‘I always bring my own stuff when I know I’m going to get stuck waiting about at these stupid auditions,’ he’s saying, reaching down beneath his seat and producing, rather like a magician, an entire baguette in a paper bag. ‘And this cheddar is amazing. It’s Irish. My sisters got it for me for my birthday.’
‘They gave you cheese for your birthday?’
‘No, sorry, that sounds weird. They gave me membership of a cheese club. You get sent a different cheese through the post each month.’ He uses the penknife to hack, enthusiastically, at the cheddar. ‘So? Would you like a sandwich, or not?’
‘Yes. Please. I’d love a sandwich.’
‘Coming right up. I’m Olly, by the way. Olly Showbiz-Walker.’
I grin at him. ‘I’m Libby. Libby Lomax.’
‘So are you auditioning, then?’
I’m actually surprised he has to ask, thanks to the egg-yolk-yellow dirndl, and all. But it’s just possible he thinks I actually dress like this … I reach for my rucksack again and hastily drag out the grey hooded top I know is in there, pulling it on to disguise the worst of the faux-Austrian look.
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘But only because of my little sister. She’s the showbiz one in our family. I’ve just ended up sort of sucked into it because of her.’
‘Oh? You look quite keen on the whole showbiz thing yourself.’ When I obviously look a bit confused, he gestures towards the book I’m holding. ‘Audrey Hepburn,’ he adds. ‘Are you a big fan?’
‘Isn’t everyone?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m not. I don’t get what makes everyone so gaga about her.’
I stare at him. ‘Not even in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’
‘Never seen it. Never seen a single one of her films, now I come to think of it.’
‘Well, then, you can’t possibly say you don’t like her! And you really should see one of her films. There’s an Audrey Hepburn—’ I have to pause for a moment, because I almost always get this word wrong – ‘retrospective, right now, at the Prince Charles cinema in Leicester Square. A commemorative thing, because she would have been seventy this year. I’m going there with my dad this evening, in fact.’
‘Hmmm. You do know that The Matrix is on in Leicester Square, don’t you?’
‘The Matrix,’ I say, rather haughtily, ‘is not Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’
‘Right. OK. Well, you’re obviously a total Audrey Hepburn nut,’ Olly Walker says, cheerfully. ‘I can tell there’ll be no reasoning with you.’
‘I’m not an Audrey Hepburn nut!’ I protest.
On the other hand …
Well, I don’t tell many people this … in fact, I’ve never told anyone this, but I do sometimes have this … well, I don’t know what you’d call it. A daydream? A fantasy?
In which I imagine that I’m best friends with Audrey Hepburn; that she and I hang out together in amazing locations all over New York and Paris; that we window-shop on Fifth Avenue and take tea at the Ritz; and that, most of all, she’s always there to talk to me, to listen to me about stuff that’s going wrong in my life, to dispense calm and wise and perfectly judged advice, all the while looking breathtakingly chic in Givenchy couture and radiating her aura of gentle serenity.
Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed by now, but calmness and wisdom and gentle serenity aren’t things I have very much of in my real, non-fantasy life.
Or Givenchy couture, come to mention it.
And I know it might sound a bit weird – OK, I know it definitely sounds completely weird – but honestly, who wouldn’t want a best friend like Audrey Hepburn? Sweet, stylish, and utterly lovely in every imaginable way? Who better to ‘chat’ to, in your idle moments, about anything and everything that’s bothering you, from the unfortunate outbreak of zits along the entire length of your jawline the night before the end-of-term disco, to your mother’s refusal to accept that you might not be cut out for a career on the stage … to worrying, just occasionally, that your dad enjoys spending time in the company of long-dead movie stars more than he enjoys spending time with you …
‘Libby?’
Olly Walker is looking straight at me, a concerned expression on his face.
It’s a pretty good-looking face, now I come to notice it. He’s got these really interesting grey-coloured eyes, like pebbles on a Cornish beach, and his smile is sweet, and ever so slightly wonky, and – hang on, what’s going on here? – he’s reaching over the back of my seat, and taking my hand, and gently splaying out my fingers with his own, and …
Wrapping them around a large, freshly made cheese sandwich.
‘You look like you need this,’ he says, kindly.
Ridiculous of me. How could I ever have thought he was going to … what? Hold my hand? Kiss me?
‘Oh, no, no,’ I say, shoving the sandwich back in his direction. ‘You should have the first one!’
‘I’m all right. I’ll make another.’
And then Mum’s Nokia starts ringing, right at the bottom of my rucksack.
Annoyingly, I don’t get to the phone in time before it stops ringing.
‘You’ve got your own mobile phone?’ Olly Walker glances up from his sandwich-making, looking impressed.
‘God, no. This is my mum’s.’ I glance at the screen, which is displaying Dad’s number as the last caller. ‘I’d better call my dad back, if you don’t mind? He’s picking me up here after my audition.’
‘Of course. For your Audrey Hepburn retrospective.’
‘Yep. And,’ I add, because I’m getting the ever-so-slight impression that Olly Walker thinks the Audrey Hepburn retrospective is a little bit pompous, ‘to go for a meal in Chinatown.’
‘Hey, great, where?’ He’s looking a lot more interested in the Chinese meal than in the retrospective. ‘I know a couple of really amazing Chinese restaurants in Soho, if you’re interested? I did some work experience in a bistro in Soho last summer – I’m going to catering college when I leave school – and after we’d finished our shifts, all the kitchen staff would always head to this fantastic Chinese on Lisle Street …’
‘It’s OK. My dad’s booked his favourite place already. The Jade Dragon, on Gerrard Street. He’s a regular there.’
‘Oh, right.’ He looks a bit crushed, and it occurs to me, a moment too late, that – maybe? – he was trying to impress me with his work experience story. ‘Is it good?’ he asks me.
I can’t say whether it is or it isn’t, because I’ve never actually been to The Jade Dragon before. Dad’s planned to take me several times, but it’s never actually worked out. He’s been really, really busy over the last few months – well, years, I suppose – and a lot of our plans to go and have a nice meal together after a movie end up getting cancelled at the last minute.
Oh, the phone’s going again. I get to it quickly this time.
‘Marilyn, hi,’ comes Dad’s voice, as soon as I answer. ‘Look, you’re going to have to tell Libby I’m not going to make—’
‘Dad! Hi!’ (I remember, too late, that he prefers to be called by his first name, Eddie, rather than being boring old Dad.) ‘I mean, Eddie, sorry. It’s not Mum, it’s me.’
‘Libby!’