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‘Oof, that is bad,’ I agree, swallowing a mouthful of cereal. ‘And surprising. I don’t get why he’d take a role like that. Surely someone must have told him it would be a bad move?’
Amal makes a noise of agreement. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s going to be marked by this series forever, and we may not be seeing him in anything new for a while. It’s sad. I really liked him. He seemed genuinely talented.’
What’s the criteria to be considered genuinely talented, though? To be good enough?
That’s what I want to ask, but silence fills the space between us instead. Amal’s brow quirks, and I’m scrambling to think of something to say when my phone buzzes.
Hey. We need to meet up. Are you free right now? David, Ben, Nur and I are at the Covent Garden Grind.
Anushka Menon
My eyes shut briefly, as if not looking at the message means it won’t exist any more. But nope – when I open my eyes again, Anushka’s message is still there. It happened. The Tragedies found out before I could tell them, all because I was too afraid to tell them myself.
They’re probably furious at me. Rightfully so. I’ve betrayed their trust by sharing their stories without their consent. But now I need to woman up and face the consequences. I need to take whatever they throw my way, apologize to their faces and step straight out of their lives before causing any more damage.
‘Hey,’ Amal says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘You OK?’
I look up at my best friend’s concerned frown. I want to tell her everything. To sit here and lay it all bare. But then I’d have to explain it all, starting from the beginning.
With The Tragedies last night, it had been easy. We were all on the same page, all brought together by the same experience. We understood the gravity of an audition, how badly rejection stung no matter how many times we’d faced it. There was no need to explain anything because we all understood one another. Amal and Maha get me, of course they do, but they’re not in the thick of it. They’re not aspiring actors, trying to get a foot in the door. With The Tragedies, I’d felt a sense of belonging.
But now I’ve gone and messed it all up.
‘I’m fine,’ I reply to Amal, standing up abruptly as a wave of despair hits me. ‘I just … I got an email from my professor. Turns out the lecture was more important than I thought. So I gotta go deal with that.’
Amal looks like she doesn’t believe me. Not even a little bit. But she doesn’t push, and I love her for that.
‘I’ll see you for dinner?’ she asks, her voice just a tad bit suspicious.
‘Yes! We’ll do Thai tonight,’ I say in a rush, as I practically race out of the door.
Once I’m in the hallway, I type out my reply to The Tragedies.
Yes, of course. I’ll be there ASAP.
Farah Sheikh
Despite my grandparents living in the UK, and my mother growing up here, my family didn’t visit London often. Most times, my nani and nana came to Karachi, and my parents preferred warm, beachy locations for holidays. So arriving in London three weeks ago was something of a culture shock for me.
Karachi is all cars, rickshaws and overfilled vehicles, but London is regulated buses, trains and walking. So much walking. No one warns you about that. Which means you end up wearing shoes with flimsy soles, and then you’re stuck with a burning, aching pain in your legs until you work out that you need to up your fitness and get better footwear.
But, despite hating all the walking, I think there’s something particularly lovely about strolling through Covent Garden. The cobblestoned streets, the quaint shops, the theatres, the Apple Market with its handmade jewellery and other trinkets – I love all of it. Usually, I would spend hours here, but right now I’m weaving past people, calves burning, as I make my way to the Covent Garden Grind.
As I’m about to step into the cafe, I realize two things: my back feels damp with sweat, and The Tragedies are still strangers to me. This meeting could be potentially dangerous; maybe I should’ve just told my friends the truth and asked them to come along with me, or at least tell them where I was going.
I’m still standing in the doorway, mentally going through a scenario where The Tragedies turn out to be murderers, when I feel someone tap my shoulder. I whirl round with more flair than needed, almost tripping over my own feet.
‘Farah?’ I take a moment to respond because, wow, this girl is pretty – dark-brown skin, black hair that’s been twisted into a knot on top of her head, light-brown doe-eyes, and a small gold nose-ring. Standing in front of her, I become acutely aware of our differences – my wider hips, my lighter skin, my curlier hair – and yet, I still feel like I know her.
‘Anushka?’ I ask, and the girl’s face splits into a wide smile.
‘Yes!’ Her tone doesn’t betray any anger, but my hand tightens round the strap of my cross-body satchel anyway, as I steel myself in readiness.
Maybe you can fix this. Just talk to them openly. Ask for their forgiveness. Be honest. You’ve got this.
I hold on to this resolve like it’s a life jacket keeping me afloat.
Anushka’s eyes flick down to my hand, and her smile teeters at the edges before coming back in full force. ‘Why don’t we go inside? The rest of the group are already here.’
