Chapter 66: Crossing Center
Cully shivered as cold tap water rolled down her cheeks to her jaw, the skin around her eyes puffy. She had woken up just a few minutes earlier, wanting the blaring alarm in her ear to stop, at least for a while. Not that wishing had done much until she finally slapped it into silence at half five once—then twice. Now patting her face dry with the washcloth that hung from the rail to the side of the sink, she drew a deep breath as she dropped the towel onto one of the taps and tightened her hands on the cold porcelain basin.
Years ago, she had learned to ignore the rising nerves in the last hours before an audition; they just cluttered up her mind when she most needed it clear. But as Cully released that same breath, the air whistling lowly between her lips, the tightness in her stomach refused to lessen. It still twisted alongside the same quiet doubts. "It's just one more audition," she said quietly, rubbing at her eyes with cold fingers, the crust in the corners catching on her skin. "It's another day, that's all." As she struggled to fall asleep the night before, the Cambridge streets she remembered from years ago had twisted in her mind: a turn here, a nest of crisscrossing roads there. And even as the happy memories followed, Cully couldn't quite silence...what, exactly?
"I know. Gavin," she said, finally folding the soft cloth back over the metal rail. "Don't tell yourself anything else." She picked up her toothbrush, adding a dollop of toothpaste and a splash of water to the bristles before beginning to scrub at her teeth and gums. The constant back and forth, the well-remembered minty taste, the tiny soft bubbles welling up with her saliva...everything in this moment was suddenly familiar and comforting. Simple, when nothing else felt so plain and easy.
Spitting the toothpaste into the basin and splashing a handful of water around to rinse it down the drain, Cully frowned at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Beneath her eyes, the blue semi-circles reminded her of the early hour; her hair was wrinkled and knotted especially at the ends. Earlier in the week she'd had it trimmed, leaving it looking a little less worn for today. Not that he— Stop it, she told herself. Gavin doesn't matter, not right now. Washing and drying her hands, Cully snapped the light off, hurrying back to her bedroom, newly cold in her t-shirt and pajamas. "What do you expect if it's nearly the end of October?" she murmured, closing the door behind her.
Both the overhead light and the lamp beside her bed were still off, the glow of a few streetlamps gleaming faintly through the pale curtains tugged across the window her only guide across the room. Dropping back onto her bed and clasping her hands behind her neck, Cully closed her eyes, trying not to yawn. Don't lie down, she thought, finally giving into that yawn as she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. It would still be a long while before she was properly awake and if she crawled back into her bed...I don't want to do this. I know I don't. Opening her eyes, everything was still buried in the shadows. They fled as she switched the small lamp on, squinting against the flicker of pain in her eyes as light briefly blinded her. But what else was there to do?
She tried to think about the day that lay ahead, not those huddled in the past: the train from Causton to King's Cross before connecting for the express train to Cambridge; an hour or two at the theater, waiting for her turn in the queue to audition—or perhaps longer, depending on how many other women were eager to portray one third of of a love triangle; and an afternoon catching up with James, another friend from her first university course who had remained in the Cambridge area. He had offered to let her stay for the night and it wouldn't have been the first time she had found herself sleeping on a friend's couch after reading for a role...but she didn't know what had stopped her taking him up on the offer. It didn't mean anything beyond what it sounded—Cully had met enough of James' boyfriends before she left university—but something kept her from saying yes. "You're being silly," she said quietly, standing again and stretching her arms out over her head, her elbows popping as she straightened them. "It's none of Gavin's business where you stay the night," she said as she rolled her neck round, listening to a couple quiet pops.
But you know he would have something to say, don't you?
"Yes, and I wish he wouldn't."
A few feet away atop her dresser, everything she normally used on her hair lay: brush, comb, a few dark elastics for tying it back when she couldn't stand feeling it about her face any longer. As she reached for the flat brush, Cully wondered why she hadn't just cut it short again. She worked the snarls from her hair, each chunk grazing her face before it fell back against her shoulders. If she thought back even a few weeks, she could remember still feel—
"Stop," she said again, slamming the brush down on the dresser's top. Why are you doing this? she asked herself as her elbows hit the wood. A few pulses throbbed along her left elbow to her wrist even as she rubbed at the smarting joint.
Don't you know? Even now?
"And you can stuff it, too," Cully whispered. Reaching for one of the elastics, she twisted her hair up behind her head. Over the last month, she had learned to despise the voice of reason that frequently drifted through her mind, always hissing something new and often painful into her ear. "I can make my own choices well enough without you."
She dressed quickly, tugging on a pair of jeans then throwing a blouse over her shoulders, threading each button through the tiny stitched holes with clumsy hands and yawning again. Fastening a short chain around her neck, she ignored the dull pain as the clasp dug into her finger beneath her nail before she reached for a cardigan as well and glanced back at her clock. A few minutes after six.
Dropping onto her bed again, Cully pulled her feet into her lap and reached for her script. There wasn't anything left to do—if she wasn't properly prepared by now, she never would be—but she still flipped through the pages, just listening as they slapped gently against one another, the black text blurring together. "I don't want to do this," she finally said, turning to the passage that had captured her attention for the last two weeks. 'What have I done! This is dreadful! I might have been out of my mind!' Mavis proclaimed. "Well, I wouldn't go that far," Cully said quietly. "For you or me." The thin book fell closed in her hands as she sat there for another few minutes, drifting back into the memories: cobbled streets twisting around worn buildings, spires rising up to scratch on the grey sky; the jangling of bells as one of the innumerable cyclists sped by; wandering through the botanical gardens as everything burst into bloom with the first days of summer. None of it lifted her mood.
By six thirty, Cully finally ventured downstairs, tucking her script into her overnight bag along with her mobile and its charger, closing her bedroom door gently. Her mother had volunteered to drive her to Causton train station, and Cully had gratefully accepted. It afforded her another half hour or so of sleep and she was happy for every minute, but there was no point in waking either of her parents.
She wasn't one for a large breakfast before an early audition and never had been, even after she learned to forget any lingering nerves. This morning was no different and as Cully popped a couple slices of bread into the toaster, she tried to think on the day ahead. She remembered the theater, nothing too large buried on a corner a few blocks from the city center, but couldn't quite recall if she had ever met the director. "I suppose it doesn't really matter," she said to herself, filling a glass with cool water. "You weren't too interested in this show for itself anyway."
By the time her mother stepped into the kitchen, Cully had finished her toast, not really tasting a bite as she sat at the kitchen table watching the sky grow lighter through the window above the sink. She was still turning over a few of her lines in her mind, once in a while thinking back to the moments that came before and after Mavis' outburst. I think you might have appreciated it, Gavin— Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath. Don't worry over him, she told herself. You already know you can't now—
"Do you have everything you need?"
Her mother's voice startled her, and Cully turned around, nearly catching her elbow on the table like she had on her dresser. "Uh, yes," she said quietly, pushing her chair back. "At least I think so."
"And it's only one night after all."
"Right."
The car pulled out of the drive in the chilly early morning sunlight, and Cully was still struggling not to yawn. Despite forcing herself to bed early yesterday evening after a final good luck wish from her father—somehow he never remembered to say break a leg instead, though after so many years, she wondered if he simply forgot for his own amusement—she had to fight to finally fall asleep. Even then, it hadn't been nerves or allowing her mind one more run-through of her piece. For the first time, she allowed herself say what she remembered this morning as she picked her way through the dull tasks of a rather normal morning: "I don't want to do this."
"You'll be wonderful, dear," her mother said as they rounded the first corner onto the main road leading to central Causton.
"Maybe," Cully said quietly, tightening her arms across her torso.
"You don't sound sure. That's not like you."
"There could be anyone else reading for the same role, Mum."
"Well, you can't worry about them, can you?"
"I suppose." It might be true, but it didn't help.
Another turn past the first of the familiar buildings: the nearest bank, the largest local shop bar the supermarket, and now the Playhouse. Cully tried not to look at the last. "It's not the audition you're really worried about, is it?" her mother asked.
"I always am," Cully said quickly. "At least a little."
"But you're not thinking about that now." Now more than ever, Cully heard her mother refuse to ask about anything—nothing was a question, it was always a statement. And more than ever— "You're still thinking about Gavin, aren't you?"
"Not really," she managed, gazing out the window again. The buildings ran together, a blur of brown and grey and black: nothing distinct, just a cloudy mess.
"Cully."
She sighed. "Or at least not entirely."
"Then what's the matter?" her mother asked, turning the steering wheel sharply onto a new, nearly empty street.
"I...You were right, that's all." The train station was already too close, the minutes ticking away, closer to the start of the first leg of her journey.
"What do you mean?"
"When I told you about—this audition," Cully said, balancing her elbow on the passenger door and pressing it against the window. Even through her jumper, she felt the cold of the glass. "You said it was rather quick."
Another turn. "It was. It's been some time since you've changed course that quickly."
"I guess I just felt—I needed to change something."
"There were a number of other choices you could have made, Cully."
"I know. But everything is so still in Causton right now—"
"I don't think that's quite true," her mother said, the car slowing to a standstill at a red light, "or at least it's not all true."
Cully looked away, a few people here and there already hurrying along on the sidewalk. Going somewhere they want to go, I suppose. "Not exactly."
The car's engine came back to life, creeping into the empty intersection. "I know there's not much you can do right now, but you can't always leave hard questions unanswered."
Shaking her head, she said, "That's not it—"
"Isn't it?" Sometimes, her mother saw right through her, to everything she didn't understand when she didn't know what to say. "I know Gavin means a lot to you—and maybe more than you meant him to."
"You mean more than Dad thinks he should," Cully said softly. The thought of that distance already ached.
"Perhaps." Her mother spun the wheel sharply, taking a final turn from the main road as the station loomed in the dawn. "But this isn't about your father—and it's not entirely about him either."
Dropping her arm from the window—it was finally too cold, and Cully was glad she had bundled a jacket into her bag—she asked, "What do you mean?"
The car bounced as the tires rolled over a bump in the pavement, at last pulling into the station's rather vacant car park. "Cully, you can only be responsible for your own feelings, no one else's."
"I know that—"
"And you'll need to decide what is really important first."
"And does that bother you, Mum?" As the car's engine fell silent again, Cully heard what her mother hadn't quite said: you need to decide how important Gavin is. I know that, Mum, she thought, loosening her seat belt from across her chest. He was weighing on her mind more and more, and in the late hours of the night before she had watched him walk away from her again—all she had wanted to do was call out, like all those months ago when everything was easier. Or at least less complicated. Sometimes, when she drifted into her memories, it really was all quite simple.
"Why would it?" her mother asked, opening the driver's door. "Your father knows why it shouldn't either."
Stepping out into the rising sun, Cully shivered against a new breeze. She would probably have her jacket on before she even took her seat on the train. "I wish he would at least say that himself," she said quietly, closing the passenger door more sharply than she wanted. The snap of the latch catching muffled her words as she threw her bag over one shoulder, tightening her arms against her stomach.
"Neck and leg break, dear," her mother said as they walked across the dark pavement, finally reaching the station's entrance. Ticketing booths and kiosks stood just inside, casting their own shadows in the harsh electronic haze. The bustle and gentle hum Cully usually expected from even Causton's small station was gone, weekend travelers probably waiting for a better hour.
"Thanks," Cully said quietly, taking one last chance to give her mother a hug. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Do think about things, if you have a chance."
"I'll try."
"And give us a ring once you're done, let us know how it went."
Cully nodded. "Of course." At least, once I've talked to Gavin. She heard her breath catch. Stop.
The train from Causton to London was nearly empty, almost deserted so early. After collecting her ticket, she tossed her jacket over her shoulders, though the light windbreaker didn't keep out too much of the autumn morning air. But with her jumper beneath it, it would do. By the time the train pulled away from the platform and left Causton behind to wind its way north, Cully propped her shoulder against the window, trying not to think of the last time it was likely cleaned or the ache soon to be throbbing in her neck.
King's Cross was rather different, already bustling with London's throngs around nine when perhaps most would rather still be curled up in bed as the grey air burnt off with the sun. But she found the platform easily enough, well remembered from those years before when a trip to Cambridge meant returning home, not leaving it. And even though this train carriage was more than half full, it was still mostly silent as she settled into her seat, new nerves growing in her stomach. She still wasn't nervous, but they were welling up and she found herself tapping her fingers against her leg, a silent distraction.
As the train lurched forward along the tracks with a squeal of its wheels, Cully leaned back, closing her eyes and finally stilling her hand. For the first few minutes, the hum of the engine and the rattling of the car were loud in her ears; by the time they faded and she peered through the smudged window, London's sharper façades had vanished as well, giving way to the city's ragged edges. Digging through her bag, she pulled out her script. At least it would keep her occupied. Or at least it should.
Mavis Hollister was wearing on her, there was nothing else to say as she flicked through the creased pages to the marked passage she already knew forward and back. And every time she reached the woman's final complaint—'Why did you make me do it?'—Cully disliked her a little more. "It's hardly his fault," she said quietly, dropping the book again. Her gaze had bounced around from line to line, not that it mattered all that much. She remembered many of Edgar Hollister's lines just as well as his wife's. It might have been fun, Cully mused as she pulled her jacket closer, reading through the ridiculous play with Gavin.
"She's giving the game away, isn't she?"
"I doubt she expected him to survive whatever she put in the cocoa."
"Even with him still up and moving?"
"Maybe not."
"Bit risky, then."
"Not if she's planning to shoot him, Gavin."
"She doesn't sound that good of a shot, if she needs three chances."
"And not everyone thinks in terms of evidence."
"Or not wanting to wind up in prison—"
Her phone's ring shattered her daydream, and as soon as she dug it from her bag, Cully turned the volume down to silence. She didn't look up to see how many of her fellow passengers were glancing about to find the shrill noise echoing in the carriage. After a few more seconds, giving the call time to finish, she flipped the top of her mobile open, already knowing what name glowed in those boxy blue letters. sorry still on the train she quickly typed out to Gavin, doubling back once or twice when her thumb tapped one of the digits too many times.
just wishing you good luck he answered a minute later.
thanks. ill call you later
The thought of talking to him again later that day, probably as soon as she had a moment to gather her thoughts—wondering about what she would hear, if and when. Her mouth twitched in a small smile as she returned her phone to her overnight bag. I can't keep waiting in Causton forever, on the Playhouse or Gavin, she reminded herself, wincing as the hair she had bound up hours earlier crushed itself against her skull. "Ow," she muttered, scratching at her head.
The greenery of the countryside ran past, the train occasionally shooting through a local station so quickly, Cully couldn't even see anyone waiting for a train coming to a halt. And every minute, closer and closer...I don't want to do this, she told herself again, curling herself against the side of the carriage. She couldn't stop the memories, those afternoons in her parents' back garden with Gavin reading a play he perhaps didn't care for: helping her even if he was more interested in the time spent with her? And hadn't she—relished it as well, and all those evenings as he drove her home from her rehearsals? But I can't really do—
The train slowed earlier than she hoped, the first signs of Cambridge and its rail station appearing in the distance. And as the electronic voice droned on—Cambridge—the final stop—all passengers to disembark—Cully straightened her jacket, glancing around a final time. Not that anything was missing; she'd already dropped her phone and script into her bag long ago. When the carriage at last shuddered to a halt, jerking forward and back, it was still in her head: not the roaring of the wind, but a gentle whisper refusing to be silenced. I don't want to do this.
A few at a time, occasionally waiting for a man here or a woman there to wrench a parcel from the luggage rack, they all spilled from the carriage into Cambridge's station: beneath the stone arches, through the tall echoing passageways. With her overnight bag slung over her shoulder, Cully picked her way through the crowd without much trouble, moving hastily between a few slower fellow travelers, finally emerging into a foggy morning, just about half ten. Another two or three minutes saw her on the trolley into Cambridge proper, cramped and stuffy, still watching the road rush by through the window. A few of cyclists fell behind the bus, and she smiled again, remembering the ting of those bells, feeling her own hand vibrate as her thumb snapped back the lever against curve of the bell itself. Some days she missed the air biting against her cheeks as she navigated the winding streets herself, losing herself in thought on the narrower, quieter roads. Her own bicycle was buried in her parents' garage, now rarely used, even though she hadn't had a car of her own for the last year or so. Not that she minded, even through all the weeks of rehearsal— I don't want to be here.
Despite the growing traffic of the late Saturday morning, the bus made good time into Cambridge proper; a block or two from the theater (if she remembered correctly), Cully jumped off. The rounded stones lay slippery under her shoes, worn from the centuries of shoes and wheels and tires clopping over top. Above her head, the signs dangling in front of shops and cafés fluttered in a new breeze. It still almost feels like home, she thought, drawing her jacket closer as she made her way down the sidewalk, pausing as she tried to remember whether to go right or left at the next junction. At least, I think so, she added to herself, finally turning left.
She just recalled the façade—tired brick and windows bounded in white, carved molding draped over the top of the frame—as it rose at the end of the street. A bit bigger than the Playhouse, Cully had never performed in this theater though once before leaving Cambridge, though she had read for...she couldn't remember what role or play. "I guess it wasn't that important," she said quietly, her pace slowing as the entrance grew nearer.
The lobby was already crowded, or maybe it looked that way to her after the last few months in Causton. She signed in with the young girl just inside the door, who sat twisting dark hair around a finger and snapping gum between her teeth as she scribbled a few words across her clipboard before turning her gaze back to her mobile phone. All around, the dull chatter swirled: a few muttered words between a couple of men who had worked with the director before, a half-heard story about a wretched production in London (Cully shuddered with her own nasty memories of Noises Off in that city), rumors that the run might go a week or two longer than first stated. She hadn't even worried about the time frame when she put her name in for the audition, just so eager to be—someplace else.
As the time passed—quarter then half an hour, more than one yawn breathed into her elbow—Cully couldn't stay still, either pacing back and forth in the small space she had to herself or rolling her fingers along her arm. Well, it is someplace else, she thought, turning around again. Through one of those windows and its bubbling glass, another few cyclists passed by. Someplace I want to be...But that wasn't true, she realized, and it couldn't be like it was before, first finding her way into the theater here, before...everything with Gavin. And somehow, wherever she went, she crashed together with him again and again. What was it her mother tried to say earlier, that she could only know her own thoughts and feelings? To decide what was really important? Cully turned around again, away from the window as she chewed on one of her thumbs. I don't want to be here, she thought another time, pressing her palm against her cheek. I don't want to do this.
No, it was more than that, she realized, the knot in her stomach already loosening. I know what I want—I want him—and I don't know what that means a year from now. Even with all his faults, the small and large things looming within him she desperately hoped might change little by little, she was seeing more and more of him: the young boy he must once have been, trying not to listen to the anger surrounding him; the policeman pursuing his theories, trying to shield her from the darker moments of his job; the man who, when he forgot himself—lost himself in...them?
I can't do this, Cully thought as the last bit of fear in her belly fled. I can't just leave like this again, not when I might regret it, for...No, her mind went on and she shook her head. That's not what matters right now. Isn't now enough?
It would have to be, Cully knew, cutting a quick path back through the crowd, offering a quiet apology as she darted around another woman, approaching the girl sat by the door again. Her eyes were still glued on her mobile phone. "Pardon me—"
"What?" the girl drawled, her thumb jumping over the small keypad.
"I'm sorry, I won't be able to stay for the audition. Something's come up."
She dropped her phone into her lap, still not looking up as she reached for her clipboard and pen. "Then what's your name?"
"Barnaby," she said quietly, wondering what the time was. "Cully Barnaby."
She scratched a few lines on her paper before returning to her phone. "Whatever."
I think you were wrong, Edith*, Cully thought, ducking out onto the street and away from the entryway, the sudden chill bringing a new flush to her cheeks. Disorganized productions might survive outside London. It was only a few seconds to find her own phone in the bag still slung over her shoulder. Almost noon. Opening it and searching through her list of numbers for Gavin's name, Cully's mouth was dry even as her heart pounded. What would he say, after all her insistence that she wanted this time out of Causton—away from him, even if she hadn't said so properly—how she couldn't simply change her mind at such a late moment—undoing all of that in just a rash second and a few impulsive words? She just swallowed, and finding his name, pressed her thumb against that small green button. If she hesitated, gave pause to the questions…
One shrill ring after another cut through the lingering fog in her mind. Please, Gavin. It switched to his voicemail, and Cully pulled it away from her face, snapping it shut before she had a chance to leave a message. "I can call him again in a few minutes," she muttered as she tugged the band from her hair, loosing it down around her face. But, now what? She had allowed an hour or two waiting for her turn to read for Poppy, and now with the early afternoon to fill...Pity it wasn't the summer, when the botanical gardens would be in full bloom with a riot of color and oddities. But...what was the reason to stay much—
Her phone shook in her hand, its ring still silenced from the train, and Cully opened it, not even bothering to glance at the name glowing on the screen. "Hello, Gavin?"
"I didn't think you'd be done so early."
She shook her head, as if he was standing in front of her like he had so many months ago when she couldn't stay silent and watch him walk away. "I'm not. I mean, I am, but—it's not."
"I don't follow."
This is right, she thought, finding a deep breath. It was like she hadn't heard his voice for weeks or months, not just a day. This was always right. "I didn't read for the role."
* OC wardrobe manager for the long and storied production of Pygmalion, mentioned in the Entr'acte forever and a half ago.
A/N: As y'all might have picked up on before, trains in Europe and the UK confuse me. I tried. I did research on Cambridge train schedules as well as the main Cambridge railway station itself, but I was finding lots of recent pictures and my 2010 memories are fairly useless. Creative license! And I know little to nothing about theater, so this entire audition procedure is based on some research, pure imagination, and interviewing potential kitchen slaves...I mean line cooks. Same thing.