She giggles.
‘OK. Fine.’ I’ve lived with this all my life. ‘What would you suggest?’
‘Humm…’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Raven, I think. Yes. I like Raven for you. On account of your hair.’
‘My hair’s brown.’
‘Oh, but we can change that, no problem. What do you think?’
‘Evie Raven?’
‘No, sweetie! Raven for your first name! Now let’s see…Raven Black, Raven Dark, Raven Night, Raven Nightly! It’s perfect! Raven Nightly. Now you’re bound to be famous!’
I never thought of dyeing my hair. Then again, I haven’t come all the way to London just to be the way I was back home. Still, it’s a pretty big leap. ‘Raven Nightly. I don’t know. It sounds like a porn star.’
‘And Tom Cruise doesn’t? I think it’s fantastic. And listen, I’m good at this; I’ve made up all my friends’ names back home. My girlfriend Blue; she was the first person to start that whole colour-naming thing.’
‘Really?’ I’ve never heard of the colour-naming thing.
‘Absolutely! You don’t think my real name’s Robbie, do you?’
Suddenly I don’t feel so sophisticated any more.
‘My parents named me Alice.’ She grimaces. ‘Can you believe it? I had to do something and androgyny is so much more now, don’t you think?’
‘How old are you?’ Maybe she’s older and that’s how she knows all this stuff.
‘Nineteen. And you?’
‘Eighteen. And you’re from…?’
‘The Village.’
I stare at her.
‘New York City’ she explains. ‘The Big Apple. Born and raised.’
‘Wow’
She’s a New Yorker. And not imported; she’s always lived there. I’ve never met anyone who actually lived in New York all their lives. It seems inconceivable that children would be allowed in New York; somehow profane and dangerous, like having toddlers at a nightclub. Surely the entire population consists of ambitious grown-ups from Iowa and Maine all clawing their way to the top of their professions in between gallery openings, Broadway shows and foreign film festivals.
‘Wow,’ I say again.
She grins, basking in the glow of my small-town admiration.
‘I…I may be living in New York soon,’ I venture.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I have an audition for Juilliard next month.’
‘I see.’ Her face is hard and unyielding, like a door slammed shut. ‘Those auditions are fuckers. Bunch of self-satisfied cunts, if you ask me.’
‘Oh.’
A bus careers past, forcing a rush of cold air into the room. Robbie turns away. I follow her gaze but all I can see is an empty bookcase and the glossy black surface of the television screen.
‘I mean, it’s not like I’ll get in or anything. It’s just, it’s Juilliard, isn’t it? Everyone auditions for Juilliard!’ I laugh, or rather, I make the kind of wheezing sound that could be a laugh if levity were involved.
We listen to the music and sip our drinks.
Suddenly she smiles and the door swings open again. ‘Hey, don’t mind me! You’re going to find it out sooner or later so I might as well tell you now: I’m a shit actress.’
I’m stunned. ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, Robbie!’
She holds up a hand to stop me. ‘No, it is true. Believe me. I auditioned for Juilliard three times. And NYU and Boston and, well, just about everywhere else on the planet Earth. Look, it doesn’t even bother me.’ Her voice is breezy. ‘I’ve made my peace with the whole thing. Really’
At eighteen, I don’t know anyone who’s made their peace with anything, let alone a devastating admission of their own artistic limitations. It’s threatening to me…how can she even say these words out loud? I’ve an overwhelming desire to change her mind.
‘I’m sure you are good, Robbie! I mean, sometimes it takes years for people to grow into their type. And while that’s happening it can be very awkward. After all, not everyone’s an ingénue.’
‘You are, aren’t you?’ Stretching her legs out, she nestles back into the sofa. ‘So, tell me how you got started.’
She’s changing the subject.
‘I don’t know’ I lean back in the chair. ‘I did a play, in grade school. I was a little taller than the others…actually, I was put back a year. The truth is, I couldn’t read properly or tell time or anything…’
I don’t know why I’m telling her this. I’ve only known her about half an hour. But, instinctively, I feel safe. There’s an energy about her; a lightness I’ve never encountered in anyone before, like something’s missing. And where a thick layer of convention and criticism would normally be, there’s only air.
‘That’s dyslexia,’ she says matter-of-factly.
‘Really?’ My parents were so embarrassed by my backwardness, it was never discussed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Trust me, I’ve spent more time in clinical physiological testing than you can imagine. Go on,’ she urges, making that sound normal too.
‘Oh.’ I’m thrown by my unexpected diagnosis. ‘Well, when I was growing up, in the Virgin of the Sacred Heart Girls School, you were just thick. Anyway, there I was, a bit stupid and definitely spacey, taller than all the other girls and pretty weird-looking because my mother really wanted a boy—she used to cut my hair short—and then I got the leading role in the school play because I was tall with short hair.’
A tenderness washes over her features. ‘And you were good at something!’
I stare at her. ‘How did you know?’
‘It’s always the same. You want to be someone else and then you are and people applaud…’ She grins. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’
‘It was the only time I can remember feeling like I belonged in my own skin. No one really wanted to hang out with me until then. And then my parents came along.’ I see my mother’s bright smile, my father wearing a tie, sitting in the front row of the school auditorium. ‘They were proud of me. They’d never been proud before. That’s when I made up my mind I was going to be an actress.’
She’s still and quiet; frowning at the floor.
I’ve said too much. The anxious, naked feeling I grew up with returns. Suddenly I’m back in school with my short hair and ugly uniform, trying too hard to make friends with the cool girls.
‘I can tell the time now,’ I add quickly. ‘It just took a little longer.’
She laughs; the frown vanishes and with it my awkwardness.
‘What about you?’ I ask.
‘Me?’ She presses her eyes shut. ‘I’ve been acting all my life!’
‘So you must be good,’ I persist.
‘You know what?’ She sits up. ‘I’m not even that interested in it.’ And, leaning back, she wiggles her red-painted toes, admiring her handiwork.
For