Persuading Austen. Brigid Coady
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white smile in the screen.
No.
She shut the fridge door with her hip and reached for the bag of salt and vinegar crisps from the cupboard beside it.
Annie felt in need of reinforcement, and there was something solid and safe about the tart tang of salt and vinegar crisps coated in the smooth creamy hummus. Ripping off the lid from the tub and breaking open the bag, she took a crisp and dipped it in.
Yes, there.
The taste exploded on her tongue, released saliva and with it a feeling of warmth. A hug. She remembered the way her mother and she had hidden down here, dipping crisps and giggling over the silliness of Immy and Daddy and Marie. How her mum had held her and told her that Daddy didn’t mean it when he called her ‘Podge’ or poked her in the tummy telling her to suck it in. And he was just busy with work when he forgot to call her on her birthday.
Why was she hiding down here, yet again?
She was a successful production accountant in her own right. Hired to wrestle spreadsheets into submission and ensure the cast and crew of TV shows and movies got paid. She was bloody good at it even if she’d fallen into it hoping that by being in the same industry as her family that might make them closer. What did it matter if she didn’t have some sort of vocation for it? It had led her to her dream job, producer, and she was so close to it happening. Not everyone was born knowing what they wanted to be when they grew up. Sometimes you found it by falling over it.
Hell, Annie could stand up to belligerent directors and producers and win. But what was it about her family that made her squish down into a completely spineless marshmallow? They made her feel as if she was ten again. Or maybe six.
‘Annie! Annie! Where the bloody hell are you?’ The voice came echoing down the stairs followed by the clatter of stilettoes on wooden stairs.
Crap. Immy was having one of her ‘moments’. In anyone else they’d be called a temper tantrum.
Annie dug another crisp into the tub of hummus, trying to hold on to the comfort, but it had disappeared.
The door banged open taking another chunk out of the plaster on the wall.
Damn. Annie tried to swallow the crisp quickly and ended up choking.
Gasping for breath as she coughed, she saw her sister staring at her in disgust through the tears in her eyes.
Not even an offer of the Heimlich manoeuvre, she thought as her vision started to blacken around the edges.
‘Really, Annie, there is no need to be so dramatic,’ Immy said.
Annie managed to dislodge the crumb and staggered to the sink. She stuck her head straight under the tap. The water flowed over her face and her neck but enough got down her throat to soothe the rawness.
‘When you have quite finished …’ Immy even stomped her foot. Annie noticed that she had new shoes again. That was probably next month’s electricity bill, the spiked heels making more marks on the wood floors.
‘What is it?’ she croaked.
‘Why didn’t you tell me that Sam Mendes was casting for his new imagining of Romeo and Juliet? You know I’d make a perfect Juliet. When I played her at the National the papers said my performance was sublime.’
‘Immy, that was over ten years ago. You do remember that Juliet is supposed to be a teenager? Anyway Sam was looking for an unknown actress.’ Annie left off the age range bit. At thirty-three, Imogen was ten years over the upper range.
‘Don’t you think I can act like a teenager?’ Immy demanded.
Annie would have sniggered if her throat weren’t so scratched. She did in her head; she had enough self-preservation not to point out that her sister always acted like a teenager.
‘Look, Immy,’ she said forcing her voice into the cajoling tone that she hoped would work. This was the problem with working in the same industry. Immy and her dad expected her to be their eyes and ears. And Cassie, her boss, was working with Sam. ‘I hear he was thinking of going all low class on the casting. Soap actors.’ She nodded and rolled her eyes to pretend to Immy that this was a fate worse than death. Which in the Elliot family it was.
‘I even heard that Will Elliot was being considered as Romeo. I mean if Sam is thinking of casting him … Well it isn’t really something you want to be involved in. Can you imagine?’
Annie didn’t have any particular issue with their cousin, Will, who had made a name for himself on EastEnders. And of course, there were those unfortunate stories in the tabloids about that affair he’d had with a married co-star.
In fact, she’d only met him once when they were kids, which she didn’t remember, but the mere mention of his name made her dad start foaming at the mouth. She was sure it was the EastEnders connection that annoyed him more than the affair – the Elliot name connected to such mundane TV. In the Elliot world, soap actors might as well be reality TV stars. Annie had always felt an affinity to Will. As soon as it became clear to Dad that she had no interest in acting she had ceased to be of interest.
‘Well, hmm.’ Imogen’s face screwed up as much as it was able against the chemicals that she injected into it every six months.
‘I’ll let you off this time, but really, Annie, you know it should always be family first.’ And on that line she swept out of the kitchen.
Annie leant back against the sink and wiped her mouth.
Family first? Ha. But on that list she knew she came last.
Sighing she folded over the top of the crisp packet and secured it with a clip. The TV flung bright images of Marie, who was smirking at her. She needed to grow a backbone where her family was concerned.
‘They need to be grounded; they need to feel taken care of. That is our job.’ She could hear her mother’s voice as if she were standing right next to her. There had been a low huskiness to it. It was the voice that had kept them all fed and clothed through the years. She had been the narrator of a thousand TV commercials and the true caretaker of their family. Her beautiful talented mother who took jobs because the family needed the money while her husband wouldn’t deign to sully his reputation. And he’d let her. And now it was Annie’s turn.
Annie who tried to fill the gaping hole left but didn’t quite manage: sister, daughter, and caretaker. Her mum’s stand-in, but she didn’t fill the gap quite well enough no matter how she squished or pulled herself.
Annie wasn’t sure she wanted to do it any more but what was she without it? Maybe eight years ago there had been an alternative but now … She shook her head. Annie wouldn’t think about it. She’d lost her chance and now she had to get on with the choices she’d made. Maybe she could at least start looking at moving out. If she could put some distance between them maybe things would get better.
Suddenly the taste in her mouth was too cloying, less like a hug and more like a vice.
She put the lid back on the hummus tub, only just remembering to put the tub in the fridge and the crisps in the cupboard as opposed to the other way round. She turned off the TV and felt guilty for the sense of relief from wiping Marie’s face out with the press of a button.
Annie wondered if she could get a remote that did that in real life.
That was harsh. She felt a shiver of guilt at the thought but then a bigger swoop hit her stomach when she had to admit it was true.
Slamming the front door of the house a few minutes later, she clattered down the steps, noticing the replacement tiles she’d ordered when she’d realized some cracks were showing. She looked back. The house was shone and the brass was sparkling on the door. It was always camera ready in case Immy was papped leaving it.
The house overlooked a part of Clapham Common that, when her parents had bought it, had been down at heel. A house with four floors and a back garden had been a steal. Clapham had pulled itself