case I’d need a bit of breathing space to think of a plausible excuse. Or Jonathan’s mother, who infuriatingly insisted on ringing me whenever she wanted to make plans to see her grandchildren, as if Jonathan was incapable of using a phone or looking in a diary.

  But when I glanced at the screen, I saw Zé’s name, and decided to take the call after all.

  “Hi, Laura!” she sounded a bit croaky, as if she had a cold.

  “Hi,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  “Been better,” she said. “Actually I was meant to be going out with Rick, but the fucker’s stood me up at the eleventh hour. We had the most epic row about it.”

  I wondered whether she didn’t actually have a cold, but had been crying.

  “Bastard,” I said sympathetically. I thought, shall I ask her to come round for a drink? She must have a babysitter sorted if she’d been going out. Then I imagined having to give the house a less cursory clean, put on make-up and wave goodbye to my quiet evening in, and didn’t say anything.

  “Look, are you busy tonight?” she said. “It’s just, I booked this theatre thing. It’s virtually impossible to get in, I only managed to get tickets through a friend who’s producing it and I really want to go. Will you come along?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I didn’t have any plans, and Jonathan hasn’t got work to do, for once. I’d love to come.”

  “Great!” she said. “It starts at eight, so you’ll need to get your skates on, but it’s just round the corner, in Battersea Park. You know the bandstand? Meet me there as soon after seven thirty as you can. And wear comfortable shoes, and something warm – it’s outdoors and we’ll be running around. Thank God the rain’s stopped, or they would have cancelled the performance.”

  And she rang off before I could say that actually running around in a park at night sounded like the least fun thing in the world, ever.

  I went upstairs, calling to Jonathan that I had last-minute plans and was going out.

  “Out where?” He emerged from the bathroom, his shirt splashed with water and smudged with bath crayon.

  “Some theatre thing, with Zé. Rick stood her up. It’s in Battersea Park, I’ve no idea what it is.”

  “That must be A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Lucky you – tickets are harder to come by than ones with six winning lottery numbers, apparently. We tried to arrange to take some clients but it’s totally sold out. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Not to me, they aren’t.” I pulled my shirt off and glanced down at my jeans. They were too smeared with cake batter to pass muster, even in the dark. I found a clean pair, and a clean black jumper. The rain had made my hair frizz, even though I hadn’t been outside all day, but there was no time to do anything about that, or about my face.

  “Here, I’ve found it. Listen.” Jonathan read from his iPad. “‘The new, ground-breaking immersive production, from Flight of Fancy, the most talked-about theatre company of the century (who brought us last summer’s award-winning Out to Sea, as if our readers need telling) is a must-not-miss. This magical interpretation of Shakespeare’s best known comedy blends theatre and dance with elusive, intimate moments that see cast and audience interacting, and the fourth wall dissolving. The sensational set transforms a suburban park into a sylvan wood, with breathtaking lighting and sound effects completing an enchanted world. And it’s not just about smoke and mirrors – there are truly insightful performances from…’ Loads of people I’ve never heard of. Anyway, it says, ‘Prepare to be dazzled, amazed and perhaps quite literally swept off your feet – if you can get your hands on a ticket. Rob a bank, sell a close family member – whatever it takes, you won’t regret it.’ They’ve given it five stars.”

  “I’m already regretting it,” I said, lacing up my trainers. “She didn’t say anything about dance.”

  “Don’t be daft, Laura, you’ll love it.” There was a splash from the bathroom, and a gale of giggles from Darcey. “I’d better get back and see what those two are up to. Probably causing a flood. Have fun.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “No idea when I’ll be back, or in what state. Probably with my head swapped for a donkey’s. Bye, Darcey, bye Owen – Mummy’s going out.”

  How hard could it be to transform a park into a sylvan grove anyway, I thought sullenly as I hurried through the streets. Battersea Park was about as sylvan as it got – mud and all. And why hadn’t Zé said anything about dance? She’d only mentioned theatre. If she’d said dance, I wouldn’t have gone. Oh well, it was too late – there was no backing out now.

  “There in five,” I texted hastily, making my way along the path to the bandstand, joining a small throng of people heading in the same direction. They all seemed delighted at the prospect of the experience that lay ahead of us.

  “Oh my God, I am, like, gibbering with excitement,” I overhead one woman say. “It’s my tenth time at this. It’s bankrupting me. How many times have you been, Stu?”

  “Only twice,” her companion said. “I’m not as well connected as you, I guess.”

  “It’s not about being well connected!” she protested. “It’s about giving Flight of Fancy a fat donation every year – tax-deductible, fortunately – and getting priority booking before tickets go on general sale. I’ve got another twelve shows booked after tonight and I’m worried it won’t be enough. Do hurry up, we’ve only got twenty minutes.”

  And she dragged the unfortunate Stu off into the crowd, leaving me shaking my head in bemusement.

  Of course, I’d encountered my fair share of obsessives when I was dancing professionally. There was one old gent who sat in the same seat in the front row for an entire fortnight, and sent two dozen pink roses to my dressing room each morning when we were doing Manon – and I wasn’t even a soloist; that was nothing compared to the adulation some of my colleagues received – Jerome, Mel… But I wasn’t going to go there. I was going to find Zé and get this thing over with, and go home to my proper life.

  It wasn’t hard to locate her, even in the mass of people gathered around the bandstand – there must have been two hundred or more, I reckoned, all standing about drinking prosecco out of plastic flutes and chattering excitedly. But even in the twilight, with only huge ropes of silvery-blue fairy lights for illumination, Zé stood out. She was wearing a shocking-pink cropped leather biker jacket over black jeans, and her lipstick was bright fuschia too. The combination would have been absurdly over-the-top on just about anyone else; on her it was effortlessly stylish.

  “Laura!” she hurried over to me, kissed me, and handed me a glass of fizz. “I can’t thank you enough for coming, honestly, I was mortified when bloody Rick cancelled on me. You don’t get the chance to see Flight of Fancy’s Dream and bail at the last minute, the fuckwit.”

  I wondered again what was going on in their marriage – whenever she mentioned Rick it was
with coolness at best, contempt at worst. Then, in spite of myself, I felt the air of excitement infect me, too. Zé’s normally pale cheeks were flushed, and she was talking even more than usual.

  “So, the idea is to split up, do your own thing, explore the set and see whatever scenes come your way,” she said. “If you get lost, you can make your way back here and have a drink and a sit-down, and we’ll meet up here afterwards, okay? We just need to go through there” – she gestured towards a pair of marble pillars that, although they were obviously part of the set, were coated with moss and lichen and looked like they’d been there for centuries – “and they’ll check our tickets, and then we’re on our own. Did you see Out to Sea last summer?”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

  “Of course, it wasn’t in London, it was in Newcastle, of all places,” Zé prattled on. “Stunning setting, of course, but my God, the wind! My hair was totally fucked.”

  She grinned and clicked her plastic glass against mine, then her smile was replaced with deadly seriousness. “Look! We’re going in! Come on, I’ll see you on the other side, and remember – if you see something that looks interesting, stick around and watch, and if you see a character who fascinates you, follow them. They’re all in masks, as well as in costume. And switch your phone off if you haven’t already, and remember there’s no talking once we’re through the pillars, they’re brutal about chucking people out who they think are being disrespectful.”

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the entrance, abandoning our half-finished drinks on the way. A robed steward checked our tickets and reminded us sternly about the talking and phones. The audience filed between the pillars, through a kind of dazzling curtain of brightness created by powerful spotlights aimed towards the ground. I blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust – but as soon as they had, I was plunged into absolute darkness and Zé dropped my hand and vanished.

  We must be in some kind of tunnel, I decided, brushing my hand against its sides – hessian, maybe. Then the person behind me trod on my heel and I continued blindly on, feeling my way, unable to see where I was going. There was music, I realised, eerie and soft, only audible now that the babble of conversation had ceased. I moved towards the source of the sound, and as I did so I noticed the darkness diluting slightly, a faint glimmer of green appearing ahead. The person behind me pushed past me, and I felt a sudden surge of adrenalin – who the hell did they think they were, trying to get there before me? I pushed back, dodged in front, and found myself hurrying, almost running, towards the light.

  I’ve never been much of a reader. We ‘did’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream at school, but that was long ago – long enough ago to make me feel seriously old. But not quite as old as I felt when I remembered how long ago it was that, aged eight, I’d danced a fairy in a production staged by my ballet school.

  Anyway, it was all pretty much in the distant past, and my recollection of the plot was shaky to say the least. So when I emerged on to the set, I was surprised to find it all coming back to me – dimly at first, then more clearly. Here were the king and queen – Theseus and whatever-her-name-was – and their masked retinue, in flowing gold and silver robes, in their palace. The breathless review Jonathan had read to me didn’t exaggerate – the set was stunning. Marble pillars soaring up into the darkness, twined with ivy; flaming torches illuminating the walls; a fountain splashing in the centre.

  Around me, the audience was dispersing, some moving around to get a better view, others hurrying off into the darkness to find – what? I had no idea. I’d wait here for a bit, I decided, and see what was going to happen.

  The volume of the music increased, and the king and queen began to dance. I took a deep, trembly breath and watched, feeling unaccountably afraid. If they were shit, I’d be devastated. If they were good, it would be even worse. And I realised within a few seconds that they were very good indeed. I could hardly bear to look – but I couldn’t look away, either.

  As the lead woman moved across the stage, seeming almost to float, I felt physically sick with envy and regret. Look at her, with her honed, supple limbs, her command of the audience and the choreography – her career. That could have been me, I thought – that was me. But not any more.

  As the routine came to an end and more characters entered – two of the four lovers, I thought vaguely, unable to remember their names or what they were doing there – I realised my cheeks were wet with tears. I dug in my pocket for a tissue and blew my nose as quietly as I could, hoping that if anyone noticed they’d assume I was moved to tears by the beauty of it all. But no one was looking at me – everyone was entirely absorbed in the scene.

  I’d wander off and explore, I decided, see more of the set that had received such rave reviews, and try not to look too closely if I came upon any more dancers. I skirted around the palace building and headed towards another island of light in the trees. Some of them were real, I noticed, but the fake ones were so skilfully constructed, so subtly blended into the natural parkland, that it was almost impossible to tell the difference, to separate artifice from reality.

  I arrived at a clearing where another stage had been constructed – a rough wooden affair this time. Presumably this was where Quince and his friends would rehearse their play, about which I could recall no details whatsoever. I remembered finding those bits tedious and unfunny during those long-ago English Lit lessons. But the detail was meticulous. An entire village had been constructed around the stage: there was a carpenter’s shop, the floor scattered with shavings, which even smelled of freshly sawn wood. There was a wagon hung with metal pots, pans and cups that rattled as I brushed past, making me start guiltily. The tailor’s workroom was festooned with apparel in various stages of repair. I pushed through them, feeling the coarse fabric brushing my face and breathing in the musty scent of well worn clothing. The hanging garments became denser, and I wondered if I ought to turn back, but something made me carry on – I remembered the wardrobe that led to Narnia in another long-ago story, and pushed the walls of fabric aside, finding a path to the other side.

  I emerged into another clearing, lit by a full moon, smelling headily of flowers. How the hell did they do this, I wondered fleetingly – and more importantly, where was I? I’d lost my bearings entirely, and lost all sense of time, too. I paused, inhaling the cool, fragrant air. The sky above me was darkening to a deep indigo, and I could see stars. Was this real twilight or a clever lighting effect? It was impossible to tell.

  I heard a swelling burst of music and the light of the moon seemed to concentrate on the space between two trees. Almost of their own accord, my feet carried me towards it, and I found myself suddenly joined by about twenty other audience members, who’d appeared seemingly from nowhere. I’d nearly forgotten, I realised, that this was a show, and not some kind of alternate reality I’d stepped into, or a fragment of a dream.

  A masked man and woman appeared in the moonlight. There were two pairs of lovers, I remembered sketchily, and they were all in love with the wrong people, before it all somehow got sorted out. These must be two of them. I waited, watching as they danced together. Even though I was shoulder to shoulder with other spectators, it was easy to forget they were there – there was nothing but me, the music and the dancers. I couldn’t even hear the man next to me breathing.

  The dance – it was part dance, part seduction, tender and erotic – must have lasted a few minutes, but it felt like just seconds before the music became slower and softer, the two lovers lay still in each other’s arms, and a cloud passed over the moon – or the spotlight that served as a moon. Immediately, the audience broke up and moved away, one woman actually sprinting off between the trees. I recognised her from earlier on – the woman with the friend called Stu, who’d seen the production over and over. Where was she going? She seemed to know – she must be on her way to somewhere or something specific. I followed her, also breaking into a run.

  She’d bloody better know where she was going,
I thought, a few breathless seconds later – we seemed to be heading deep into impenetrable forest, dodging between tree trunks, real and artificial leaves brushing my face, fake and genuine roots catching at my feet and threatening to send me flying. Thank God for Zé’s warning and my sensible trainers. Abruptly, the woman stopped and so did I, just in time to avoid crashing into her. She pushed her hair off her face and glanced around, catching my eye and giving me an unfriendly scowl. Whatever she was waiting for, clearly she expected to have it all to herself.

  I retreated a step or two and waited. It was dark and silent – there was no hint that anything was going to happen. Then I spotted a figure in the shadows – an actor, or another spectator? Or something else? I looked closer, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar, distorted form. Of course, it was the bloke who got turned into a donkey. Bum something? I wished I’d had time to look up the plot on Wikipedia and make more sense of what was going on. Bottom – that was it! His absurd head tilted towards us, and he shambled in our direction, tripping over a fallen log on his way.

  I heard the woman, who was standing a pace or two in front of me, give a little gasp of excitement. She shifted a little, blocking my view. I shifted the other way; so did she. Bottom paused in front of us, and reached his hairy mask forward, making snuffling sounds. Then he reached out a hand to me.

  I hesitated for just a second, my fascinated need to know what would happen if I followed him overpowered by fear of the unknown. But a second was enough for the other woman to grab the actor’s outstretched hand and be led away into the darkness. I followed again, even though I could sense that it was the wrong thing to do, that I’d missed my chance. And sure enough, when they disappeared into a thicket of what looked like birch trees, I heard the unmistakeable sound of a lock clicking shut.

  Should I wait until they came out again, I wondered. But I couldn’t bring myself to, somehow. I was conscious that I’d failed, that I’d let her get something that should have been mine – and even though I had no idea what it would have been, I felt bitterly disappointed, and a bit ashamed of my disappointment. Besides, I realised, I was very thirsty and also dying for a wee. It’s only a play, Laura, I told myself – do get a grip.