Page 63 of A Snowfall of Silver

I don’t remember all of it. It’s like a dream, shattered and fragmentary, just out of reach. I remember relaxing as the play wore on, I remember being relieved that things seemed to be going all right, that I hadn’t made a horrible mistake, forgotten a line or fallen over. I had seen Viola play the scenes so many times I knew which lines to linger on and which to play for laughs. But I never, not for a single second, felt like Gwendolyn.

What I felt like was Freya, pretending to be Viola, playing Gwendolyn.

I was desperately aware of my self-consciousness. And being aware of one’s self-consciousness is not terribly helpful.

By the time the play finishes I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth. I smile and step forward on Dan’s arm, hearing the applause, and yet I know it is not really for me. I want to tell the audience it’s all right, that I understand, that I did just enough, but I know I didn’t give them what they deserved.

When the curtain finally comes down the others crowd around me, hooting and laughing.

“Well done, darling.” Dan sweeps me into his arms and swings me around.

“You did it!” Alma’s eyes shine. “That was so much fun!”

I think the benefit of low expectations is that by putting in a competent performance you convince people you’ve done well.

“My love, we must take you for drinks,” Dan says. “To celebrate your triumph.”

“Yes,” I say. “Drinks.”

In the dressing room I take off my costume with unsteady hands and a sense of detachment. I know this dress very well, I sewed these lace frills on myself. I trace the pattern with my finger, as I stand in my slip, shivering.

“There you are!” Nora exclaims, bursting in through the door. “You did brilliantly. Why are you standing about in your underwear? You’ll catch your death.”

She wraps me up in a dressing gown and pushes me down in a chair, wiping the make-up off my face. I watch her do it in the mirror, watch as she wipes the colour and life from my face, the mask I was hiding behind.

“I’ve seen this before,” she says reassuringly. “It’s just the adrenaline. You have to be so up when you’re onstage that when you come off, you crash. Don’t worry, you’re just not used to it. You’ll feel better in a bit.”

“Will I?” I ask, my eyes filling with quick tears.

Nora misunderstands my emotion, smiling fondly. “Of course you will. You’re overwhelmed! It’s a big night for you. I’m so pleased for you, darling.”

With a bit more pulling and prodding, Nora helps me into my own dress. I’ve recovered some of my senses now, enough at least to put a brave face on. I can hardly consider all the thoughts running through my head, there are so many, and they are so overwhelming. I daren’t start untangling them, pulling them out and examining them now, not while there are people waiting for me. It’s too much.

“Come on, come on!” Dan sticks his head around the door. “We’re all ready to go. Time to toast to your success!”

He puts his arm around my shoulder, and Nora sweeps along in our wake. We make our way through the corridor, and people keep stopping me to say well done.

“You did it!” Lindsey exclaims, squeezing my arm, as I walk past.

“I did,” I say brightly. “I did it.” Because that is completely true. I went onstage, I said the lines. I did it.

I just didn’t do it well.

And I think if they’d had any expectations of me, then they’d realize that themselves.

We meet up with Alma and Russ and bustle out into the cold. They are merry and laughing and I am too, acting a thousand times better than I did on that stage.

We pour into the pub, and there’s a crowd forming around me. It makes me feel hot and claustrophobic. I try to keep my breathing steady. I try to keep the broad smile pinned to my face.

And yet, even while I smile and thank them, there is something happening inside me that I can’t articulate.

It feels like I am coming apart.

It was wrong. It was all wrong. It felt wrong.

And there’s only one person I want to talk to about it.

It seems like an age passes before the crowd starts to disperse, before people drift off to chat in smaller groups. I sip my drink, wincing at the taste of gin. I don’t know who ordered this, but it wasn’t me.