I See You(77)

‘Katherine Walker!’ Melissa squeals, pointing at the tiny writing towards the bottom of the poster.

‘Our Katie, a proper actress.’ Matt grins. I think for a second he’s about to put his arm around me, and I take a step to the side. Instead he gives me an awkward punch to my shoulder, like he’s greeting another cabbie.

‘She’s done all right, hasn’t she?’ I say. Because although she isn’t being paid, and although the Rupert Street theatre is really just an old warehouse with block staging and rows of plastic seats, Katie is doing exactly what she always dreamed of. I envy her. Not for her youth, or her looks – the way people assume mothers envy their daughters – but for her passion. I try to think what I might have done; what grand passion I might have followed.

‘Did I have a passion when I was her age?’ I say to Matt, quietly enough for no one else to hear.

‘What?’ We’re trooping downstairs, but I need to know. I feel my identity slipping away from me, reduced to a commute on a website for someone to buy. I pull Matt’s arm, making him fall behind the others, and we stand in the shadowed curve of the staircase while I try to explain.

‘Something like Katie’s acting. She’s so alive when she talks about it; so driven. Was there something like that for me?’

He shrugs, not sure what I mean; why it’s suddenly so important. ‘You liked going to the cinema. We saw so many films when you were pregnant with Jus.’

‘I don’t mean like that – that’s barely even a hobby.’ I’m convinced I’ve simply forgotten; that somewhere, buried inside me, is a passion that defines me. ‘Remember how you were mad for motocross? You’d spend all weekend at the track, or fixing up bikes. You loved it so much. Didn’t I have something like that; something I loved more than anything else?’

Matt comes closer, the smell of cigarettes and extra-strong mints reassuringly familiar. ‘Me,’ he says quietly. ‘You loved me.’

‘Are you two coming?’ Melissa runs up the stairs, then stops, one hand on the railing. She eyes us curiously.

‘Sorry,’ Matt says. ‘We were just taking a trip down memory lane. It won’t surprise you to know that our Katie has always loved the limelight.’ They walk on down the stairs, Matt recounting how five-year-old Katie once took to the stage on our Haven holiday, to sing ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’. I follow behind them, letting my heart rate slowly return to normal.

Downstairs, Isaac makes a big fuss of showing us to our seats. We’re surrounded by seventeen-year-olds clutching well-thumbed copies of the play, coloured post-it notes protruding from the pages.

‘We always send out invitations to the local schools when we need an audience for a dress rehearsal,’ Isaac says, seeing me looking around. ‘It helps the actors to have a proper audience, and Twelfth Night’s always on the syllabus somewhere.’

‘What kept you?’ Simon says, when I slide into my seat beside him.

‘I was looking for the loo.’

Simon points to the door to the side of the auditorium, clearly marked Toilet.

‘I’ll go later. They’re about to start.’ I’m aware of Matt sitting down next to me, radiating warmth I can feel even without touching him. I lean towards Simon, my hand in his. ‘What if I don’t understand it?’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t do Shakespeare in school – all that stuff you and Katie were talking about, I don’t have the first clue about it.’

He squeezes my hand. ‘Just enjoy it. Katie’s not going to ask you about themes; she just wants to know you thought she was brilliant.’

That’s easy. I know she will be. I’m about to say as much to Simon, when the lights dip and there’s a hush across the audience. The curtain opens.

If music be the food of love, play on.

There’s only one man on stage. I had imagined Elizabethan ruffs and frilly cuffs, but he’s dressed in skinny black jeans and a grey T-shirt, his feet in red-and-white Converse. I let his words fall around me like music; not understanding every line, but enjoying the sound they make. When Katie comes on, accompanied by two sailors, I almost call out in excitement. She looks sensational, her hair twisted into an elaborate plait that hangs over one shoulder, and a tight silver top. Her skirt is ripped, a consequence of the shipwreck conveyed to us a moment ago through flashing lights and crashing sound effects.

My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance he is not drowned: what think you, sailors?

I have to remind myself it’s Katie up there. She doesn’t miss a beat, her presence filling the auditorium even when she isn’t speaking. I mean to watch her, and her alone, but I’m swept away by the story; by the other actors, who throw words at each other as though they’re sparring – the winner the one who has the final say. I surprise myself by laughing, then being moved to tears.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate. Her voice carries across the silent audience and I realise I’m holding my breath. I’ve seen Katie in school plays, practising audition pieces, singing in holiday camp talent competitions. But this is different. She is breathtaking.

Oh, you should not rest

Between the elements of air and earth,

But you should pity me.

I squeeze Simon’s hand, and look to my left, where Matt is grinning fit to burst. I wonder if he sees her as I do. Practically an adult, I often say, when I’m telling people about Katie, but now I realise there’s no practically about it. She’s a grown woman. Whether she makes the right decisions in life or the wrong ones, they’re her choices to make.