cherry red
part one
As she placed her manicured hand onto the telephone she hesitated. It wasn't the sudden realisation that her cherry red nail polish was an exact match with the cherry red of her vintage phone. although she did of course notice that. It was instead the hesitation of one who does not wish to make a call but receive one: she was willing the phone to ring.
She pretended to be bored. She lay back onto her classic 1950s day-bed and her hair fanned across the faux zebra over-stuffed cushion: her shiny, just-styled rita-red hair self-arranged just so; her capri pants rose slightly on her waxed smooth ankles and her cotton blouse ruffled across her bullet-brassiered breasts. She was completely uncomfortable but she knew she looked fabulous. If only there were a mirror angled just so or she had thought to set up her camera and tripod and set the timer. too late now: she was busy thinking, contemplating.
Just then, the phone rang. She started. Began to get up from her position on the day-bed and fell to the floor. Breaking a nail, splitting her capri pant at the knee and mussing her 'do she grabbed at the cherry receiver. 'Shit!' she exclaimed as she caught sight of the full length mirror across the room. 'Um...Sabrina?' the voice on the line faltered.
She sat up, composed herself as best she could and said in her best, silky voice, 'Sabrina Sinclair speaking, who is calling?' She looked away from the mirror. If she didn't see, she could pretend she still remained immaculate. She looked away from her knee and nail also.
'Sabrina? are you ok?' the voice was really concerned... not least because she had another new surname.
'Yes. I am fine, who is this?' she asked, folding her legs elegantly to one side, brushing her bronzed tresses away from her face.
'Sabrina, it's Michael. You asked me to call you today, do you remember? Is everything alright?' he asked.
'Mike, honey!' she purred, 'of course, everything is just fine and dandy, baby! What a lovely surprise to hear from you!' she trailed one hand into the shag carpetting on her boudoir floor.
'Um, surprise? but you asked me to call...I'm about an hour late but I called all the same,' explained a confused Michael.
'You are? Really? I had no idea of the time, I was just here, reading a fascinating article on world hunger and there you were on the end of my telephone line. what a pleasant, pleasant surprise.'
Michael decided not to point out again that it was she who requested this phone call. Sabrina, to him, was an interestingly quirky girl: pretty, very cute actually, if a tad strange. He'd known her a short while and when she had slipped him her 'business card' with a suggestion to ring her at home at 7pm on this very day he'd been somewhat taken aback. Curiosity had got the better of him when he'd happened across her card in his jacket pocket while looking for a piece of chewing gum. It was after 8, but he thought, 'what the hey' and dialled the number.
Now he was beginning to regret it already and wondered if she had caller ID on her phone.
'So, Mike, what are you doing with yourself today? What is going on in Mike-world?' she breathed down the line.
He felt it was pointless to tell her that his name was Michael, that no one ever called him 'Mike', only other people's dads when they were trying to be overly chummy with their son's friend, or the odd teacher when he'd been at school for the same reason. People always wanted to be seen as one of Michael's friends, he was extremely popular though he couldn't quite understand why. He was flattered of course, very much so. He was glad he got on with people easily but they always seemed to be making an extra effort with him as if to impress him, and this was exhausting for him, false and exhausting.
He tried to picture Sabrina, tried to imagine her in her room, all done up like a 50s goddess, trying way too hard, much too hard. She needn't try quite so hard, he thought. She's a beautiful girl. The trying too hard just made her a bit weird.
But he felt sorry for her and knew why she had asked him to call. It was the same reason other women often pressed themselves on him in this manner - the occasional guy too.
'Sabrina,' he said, 'why don't i take you out? Have you eaten? Would you let me buy you some dinner?'
'Why, what a delightful idea Mike!'
He'd have to say something at some point about this Mike business, he realised. It was already beginning to get annoying. But he hated confrontation. Maybe he should just get over it and see it as endearing.
'Why I would love to! Would you be a dear and give me about 30 minutes to make myself presentable? I want to make myself look my best for um...dinner,' she cooed.
He couldn't imagine she ever looked anything else, she was so over-meticulous in her appearance whenever he saw her. He said: 'I can't imagine you ever look anything other than perfectly lovely, Sabrina'. He didn't need to but he knew how to lay on the charm. He would never hurt anyone's feelings.
'Wonderful!' she exclaimed.
'Shall we meet? or should I come round?' he asked, and they made the necessary arrangements, Sabrina asking for more than the previously suggested 30 minutes in the process.
Michael hung up the phone. He shuddered. He began to wonder if he hadn't just made a very big mistake. He began to wonder if the evening ahead might not turn out to be one long challenging misadventure. a sense of foreboding crept over him. He tried to shake it off and pretended that he had. He walked slowly to the door and out to his destination.
part two
He waited. He had another drink. He was expecting her around 9.15, 9.30 giving her a window for female-lateness. He hated to stereotype women but Sabrina was a woman who delighted in living out a particular feminine archetype, reveled in it: it was her life's work. So he couldn't feel bad about this. She was the type of woman who would say that she had to 'powder her nose' and she probably would too.
She was the type of woman who would expect doors to be opened, chairs to be pulled out, dresses and necklaces to be fastened for her, all in flirtation, an illustration of her femininity.
He couldn't imagine what it was like to make love to Sabrina. Would she let you muss her hair? mess up her makeup? Would she insist on a certain kind of lighting? Change into a fluffy penoir and matching mules? Would she give herself an alternative, 'bedroom' hairdo, maybe piled up, maybe even cheeky pigtails? He found himself getting aroused by this silly image.
He was surprised with himself. Why would such a high-maintenance, artificial, unreal scenario turn him on? did he like Sabrina? Did he want her? He was surprised with himself.
She was not there by 9.40. He ordered another drink.
He didn't know whether to call. Would she have left the house? He hoped so, but he wouldn't be surprised if she hadn't yet. He ordered another drink. Who did she think she was - Marilyn Monroe? Probably. She probably studied the life stories of these women, their supposed lives, swallowing up the details, the trivia, the lies. Seeing them as how-to books, as a guide to live by. Why was she like this? Did anyone know who Sabrina was? Had anyone ever? How long had she been like this? Did she have any actual friends?
These were all questions he was longing to ask her. He was a little stunned to realise that he cared. Why? Why should he care?
The worse thing was, he knew he could never ask them. They would hurt her feelings. So he would never know, unless he happened across someone who had known her before - before this retro-incarnation that was Sabrina. Sabrina Sinclair, Sable, Satine, Saint-James, St Cyr, or whatever the name of the moment was to be.
Was she even Sabrina? He doubted it.
It was now 9.55 and she hadn't shown. Were they to eat? How late was the kitchen at this place? He half-smiled at the hovering waiter, ordered another drink and some bread. He didn't want to be sloshed when she arrived. He was a strange drunk at the best of times, with someone like her, he wasn't quite sure what the effect would be.
At 10.15 he went from annoyed, to concerned, to disappointed. Had she stood him up? Why would she do that? No one had ever done that to him and he just couldn't imagine super-needy Sabrina being the first.
He'd finished the bread. He enquired as to the closing of the kitchen. the steely reply was '11pm sir'. Aha. So there was time. But he was taken aback. He wasn't used to steely replies. Even in adverse circumstances, his natural, strange charm seemed to seep into the ether and placate even the most irrate fellow.
He didn't like this. Something was shifting. Shifting out of his favour. He ordered another drink.
part three
At 10.40 he heard, 'Hi Mike! Hi!' and looked up to see her in all her goddess glory, eyes shining, hair shining, lips shining. She looked stunning: a white, clinging dress with cherry print; cork-soled wedge platforms with cherry embroidered denim uppers; a small clutch bag, of course, cherry red with a diamante cherry encrusted on the side; her lips cherry red; her nails cherry red; her hair cherry red....
Her hair hadn't been cherry red the last time he had seen her, it had been auburn....he realised what had taken her the time, he saw a touch of cherry at her hair line - she had been dying her hair. There was a feint chemical whiff about her as well as the cheap scent of Charlie. He felt incredibly light-headed. Her body was sculpted by the cherry dress, her hips tilted slightly by the cherry shoes. She looked slightly breathless, she looked totally unfazed, not someone who was over an hour late at all. He realised that the intoxication he felt from the drink and her chemical smell was making him swoon.
She was still standing there.
He realised why.
Leaping to his feet he was unsteady, she pursed her lips and giggled. Michael held the chair out for her and she stepped into its range, bent her knees slightly and he pushed it delicately towards her. The way her bottom met seat made him giddy, the smooth movement of it.
A waiter appeared. Sabrina just gazed at Michael, wide-eyed, moist lipped. he felt his brow getting damp. 'Um', he said, searching for the wine list, 'shall we order?'
'Oh, i'm not really hungry. I would like a pink gin though, if you have any?' breathed Sabrina.
He was shocked.
'Sabrina, I think we should eat something. It's late, I've been in this restaurant chewing on bread and gulping booze for the last two hours, I need to eat. I think you should join me.'
He was stunned at his own bluntness but realised it was a mixture of tipsiness and the fact that the waiter was barely containing his rage. It was the lesser of two offending evils and Michael gathered that the wrath of waiter was far worse than that of Sabrina.
'Oh' she said, picked up a menu and bowed her head low over it. Michael reached over and put his hand on hers, she looked back up at him, her eyes a little moister, her cheeks a little redder.
'Sabrina,' he whispered, 'you're beautiful. I want to treat you to dinner, I want to enjoy your company and frankly honey, I am starving,' he winked at her. He never winked at people. But it worked, her flush deepened and she smiled and twinkled. He felt himself swoon.
'Well', she said tracing the menu with a cherry nail, ' I will have the steak,' she said and looked at the waiter triumphantly.
'Steak for madam,' he said contemptuously and turned to Michael, 'and for sir?'
Michael looked directly at Sabrina and smiled saying, 'I believe I too shall have the steak'.
The waiter snatched the menus from their hands and sauntered off, returning in moments with Sabrina's pink gin and skulking back off to the kitchen muttering.
Sabrina giggled, 'my, he's a grumpy-puss,' she said. This made Michael's heart leap slightly. 'Grumpy-puss'. That would once have made him wince.
He reached over and took Sabrina's hand in his and sighed. He realised she was in soft-focus like a Doris Day movie. Then there was nothing. An echo and then blackness.
part four
He couldn't open his eyes, it hurt.
His skin hurt.
He could have sworn he'd been poisoned. In a way, of course, he had.
He was sure he was breathing. He knew he was because that hurt.
There was a strange odour, sweet, very sweet and the bed he was laying on felt extremely soft and clean. He lay there for some time. maybe an hour.
There was a hand on his hair, he could just about make out the touch but it was there. He heard a whimper and realised it came from him. He lay like this, the hand soothingly stroking at his temple down to his neck, for about an hour.
Attempting to open his eyes was just like attempting to walk after a major accident leaves you paralysed. He twitched each eyelash like they were toes. Each responded eventually, but the whole process took about an hour.
The opening of the eyes was the most pain yet, as if they were not designed to do such a thing. The exposure of the eyeballs was like raw flesh in a searing, acid-rain filled wind. And he couldn't focus. To focus on his alien surroundings, that took about an hour.
When he did he saw pink, deep, hot pink. And red, and orange. And bright blues and zebra print and leopard print and cherry print.
Ah.
Cherry.
Cherry. Sabrina.
Sabrina.
He felt sick.
He lay there, his eyes pulling in and out of focus, not moving otherwise, for about an hour.
Eventually, the hand still stroking, the room not now moving, but still a cacophony of colour, he dared to move his head slightly. He heard a small 'oh', moved some more, slowly, slowly. He saw, to his right, a plaid-clad knee. The knee led to a small yet shapely thigh, to a rounded hip, to a curve of waist, to a bigger curve of bosom, to a soft pale neck, to a delicate chin, to full, pale pink lips, to a rounded nose and soft rose cheeks, to large green eyes, to pale smooth forehead, to cherry red hair. It was all in fragments like that for him, like she'd been broken apart in a puzzle and the pieces had been roughly put back in not quite the right places, not fitting together, though in the right order.
He realised what was disconcerting: where was the fluffy penoir and matching mules? He could see a small foot peeking out from her thigh, her legs crossed in yogi position. What had happened to the full makeup and bedroom hairdo? Her face (he now risked turning his eyes up to take another glance) was completely bare, not a trace of makeup. Her skin pale, smooth, with naturally rosy cheeks, a smattering of feint freckles, her eyes wide and stunning, her mouth luscious and tempting, her face, her face. Perfect. He almost felt his head clear in that instant. But it was back a split second later, splitting his skull, the hangover.
Her hair was the only artificial thing about her image now. He realised he was disappointed with this, wished he could see the dish water brown or whatever her natural colour was, to complete the picture.
And the plaid, the plaid men's pyjamas. They were the cutest, sexiest thing she could possibly be wearing right then. And she looked so beautiful, the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. And there was such a caring, compassionate, loving look on her face.
He didn't know if it was the hangover, the effects of the alcohol still moving along in his blood, the contrast of the garish room and her simple prettiness, the fact that she was taking care of him: he fell in love right then and there.
'I thought you'd never wake up,' she said in a quiet voice, 'I've been sitting here waiting for you to wake up for the last hour.'
part five
Sitting up, very carefully, Michael realised he was wearing a strange t-shirt (strange to him. a simple, clean, blue cotton shirt) and his underpants. Sabrina had undressed him and slipped him into something a little more comfortable. He was, of course, no Jean Harlow. But then, in her plaid pjs, neither was she. Sabrina placed two firm pillows behind him so he was kept upright and she handed him the biggest and most welcome glass of orange juice he had ever seen in his life. it was cool but not too cold, sweet but not too much so. It was delicious and he instantly felt his blood returning to some kind of normality. Next came a flannel face cloth, wiping at his fizzog, as refreshing as the juice had been.
Michael looked at Sabrina, watched her silently taking care of him, making him comfortable, attending to his needs. He instantly felt guilty at how at ease he was with this: a woman tending to him. But he felt relaxed with her, at home with her. Sabrina. Sabrina, the woman he had felt he wouldn't be able to survive one evening with, the woman he wanted to spend every evening with from now until the end of time. How had this happened? Had there been a love potion mixed in with her hair dye fumes and Charlie?
'How did you get me...here?' he asked weakly.
Sabrina smiled, there was that twinkle again. Only now, without all the artifice it was the shockingly wonderful and natural twinkle he saw, not something desperately trying to peek through all the slap and paint. Not a rhinestone on an overly frosted cake, but a star bursting from the gorgeous inky silk of the night sky.
God.
He was making horrible metaphors. That was a true sign of a Michael-hangover.
'Well,' she said (it was the coo, but not so rehearsed), 'when you um, passed out, the waiters were a little concerned...'
Head Waiter: Madam, what has happened to the gentleman?
Sabrina: It appears he has just passed out
Second Waiter: Passed out? Should we call an ambulance?
Sabrina: How much has he had to drink?
Head Waiter: I don't know.
Sabrina: You must have some idea, he was right here... it will be on the bill will it not?
Second Waiter: Good thinking!
Head Waiter: (scowling) I will go and check
Sabrina: (feeling the pulse in his neck and checking his breathing) It appears to be just a simple case of too much too soon. And maybe there's not enough air in here
Second Waiter: Are you a nurse, madam?
Sabrina: I'm a doctor
Second Waiter: You are?
Sabrina: Don't sound so surprised. Do you always judge a book by its cover?
Head Waiter: We served the gentlemen eight beverages, all scotch and soda
Sabrina: Eight? Eight! You let a man drink eight scotches on an empty stomach?
Head Waiter: (defensive) Madam, the gentleman chose to drink those eight beverages, they were mixed with soda and we served him two portions of bread. The alcohol would have been soaked up and shouldn't have caused this. The gentleman must have been drinking before he got here
Sabrina: Firstly, that is not the point. Eight is still a lot on an empty stomach and it is your duty as a licenced premises to make sure that your customers drink sensibly; secondly, alcohol is alcohol: it can not be diluted - the drink, the taste maybe diluted but the unit of alcohol is still the unit of alcohol, it does not get diluted by soda, by food, or for that matter by coffee or the like. Mixing it with soda merely makes it a bigger drink that should take longer to consume but if he knocked back eight of the babies in just over an hour, that would have made little difference. The same with the bread. Food does not 'soak up' alcohol. Alcohol enters the blood stream regardless.
However he appears to be ok, I think he's just a little sensitive to it and maybe other circumstances contributed to this.
Head Waiter: Such as Madam appearing over an hour late?
Sabrina: I will pretend I didn't hear that, just as I will pretend that you didn't encourage a patron to over consume alcohol just because he happened to be waiting for someone. Call us a taxi. In the meantime, if our dinner is ready by the time it gets here, wrap it up for us. He'll need the iron and vitamins for when he comes to
Second Waiter: I'll check with the kitchen
Head Waiter: You seem to have done this before, madam
Second Waiter: (stage whispering) She's a doctor
Head Waiter: Bullshit!
Sabrina: (pulling card out of cherry purse) Do you want to see my credentials?
Michael looked on incredulous. He didn't know what was more stunning: the fact that Sabrina was telling him she was a doctor - a doctor! - or the fact that she had been so competent in a crisis (because she was a doctor!) or the fact that she had just reenacted the whole thing animatedly pulling off exact performances of both waiters - and herself. And himself, slumped on the table.
Sabrina sat on the edge of the bed, eyes incredibly green, shining and wide. She was slightly breathless.
'So, do you want me to heat up our steaks?' she asked him.
He thought the very idea would make him want to throw up but he stopped and realised it was the most fabulous idea he had heard in a long time. He craved it.
He nodded.
'Good!' she said, bounced on the bed twice and then sprung off to put the oven on.
Michael sat as still as can be. Shocked. Stunned. Gob-smacked. He once again glanced around the room. This time it didn't hurt. On the bedside table beside him was the cherry purse. It was open. Sticking out was Sabrina's wallet. He couldn't help himself. He was so sure it wasn't true, couldn't be true, that this had been a fantastic story she had told him - a glorious tale, a massive talent to be sure, still a surprising girl but - a doctor? He hated himself for doing so - he opened her wallet and pulled out a plastic ID card which read 'C. Redman, MD' and showed a picture of Sabrina, blonde hair swept back into a smart chignon, subtle make-up, gorgeous expression of authority and sweetness combined. It was her. She was a doctor. But her name was definitely not, then, Sabrina.
part six
The food was superb: she was astounding him more and more. Not least the revelation. He stared at her as he moved vegetables and steak into his mouth, chewing on autopilot, trying to work out, why? She seemed oblivious, looking up and smiling occasionally, eating opposite him, the occasional sigh, the occasional ‘mmm’. Neither spoke for a good while, until she said, ‘you know what might be nice, and might clear your head some more? If you take a bath and then we can go for a walk around the park, what do you think? Hmm?’
He nodded slowly: a bath and a walk. Again, the perfect solution to his state of ‘ill health’. He looked around the room and saw objects straight out of a 50s magazine depicting the perfect kitchen. It was pastel heaven and primary delight. On the wall was a wooden rack, painted baby blue with dainty cups hanging on hooks and their corresponding saucers displayed on the shelf above. Two-tone Bakelite and Lucite objects dotted every surface. There was even a gingham pinny with a cute little stylised chicken embroidered onto it with a frill, a frill. He could see Sabrina (‘Sabrina’) baking away, flour on her nose, trying to get those cookies just right. Or preparing a pot roast so she would have time to fix her hair and makeup, slip into a cocktail-hour dress and whip up a pitcher of dry martinis…oh no. not booze, never again booze.
‘Why did I have so much to drink? Why didn’t I stop myself?’ he said aloud.
‘Because I was rude and left you waiting. It’s entirely my fault,’ she said with a small, guilty smile.
‘Firstly, no. It’s my fault: not yours, not the waiters. I have to take responsibility. I never drink like that. Hardly ever. Knocking them back. I don’t understand, I wasn’t behaving like me at all.’ He frowned and took another bite of steak. God it was good.
‘Maybe you were nervous,’ she suggested.
Yes. Yes that was it. That was exactly it and he had known this. Known it at the time and knew it now. But why?
‘But why? Why would I have been nervous? I was, you are right, but why, Sabrina?’ ('Sabrina'), She seemed to know the answers to everything else.
‘Because a boy and a girl are usually nervous when they are meeting for a d-d-d-dinner’, she tilted her head coyly: it was extraordinarily familiar.
‘Sabrina, I –', he began. Her eyes widened in expectation, but he couldn’t say it, he was too confused: what had been happening? What was this?
She cleared their plates and said, ‘I’m going to hop into the shower. I won’t be two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I’ll call you when your bath is ready.’
Two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Even that was familiar. Why was it all so familiar?
Then, as if a déjà vu: he felt a sharp intake of breath wind him as it dropped. The penny. Dropped.
part seven
In the bath he could smell her. He was surrounded by the scent of the bubble bath she had provided, but the scents of all the products she had used in her showering were also in the air, a heady concoction making his confusion worse.
This bathroom, he could see through all the steam, was as consistently period as the rest of her house. Of course. He realised now how easy, on her doctor’s salary (doctor!) she would have been able to outfit the place as a 50s replica. Although her doctor’s persona (doctor!) was nowhere to be seen. This persona, this Sabrina (‘Sabrina’) as the heart of the confusion. This wasn’t the relaxing bath it might have been.
Michael felt as confused about himself as he was of her. Who was she, but who was he? He was Michael, Mike to some…Mike…Mike…when had he first been called Mike? Mike-World…
‘How is everything in Mike-World?’
How was it that in this bathroom he felt like he was a little boy waiting for someone to come in and scrub his back? Waiting for Sabrina…Sabrina.
He heard her singing.
‘If you, you come to find me
Find me here, waiting here for you
If you, you come to find me
Don’t forget the promise that I gave to you.’
What was that? That was something, something. He felt his head fog up more and more, while simultaneously something was trying to clear. To clear and offer up the missing information, the bit of Sabrina puzzle that he needed, to slot into place and reveal the Big Picture. He felt he was reading a surrealist novel or had turned on the TV in the middle of a detective drama and was trying to work out what had happened before hand, so that the clues and answers on screen would make sense.
His feet sinking into the thick shag carpeting, oh so soft, the towel wrapped around his body, oh so soft, the sound of Sabrina’s voice carrying into the room, oh so soft…
He felt stronger. He felt like a man who was about to demand some answers.
part eight
Breath-taking. That was the only possible way to describe it: Sabrina had managed to transform herself into the most authentically stunning goddess he had ever seen in his life. It was Jayne Mansfield in The Girl Can’t Help It. It was Marilyn in The Seven Year Itch. It was Rita Hayworth in Gilda. She wore a fitted jacket, skirt, gloves, hat, purse – all matching, all a glorious shade of turquoise setting off the startling red of her hair and lipstick to perfection. Michael realised how difficult it was to talk to this Sabrina, this artifice. He sighed, swooned a little and followed her out the door. She was only missing the poodle or convertible or whatever other cliché would have made this image complete. He felt like a dowdy, scruffy anathema beside her. He fell slightly behind her, slightly but enough to watch her swinging gait. How she expected to ‘go for a walk’ in those shoes, he didn’t know. However it didn’t seem to bother her, Sabrina was oblivious to any possible hindrance to their ‘promenade’ as she suddenly insisted on calling it.
It was such a gorgeous day. He tried to appreciate that. The sun was warm but not too warm. There was enough of a coolness in the air to help him get over the remnants of hangover.
‘Sabrina, how old are you?’ he asked.
She took a sharp intake of breath.
‘Wow! I thought you were a gentleman Mike! You don’t ask a lady such a thing!’ the look on her face of horror was, he noted, mock horror. Did she know he knew?
‘I’m 31, Sabrina. Are you 31?’ he said, staring, staring at her.
‘I am not going to dignify that Michael Livingston. You don’t deserve an answer to that impertinent question.’
‘See, I think I do. I think I do deserve the answer to that and a lot of other things. Like, why do you call yourself Sabrina?’
She walked over to a bench and sat down, producing a pair of cat’s eye sunglasses from her bag, slipping them on and sitting up perfectly straight, she patted the seat beside her. He sat down.
‘Why do you call yourself Michael?’ she asked, an eyebrow raised, slightly visible above the frame.
‘Because that happens to be my name.’
‘Well,’ she sighed, ‘what’s in a name Mike? Why not Sabrina? Why not Mike, Mike?’
He too sighed. Sighed and shrugged. ‘Is there a point to all this?’
‘Isn’t that the question philosophers have been asking for centuries Mike? Is there a point to all this?’ she giggled. ‘See, the thing is, I’ve come to a conclusion. Actually it is in lieu of a conclusion. And the thing is, Mike, I realised one day - a massive realisation - that I didn’t know who I was and never had. Or at least I thought so. Then I remembered something, some time, some place in the distant past when it didn’t matter.’ She lowered her glasses. ‘Do you know who you are, Mike? Do you know who “Michael” is?’
He pondered. Something was happening. Something was becoming clearer, like the air was suddenly fresher or something.
‘If someone were to ask an acquaintance who “Michael” was, what do you think they would say?’ she looked at him, really looked at him, her green eyes seemingly brighter than they had ever looked.
‘Why don’t I ask you? You are an acquaintance – what would you say?’ he threw this back to her. She smiled.
‘I would say, he’s a very, very kind and considerate man. Everybody’s friend, everybody’s pal. He’s warm and caring. He is affectionate and selfless. He’s wonderful.’ Michael blushed deeply and he felt himself smiling broadly. ‘And I think, Mike, that is how most if not all people would describe you. Don’t you?’
‘How can I say?’ he bowed his head.
‘Because that’s how they’ve always seen you Michael. Just as they always saw me as the Doctor’s daughter who would of course become a doctor and a good doctor. Which I did. I didn’t disappoint. That is I didn’t disappoint anyone but me. And us.’
‘Cherie,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She replied.
‘It’s been…how long?’
‘It’s been, Michael Livingston, twenty-six years. It’s time, you know? It’s time.’
part nine
He shook his head. The images were so clear now, like a curtain had been parted and on the stage there they were, three, four, five years old. Cherie Redman and Michael Livingston living their young lives in their haven, their secret identities as Sabrina and Mike.
In the attic of Cherie’s grandmother’s house were piles and piles of magazines: home-making magazines, movie magazines, fan magazines. In boxes and trunks were clothes and furnishings and household items: all from the 50s. It was here that Cherie and Michael would play, for hours and hours on end. It was here that Cherie became Sabrina and Michael, because he wasn’t a particularly imaginative boy, became Mike. He liked ‘Mike’ anyway: it held for him a particular ‘Hi, Honey! I’m Home!’ quality suited to the role. Cherie made the role of Mike, Sabrina’s husband, three-dimensional, she was the creative one, the one with the endless imagination, directing their world, their life together as Sabrina and Mike. At first, Sabrina was glamorous yet domesticated and Mike was the breadwinner, returning home to be doted upon by his loving wife. But soon, the homey settings of the home-making magazines were replaced more and more by the more complicated stories from the movie magazines. They couldn’t quite follow the words within, but they would devour the pictures, working out the scenario for the day: today, Mike would return home to find Sabrina in the arms of another…no not the arms of another – she would have discovered his secret life and confront him with a pistol. Sabrina would be the breadwinner and Mike the worthless bum husband, being taken care of by his wife. Sabrina was a Broadway actress on the up; he was the playwright on the way down. And on and on. The stories often changed, the characters slightly different, but Sabrina and Mike were solid, to them. They were who they wanted to be, whom they thought they would be when they grew up.
Then one day, it all changed. Michael’s family were moving away. One day they never saw each other again, at aged five, he moved away and they didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.
Neither of them played the game on their own, nor with anyone else. Cherie didn’t return to her grandmother’s attic until her grandmother died fifteen years later. It was then, as a young medical student that Cherie began to feel the emptiness of her destiny, of her life as Cherie. She’d lost something vital aged five, a purpose a discovery of who you could be; all the many possibilities had been snatched away the day her best friend and ‘husband’, her best friend and first love had been stolen away from her.
‘How could I have forgotten all of that?’ asked an incredulous Michael.
‘You know I did too. Up until the time that I went back in that house. I think I had blocked it all out because losing you was so hard. It was the hardest thing in my life. And then I just went along with what everyone else said, what they supposed was good for me. But when I saw all of that stuff again. Michael it was like we were right back there again, it was so exciting! But it took me a long while to realise, realise what I had actually lost. Realise what I hadn’t actually gained from being an adult. Don’t you feel lost, Michael? Do you feel you aren’t who you need to be?’
He did. He nodded to show that he did.
‘But…this…Cherie, this – persona. I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t this an odd way to behave as an adult?’ he tried to give her a sympathetic smile but realised it came out as a grimace.
She smiled.
‘Yes. Of course it is. But that’s why I like it. It’s not what is expected of me Michael. It’s not who I am supposed to be. It’s like dress up again, pretend again. And then, like in the restaurant, I can pull the rug out from people’s judgements by revealing a little of what lies beneath. I don’t know if I want to be a doctor, Michael. I never had any choice! But I know I am a good doctor and for me that shows I can be whoever I want to be. And you can too.’
He looked at her, he could see it now. See the young girl from all those years ago, beneath the adult in front of him, beneath the gloss of ‘Sabrina’.
‘Ok. So. Tell me: why did you choose to reveal yourself to me in this way? This was all deliberate, right?’ he asked.
‘Of course it was! But it was part of the game. I found out where you were, whom you were by asking those who knew you. I realised what had happened with you. The awe in their voices and faces, Michael: it wasn’t natural! I watched you for a while; you know none of this because I was Cherie then. I watched you and saw how uncomfortable it made you and then I knew that it had happened to you too. That day they separated us, the day they didn’t even have the decency to let us say goodbye, we were frozen. We could never explore who we could be ever again, because we had done that together. I knew I had to find you, Michael. Had to find you and discover with you who we are and who we can be.’ She took a deep breath.
‘Will we though? Will we be able to find out?’ he felt exhausted all of a sudden.
‘That is why I said this was all in lieu of a conclusion: it doesn’t matter, Michael, it really doesn’t matter as much as the discovery, the play, the choice and the chances. We’ve got to get all that back. So I’m supposed to be a sensible doctor and I play dress up as a silly Hollywood wannabe starlet. So what? It’s a game Michael, as much as anything else is a game: only I acknowledge that it is a game. And now…I was hoping that you would be my friend again. We don’t have to play Sabrina and Mike any more. Let’s just see who we might be. Let’s just get to know each other again and maybe we can tell each other who it is we are. Deal?’
He took her hand.
‘Deal. Absolutely. Deal. Only – can I call you Cherie? Sabrina just seems a little…well, odd to me now I know.’ He waited for a sign of disappointment or upset.
‘Of course! I was getting a little sick of her myself: such high maintenance. And playing havoc with my hair!’ she giggled.
‘Well, I’m kind of disappointed I missed the blonde…’ he said.
‘I’ll bet you are. I’ll see what I can do…’ she said.
The end.
(copyright corinna tomrley 2005. corinnacorinna productions)