tiny lock was resistant in her hands. It refused to move a millimetre. She knelt, desperate now, grabbed the knob and began fiercely rattling it back and forth.
“What you doing in there? You didn’t lock the door?” It sounded suspiciously like the boy was trying not to laugh. “Fuck’s sake, that thing hasn’t worked in years.”
That’s what they’ll say about me one day, she thought, and put her cheek against the cool of the door, in the shelter of Rihanna’s gleaming legs. Maybe it isn’t too late to go to law school.
nine
The boy stopped at Augusta’s table and poked at the untouched stack of eight-by-ten photographs. They had been taken just after she’d been cast in The Blood Bank , and showed her in full vampire surgeon garb: mouth a red target, stethoscope draped over her tight vest top. As if she might visit the gym after a tracheotomy and a blood cocktail.
“What was you in?” the boy asked. He had narrow green eyes and dark hair that grew long to cover jug ears. She had a sudden desire to push his hair back and tell him to wear his impediment with pride.
“What was I in?” she said. “Trouble, mostly. Also some programs that your parents might remember.”
He nodded, picked up a photo from the top of the pile. “How much to sign this one?”
“My autographed bosom will set you back ten quid, darling. A bargain to rival the Louisiana Purchase.”
The boy nodded again and put the photo back on the pile. With a nervous half-smile he wandered off to join the queue at the next table, which snaked into the middle of the ballroom. At least fifty people waited patiently for the autograph of an American astronaut who’d orbited the earth three times and nearly drowned when he couldn’t get out of his landing capsule. His signature fetched ten times what hers did.
Augusta sighed and, scanning the room, reached into her purse. Her fingers closed around the tiny bottle she’d bought at the off-licence when Alma disappeared to use the loo. With a sweet crack, the metal lid gave beneath her fingers. Hiding the bottle in her palm, she brought it to the table and quickly dumped the vodka in her coffee. Such a ridiculously small bottle, the kind they gave out in airplanes. The kind you might slip into a Christmas stocking.
She was taking her first sip when Alma returned, hobbling on her stick, a look of determined cheerfulness on her powdered face. “Any business?”
Augusta shook her head. “It’s been quieter than a nun’s knickers. But Uncle Sam over there —” she indicated the retired astronaut, who sat under a giant photo of himself in space-helmeted glory, “has been drawing them like flies. Even though he barely set a toe in space.”
Alma set down her enormous vinyl bag with a thump. “World’s largest autograph show, my arse,” she said. “I was just over talking to Phyllida, do you remember her?”
“The raddled old tart who was in Doctor Who with you?”
“It was a classic episode,” Alma said with dignity.
“You played a monster covered in licorice allsorts.”
“A metaphor for the horror that lies beneath an appealing façade,” Alma sniffed. “Not that I’d expect you to understand. In any case, Phyllida’s got a bigger queue than the post office. She’s preening like she’s Judi bloody Dench when the truth is she can’t even get a Hovis advert.”
Against her better judgement, Augusta asked: “How much is she charging?”
Alma, rooting around in her bag, looked up with a scowl. “Thirty pounds.”
“Never!”
They sat, avoiding each other’s gaze, trying not ponder the algebra of their humiliation. After a moment, Alma pulled out her phone and aimed it at Augusta, who automatically smoothed her hair. “What in God’s name are you doing, darling?”
“I’m putting us on Twitter. Someone must bait the trap.”
Half an hour later, Alma had sold eight autographs, and Augusta two. She sat morosely over her empty coffee cup, plotting another trip
“What you doing in there? You didn’t lock the door?” It sounded suspiciously like the boy was trying not to laugh. “Fuck’s sake, that thing hasn’t worked in years.”
That’s what they’ll say about me one day, she thought, and put her cheek against the cool of the door, in the shelter of Rihanna’s gleaming legs. Maybe it isn’t too late to go to law school.
nine
The boy stopped at Augusta’s table and poked at the untouched stack of eight-by-ten photographs. They had been taken just after she’d been cast in The Blood Bank , and showed her in full vampire surgeon garb: mouth a red target, stethoscope draped over her tight vest top. As if she might visit the gym after a tracheotomy and a blood cocktail.
“What was you in?” the boy asked. He had narrow green eyes and dark hair that grew long to cover jug ears. She had a sudden desire to push his hair back and tell him to wear his impediment with pride.
“What was I in?” she said. “Trouble, mostly. Also some programs that your parents might remember.”
He nodded, picked up a photo from the top of the pile. “How much to sign this one?”
“My autographed bosom will set you back ten quid, darling. A bargain to rival the Louisiana Purchase.”
The boy nodded again and put the photo back on the pile. With a nervous half-smile he wandered off to join the queue at the next table, which snaked into the middle of the ballroom. At least fifty people waited patiently for the autograph of an American astronaut who’d orbited the earth three times and nearly drowned when he couldn’t get out of his landing capsule. His signature fetched ten times what hers did.
Augusta sighed and, scanning the room, reached into her purse. Her fingers closed around the tiny bottle she’d bought at the off-licence when Alma disappeared to use the loo. With a sweet crack, the metal lid gave beneath her fingers. Hiding the bottle in her palm, she brought it to the table and quickly dumped the vodka in her coffee. Such a ridiculously small bottle, the kind they gave out in airplanes. The kind you might slip into a Christmas stocking.
She was taking her first sip when Alma returned, hobbling on her stick, a look of determined cheerfulness on her powdered face. “Any business?”
Augusta shook her head. “It’s been quieter than a nun’s knickers. But Uncle Sam over there —” she indicated the retired astronaut, who sat under a giant photo of himself in space-helmeted glory, “has been drawing them like flies. Even though he barely set a toe in space.”
Alma set down her enormous vinyl bag with a thump. “World’s largest autograph show, my arse,” she said. “I was just over talking to Phyllida, do you remember her?”
“The raddled old tart who was in Doctor Who with you?”
“It was a classic episode,” Alma said with dignity.
“You played a monster covered in licorice allsorts.”
“A metaphor for the horror that lies beneath an appealing façade,” Alma sniffed. “Not that I’d expect you to understand. In any case, Phyllida’s got a bigger queue than the post office. She’s preening like she’s Judi bloody Dench when the truth is she can’t even get a Hovis advert.”
Against her better judgement, Augusta asked: “How much is she charging?”
Alma, rooting around in her bag, looked up with a scowl. “Thirty pounds.”
“Never!”
They sat, avoiding each other’s gaze, trying not ponder the algebra of their humiliation. After a moment, Alma pulled out her phone and aimed it at Augusta, who automatically smoothed her hair. “What in God’s name are you doing, darling?”
“I’m putting us on Twitter. Someone must bait the trap.”
Half an hour later, Alma had sold eight autographs, and Augusta two. She sat morosely over her empty coffee cup, plotting another trip
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