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The Rocky Horror Picture Show
Les Misérables
Singing in the Rain
Fame
Rent
Oliver!
Walking On Sunshine
Mamma Mia
Mary Poppins
White Christmas
Shrek – The Musical
The Wizard of Oz
Prologue (#ubd45f949-6fe4-5042-a7a1-cdee83d2421d)
Last December – The Friday before Christmas
*Wicked – My choice*
I’ve always considered myself a modern woman. That’s why I’d planned to ask Justin to marry me that night.
It would have been a risk, me being the one to do the asking, because in many ways he’s an old-fashioned guy. A traditionalist – well-mannered, sweet, polite. But I’d been so sure that the time was right for our relationship to shift up a gear that I’d been willing to take the chance.
After all, we’d been together since our last year of secondary school. We must have passed each other in the corridors hundreds of times before that and we’d even been in the same maths class for a while, but we hadn’t exchanged so much as a word until that fateful April day in Year 11 as we waited to audition for the annual summer show. That year it had been Guys and Dolls and I’d had my heart set on the role of Sarah. Miss Adelaide might get the show-stopping numbers, but Sarah was quieter, calmer. Prim and proper, but determined beneath the façade. Truth be told, she was a lot like me.
I’d been nervously wringing my hands together as I waited to sing the audition piece of ‘I’ve Never Been in Love Before’. I can still recall the twisting sensation in my stomach, churning like one of those Slush Puppy machines at the seaside.
Justin had been sitting next to me and he’d seen how worried I was, how badly I’d wanted the role. Musicals were my ‘thing’ and if I was cast in a minor role or – heaven forbid – not at all, my confidence would be severely knocked. Justin had spoken to me in a tone that was immediately soothing, telling me I’d shine as Sarah. He’d been the perfect distraction, listening intently as I waffled on anxiously about how I thought I might throw up on my shoes. He didn’t recoil at that frank revelation, instead smiling reassuringly until it was my turn to perform on the makeshift stage in the sports hall that reeked of floor polish and sweaty feet.
Thanks to Justin I’d kept my cool, holding myself together to pull out a performance to be proud of – one that got me the very role I’d been coveting. I’d been over the moon.
In contrast, he hadn’t gone through with his audition in the end. Being as tone deaf as he was, it was probably a blessing. I’d never been a Brando fan, but even his version of ‘Luck Be a Lady’ was far superior to the adaptation Justin had mumbled under his breath as he sat next to me that day. At least Marlon got the words in the right order.
I later found out that the only reason Justin had planned to audition at all was to spend time with me. That was a relief on two counts – firstly that he’d considered getting up and making a twat of himself in front of half the school proved he was serious about our fledgling relationship; and secondly because it showed he wasn’t one of those deluded people who can’t hold a tune for toffee but secretly thinks they’re going to win the next series of the Saturday night talent show on TV.
Ever since that audition day we’d been together; through the stressful last term of school, into sixth-form college and sharing the first five years of our twenties. Things had become increasingly serious, the single drawer of ‘essentials’ that Justin had in my cosy bedroom at the house Issy and I shared on Cardigan Close had, over time, turned into a whole chest of drawers. Justin had practically been a fixture or fitting himself; as much a part of the furniture as the sofa that took up half the lounge, or the comfy armchair in the corner of my bedroom which I refuse to get rid of despite the threadbare material on the armrests (much to my housemate Issy’s chagrin).
He was my other half, the love of my life, and that’s why I’d steeled myself up to pop the vital question. I couldn’t envisage a future in which we weren’t together.
Justin and Monique.
Monique and Justin.
We were meant to be. I knew it.
As we’d left the house that evening, hurrying out onto the cobblestoned street and into the dome-roofed Hackney cab that took us to the city centre, I remember thinking it would be a night to remember for all the right reasons. But I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.
We had tickets to see a show at City Hall, a touring production of Wicked. I knew nothing about it other than it was linked with The Wizard of Oz, but I’d fallen head over heels in love with the song ‘Defying Gravity’ and was desperate to see it performed live. Justin hadn’t been as keen, but then he only ever came to the theatre because he knew I loved it. Dramatic numbers weren’t really his bag, but that night, in particular, he seemed out of sorts, tetchy almost. I’d stupidly put it down to him being tired after a long week at work, that and the fact he’d rather be watching the darts on the telly with a pint in his hand. Just as I was nuts over musicals, he was obsessed with sport. It didn’t matter if it was the Golf Masters or the Cricket World Cup, if it was a major sporting event Justin would be glued to the screen, willing on his chosen team.
I’d convinced myself he’d come round as the night went on. After all, I’d got a plan to stick to. We’d walk through town, the Sheffield Christmas lights strung out along Barker’s Pool hanging underwhelmingly over our heads as we made our way towards the enormous (yet sparsely lit) Christmas tree in front of the imposing Victorian town hall. From there we’d stroll arm in arm to the Peace Gardens, a popular meeting point in the centre of town, where we’d giggle fondly as we reminisced about how far we’d come since sharing our first kiss there one balmy Saturday afternoon, back when we were fifteen and free from care.
In my mind it’d been wonderfully romantic, like something from a black-and-white film. The fountains and cascades would be on and the fairy lights wrapped around the spindly trees would make a stunning and dreamy backdrop for my proposal. In my mind it was going to be magical. In my mind it was going to be perfect.
In reality, the evening itself had been nice enough. Therein lay the warning, I suppose. Nice enough isn’t magical. Nice enough isn’t perfect.
We’d gone for drinks at one of the upmarket bars in town, Justin opting for his usual beer whilst I’d splashed out on a Manhattan. I’d used the excuse that it was to celebrate reaching the end of term without collapsing in a heap with the other teaching assistants amidst the rush of Christmas parties and visits from ‘Santa’ (who was actually Mr Thomas, the headmistress’s husband), when really the alcohol was Dutch courage, pure and simple. I’d been turning the question over in my mind; it had taken all my efforts not to blurt it out before heading to the show.
Wicked had been brilliant, a glorious spectacle of a musical, and the cast had us captivated as they belted out the amazing show tunes. The wannabe performer in me wished I wasn’t sitting in the plush gold velour seat – how I longed to be up on that stage, the glaring white spotlight shining on me just as it had on a much smaller scale in that school hall during Guys and Dolls! Musicals have the power to transport me to another world, whisking me away from my mundane life. But as soon as the house lights came up in the auditorium a nervous niggle had started gnawing away at me. No matter how hard I’d tried to push it to the back of my mind, I hadn’t been able to shake it off.
I felt cold to the core as we walked down the venue’s sweeping stone steps and it wasn’t just the December chill clawing away at my skin. It was something worse. Justin seemed as though he was holding back, his face hidden under the fur trim of his parka. His hand was loose around mine. He was distant. Barely there.
The rows of festive decorations strung out before us, a twinkling ladder across the sky. It was the only part of the image I correctly predicted, and we silently sauntered through the streets whilst revellers enjoying five-too-many ‘Mad Friday’ beers fist-pumped the air as they sang along to Slade’s Christmas classic ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ at the top of their lungs. Looking back, we’d been the odd ones out, Justin and I, sober in both body and spirit.
We reached the fountain, although it wasn’t turned on because of the gusty weather, and sat near by. All the while Justin looked awkward. Fidgety. On edge. He took a deep breath, a visible cloud appearing from his mouth as he exhaled.
I swallowed uneasily. Something was up.
‘I wanted to speak to you,’ he’d said finally. He had this funny lop-sided grin plastered on his face, unfamiliar even though I’d been swooning at his smiles for a decade. He looked different, somehow, and for one brief moment I’d laughed, convinced he was building up to asking the same question I’d been preparing to ask him.
My stomach lurched with hopeful anticipation and I wondered if he might produce a ring. At the time, it had seemed entirely possible he might, but looking back everything about that night made me feel foolish.
I’d been dreaming. Only momentarily, but a lot can happen in a moment. I’d even wondered whether the hypothetical, mythical ring would be a square-cut solitaire like the one I’d saved in the favourites folder on my laptop, or an antique he’d picked up from one of the quirky antique shops on London Road or Sharrow Vale. Justin knew how I adored anything vintage.
Seconds later my world crashed down around me. I was dizzy, stunned, confused, and all it took was three little words.
‘I’m going away.’
Justin had looked excitedly out at me from beneath the safety of his hood, the weird enormous grin peering out as he waited for my response.
I’d not understood what he meant at first; not known that those three words said it all.
‘What do you mean?’ I’d stumbled finally. I genuinely didn’t understand the statement.
He was going away, he’d said brightly, heading to America for a year to work at the Chicago-based head office of the bank he was a slave to. He oozed gleeful delight, prattling on about how it was a wonderful opportunity and what an honour it was to be considered a suitable candidate. I could go with him, he’d said, his puppy-dog eyes full of expectation.
I was so shocked I couldn’t even formulate a simple sentence.
‘When?’ I managed eventually.
He’d proudly told me January 4th and that it was a year-long contract. He’d been specially selected by the Big Boss when the person they’d lined up for the role backed out due to ill health. That was why it was such short notice, he explained. Justin had been put forward as the best possible replacement, the opportunity a reward for the long hours he’d been putting in recently. It was too good an offer to pass up, he’d said, something he had to do now whilst he was young, before he was tied down by responsibilities and a family.
I’d wanted to scream at that bit. He had a family here who loved him, his younger brother Benji worshipped the ground he walked on and aspired to be just like him. He had parents who doted on him and bought him everything he wanted, from designer clothes to a brand new car.
And me. He had me.
But Justin was radiant with excitement, unleashing all the joy he’d obviously forced himself to suppress earlier in the evening. He hadn’t said a word about America as he’d slurped on the spag bol I’d thrown together as a quick tea to line our stomachs, nor as he’d tapped his fingers against the pint glass in the pub. He’d kept schtum in the theatre too, letting me believe everything was fine, when all the time he’d been holding a bomb.
He rabbited on about head office and career progression, his tunnel vision blinding him to everything else. I’d never felt more irrelevant. I wasn’t even a Christmas cracker-sized spanner in the works. His mind was made up and that was that.
‘I can’t just drop everything,’ I said, feeling a smidgeon of annoyance that he expected me to. I had my job at the school, for starters, I couldn’t let them down by buggering off to the other side of the world. And then there were my dance classes, the ones I attended every Thursday night without fail. The six of us in the class had been dancing together since we were tots. They were my extended family, my safety net. I didn’t want to leave them behind, but I didn’t want to be without Justin either.
‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he’d repeated, the light in his eyes not dimming despite my lack of enthusiasm. ‘For me and for you.’
His hand had rested on mine and I’d flinched. I didn’t pull away, even though the last thing I wanted right then was for him to touch me. I just didn’t have the energy to move.
‘Imagine it, Mon. Me and you in the big city, living the American dream.’ His eyes were alight with a passion he normally reserved for Saturdays when the Blades were playing at home. I knew, then, that he was going to go regardless. His mind was made up. Nothing I could say would change a thing.
‘I can’t go,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want to. It’s not my dream. Anyway, there’s no way I could get on a plane and go all that way. Have you forgotten the melt down I had on the way back from Corfu?’
I could tell by his expression that he had, but I hadn’t. We’d suffered terrible turbulence and the pilot’s attempts at keeping his updates humorous and light hadn’t reassured me in the slightest. I’d ended up bent double, hunched in the brace position ‘just in case’, despite Justin’s instructions to breathe in and out of the sick bag to regulate my panicked gasps. It’s safe to say me and aeroplanes don’t mix.
‘I’m sorry, Justin. But if you go to Chicago, you’ll be going alone.’
He’d looked guilty then. He was going to America with or without me.
As we sat on the cold stone borders that flanked the segments of grass in the gardens, I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought this would be the most romantic night of my life. A bitter, biting wind whipped through the open space, an invisible slap in the face to accompany the sucker punch my gut had just taken.
Worst of all, everyone around us had been full of festive spirit, carrying on as though nothing had changed, whilst for me everything was about to change irrevocably. I wanted to shout, to kick up a stink right there in the middle of town, but my body didn’t feel like my own. It was a terrible dream and I watched on helplessly as it played out around me.
‘I’d hoped you’d come with me. I thought it’d be an adventure for us both.’
I shook my head. ‘I just can’t.’
He’d looked crestfallen, the joy he’d had earlier evaporating out of him into the dark winter night. ‘It’s not the end for us though, is it? Loads of couples make long distance work. And the world’s a smaller place these days, that’s what they say…’ It was as though he was trying to convince himself.
‘I suppose there’s always Skype…’ I said half-heartedly.
I couldn’t imagine not being able to physically feel him. We’d always been one of those touchy-feely couples, the kind that makes everyone feel a bit uncomfortable. Our constant public displays of affection were legendary, but you can’t touch someone through a computer screen. You can’t hold them or kiss them or make wild, passionate love to them. There’d be no substitute for having Justin here with me.
‘We can make this work,’ he’d said, his voice full of a false yet hopeful confidence. ‘If anyone can, we can.’
But even then, I wasn’t sure.
*
He’d left, just as he’d planned to, on the day we’d started back at school after Christmas break. I’d been assisting the more able children, helping them write sentences about the gifts Santa had left under their tree while he was on a cross-country train over the Pennines to Manchester Airport, ready to start a whole new life on a whole other landmass.
That was the weirdest part of it all. I was still in Sheffield, with the same job and the same friends and the same bedroom in the same house; but with an empty chest of drawers sitting hollow in the corner instead of filled with a selection of Lynx aftershaves he’d been bought for his birthday by some well-meaning aunt and every Sheffield United kit from the last ten years.
I’m sure that outwardly I looked much the same as ever – a twenty-five-year-old woman of average height and naturally athletic build with a fluffy mass of unruly dark blonde curls – but inside I felt as empty as those drawers. I’d hoped that by forcing myself to raise a smile I’d fool people into believing I was fine. But I wasn’t fine, deep down. Deep down I was breaking.
*
I still have a photo of me and Justin together on my dressing table, in a heart-shaped wooden frame. It was taken at a charity ball the summer before he went away. In it I’m staring up at Justin, who’s stood almost a whole foot taller than me and my face looks like it might split right in two because I’m grinning that hard.
I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that. As much as I try to show the world I’m the same positive, smiley Mon I’ve always been, it’s not my face splitting in two any more. It’s my heart.
Chapter One (#ulink_f895f3a2-99b6-5ec6-92f2-9ce859a201de)
Friday 9
September
*Frozen – My choice*
‘I’ve been waiting for this all day.’ Issy sighs with audible relief as the ruby-red Merlot sloshes into the glass. ‘Honestly, I can’t tell you how ready I am. In fact, I’m more than ready. I’m a woman in need,’ she adds dramatically.
‘Only all day?’ I reply with a laugh. ‘Then you’re a stronger woman than I am, Isadora Jackson. I’ve been waiting all week.’
My blonde curls bounce wildly. People say they look like a halo, but although I’m a good girl, I’m certainly no angel.
‘Seriously,’ I continue, ‘the only thing that’s got me through the madness that is reception class during the first week in September is the thought of wine o’ clock. We’ve had so many children crying when their parents leave, the noise in that classroom is phenomenal. Phenomenal! Thank your lucky stars that the kids you teach are past that.’
Issy gulps her wine, raising her eyebrows in a challenge of disagreement. I know that look. It’s the one that says whenever anyone plays the ‘I work in the most difficult age group’ card, Issy’s going to take that card and trump it.
‘Teaching Year 6 isn’t a bundle of laughs, you know. All those raging hormones and that snarky pre-teen attitude…’ She visibly shudders. ‘Can you believe I had Ellie Watts in tears this lunchtime because Noah Cornall dumped her? They’re only ten! And the bitching and backbiting that goes on – I’ve not seen anything like it. It’s the Big Brother house, but worse. How many weeks to go until half term?’
‘Another seven.’ I pull a face, unable to believe I’m already counting down to the holidays. The six-week summer break had worked its usual miracle of helping me forget how exhausting it is working in a primary school and although I’d not exactly been jumping out of bed with delight when the alarm went off at 6.15 on Monday morning, I’d felt a quiet positivity about the year ahead. There’s something special about getting to know a new set of kids, and there had even been rumours of new furniture for the reception classroom. Heaven knows, the tables need replacing. Years of felt-tip pens being carelessly smudged over their surface meant their glory days were well in the past. But just one week in – four days, actually, if you discount the staff training day – and I’m already totally drained of energy, as I always am during term time. People at work say I’m bubbly and bouncy and full of beans, but that’s because I raise my game. How anyone who works with children finds the time for a social life, I’ll never know. When Friday finally rolls around, all I want to do is climb into my onesie and sleep for a week.
‘My class need to be the small fishes again,’ Issy says with a sage nod. ‘It’s always the same with the oldest in the school. They get ahead of themselves. Too big for their ‘let’s-get-one-size-larger-so-you-can-grow-into-them Doc Martens.’ Issy looks so serious, which naturally makes me want to giggle. ‘They’ll be the ones in tears when they start at secondary school next year, just like your little angels in reception have been this time. It’ll knock them down a peg or two.’
‘It’ll get easier, it always does.’
I know Issy thinks I’m being over-optimistic, but I can’t help it. What can I say? I’m one of those people who naturally looks on the bright side of life, except when it comes to Justin. But that’s no surprise, given that he’d gone from ‘we can make long distance work’ in December to ‘perhaps we should take a break – not split up, but accept long distance doesn’t work for us’ in January. I think I’ve every right to feel bitter. I’m living in this weird love-life limbo.
‘You’ll be fine when they get to trust you,’ I assure her. ‘You said exactly the same about your last lot. Remember Billy Rush? You were convinced he’d turn you grey, and look, your hair’s exactly the same murky shade it’s always been,’ I say with nothing but innocence.
‘Hey, watch it you! My hair’s not murky. It’s salted caramel,’ Issy replies, defensively stroking the thick, straight locks that tumble down past her shoulders. How she manages to look glamorous, even in her mint-green fleecy Primark pyjamas, I’ll never know. She’s one of those naturally well-groomed people whose skin always looks fresh and eyes bright, even when she’s tired or has a stinking hangover. It’s infuriating.
‘Yeah, right. Whatever you say. ‘Salted caramel.’ Is that what they call it at the hairdressers?’
I poke my tongue out at her, but she knows it’s all in jest. That’s the great thing about our friendship. We tease each other mercilessly, but we can switch to drying each other’s tears in a matter of seconds if needs be. And Issy, bless her, has done her fair share of being the shoulder to cry on this year, so it’s important to remember to laugh about things as much as possible.
‘They refer to it by number. But it’s the darkest blonde they do,’ Issy replies haughtily, running her hand over her locks once more. ‘You’d see for yourself if we were in the right light. This house has terrible natural light, and you know it. It’s the price we pay for living on the shady side of the street.’
She’s right about that. Even in the height of summer there’s a distinct chill in the lounge of the mid-terraced red-brick house we share. I swear we must’ve been the only people pulling down furry throws from the back of the sofa to keep warm during the one red-hot week that had passed as the British summer. Even long sunny days had done nothing to rid our lounge of its chilly gloom. And now, on an early-September evening, where it’s still light outside, both of us are in pyjamas, dressing gowns and super-thick socks, a necessity if we’re going to meet our annual challenge of making it to the half-term break without caving and putting the heating on.
‘So, are you going to pour me a glass or that Merlot or what? I’m dying of thirst over here.’
