She presses my back with cold gloved fingers and goose bumps prickle the surface of my skin. “How are you today, Maddie?”
Her voice is very gentle, perhaps because she’s concentrating on the task at hand, but I actually stop to think about her question. The truthful answer is: not great. My back still hurts and my four nights a week aren’t helping; I hope I never see my dad hallucinate again; I don’t want to work another day for my boss; my mum’s returning from Ghana soon; I’m still crying at night and that might be the only thing that puts me to sleep.
However, I can’t say any of this because sometimes asking how someone is serves solely as a passing pleasantry and the only acceptable answer is some variation of “Fine, thanks. You?” But maybe—what if she really does want to know how I am?
“Well, I’m—”
“I’m just going to press a little harder,” Dr. Rana says.
I blink and nod. “Yes, okay. Thank you.”
Probably for the best.
“Well, there’s nothing that gives me cause for concern, which is good,” Dr. Rana says, returning to her desk. “You say you hurt your back lifting heavy boxes at work?”
I lift my head and lie, “Yes.”
“But it says on your file you’re a personal assistant.”
“Oh, erm, I was just helping the stage crew out. They were short staffed.”
“But it’s not part of your role?”
Role. “Not exactly.”
“Best to avoid then.” She turns back to her computer screen and says, “I’ll write you a prescription and combined with avoiding any further strenuous activity, you should be fine.”
I press my lips together and nod. “Right.”
* * *
Tonight’s play, the one I missed watching with Avi, is loosely based on the Salem witch trials; an accused witch must prove she’s pregnant to avoid being burnt alive. I’m here because staff often get complimentary tickets and Katherine wants us all to attend when we can so we’re always up to date with CGT’s plays. Since we’re given the time and date, I can rarely make it because performances don’t always land on Dawoud’s nights.
I try to focus on reading the play’s outline, but I’m still thinking about my afternoon—Katherine’s meltdown and how I really don’t want to return to work tomorrow, and Dr. Rana. （What if you had said more? Why did you lie about how you injured yourself?） Sitting alone in a foyer swarming with people waiting to enter the theater doesn’t help.
With my Tuesday dress still in the wash, I’m reasonably dressed in gray pinstripe trousers, a white jumper, and a large cardigan, but to give you a sense of the remaining audience, CGT is located within walking proximity of a coffee shop brazenly charging six pounds for a small latte and a restaurant masquerading as a pub called Gentri-Pied. So patrons and audience members—primarily of a certain age and demographic—tend to dress in suits, ties, dresses, and heels.
To explain away my lack of the aforementioned dress code, I keep my work lanyard around my neck.
I’m glad to find my seat just before the lights dim and the show starts.
* * *
During the interval, I use the bathroom, then head to the second floor to see the exhibition. It’s free for anyone visiting and is made up of podiums showcasing our costume department’s best designs from previous plays.
I slip into the milling crowd and bend over, reading the placard for a floor-length, gold-yellow dress made of feathered layers, alongside a matching molten-gold halo crown with each spike covered in shimmering crystals. It’s stunning and I wow audibly.
“I’ll have to let Sophie know you’re a fan.”
I turn to my right where a white man in a suit and dress shoes is looking at me. My pulse quickens because there’s no mistaking he’s talking to me. He’s handsome, with a long face, dark hair, and dimples that stretch down to his jaw when he smiles.
“I’m sorry?”
“My friend Sophie helped design this collection,” he says.
“Really?” I look back at the bright dresses and glittering crystals. My mind blanks briefly. “That’s impressive.”
“That’s what we tell her,” he replies. “Did you manage to see this show when it was on?”
“No, I missed it”—my night to help Dad to bed—“but I heard it was highly theatrical, you know, top hats and jazz hands. The literal definition of a show.” Are you talking too much? I feel like you’re talking too much!
He rubs his chin with a hand and his silver watch hits the light as much as the yellow dress’s headpiece does. “It really was, if not too ostentatious. I’m Ben, by the way.” He holds out his hand.
Oh fuck. I’ve been keeping my hands locked so I wouldn’t default to wild, nerve-fueled gestures. I unclasp and take his gently. “Maddie,” I say.
“Short for Madeleine?”
“Yes.”
“A beautiful classic.”
Oh fuck. Is that … a line? I think it is. Just be cool and say something interesting.
“I used to hate it.”
“Why?”
Yes, Maddie—why indeed? Why did I say that, to this stranger called Ben? Especially since I don’t fully understand why I used to hate my name; something vague about how I don’t quite match it. I am simply not the person you’d expect if you’d only heard the name Madeleine Wright.
“I’d look in the mirror and never felt like it fit,” I answer.
“I get that,” he says. “I used to hate being called Benjamin, still do. I grew up with friends named Jared, Brick, and Colson. I felt incredibly ordinary.”
I smile and say, “Oh, the trials and tribulations of Benjamin…？”
“Featherstone.” I raise an eyebrow and he laughs. “Fair enough,” he says. “Do you have a less pretentious surname?”
“Wright,” I answer. “Madeleine Wright.” I press my lips together and nod. “Circumspect parents,” I add. The bell rings for the play’s second half. “Oh, I have to get back.”
“You’re here for the show? I came last night—that’s a shame.”
“It is? Is the second half not very good?”
“I meant, with my luck I would have been sitting right beside you and now I’ve missed out.”
Marry me?
I nod and smile. “Yes, that is a shame.”
He considers me. “Or maybe not,” he finally says. “Perhaps I could take your number?”
* * *
I miss so much of the play’s second act because all I can think about is Ben. He asked for my number and I gave it to him. He said he looked forward to talking to me again. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN? I’d google it, but phones out during a theater performance are prohibited.
“How do you plead?” an actor onstage asks.
“Not guilty!” the witch proclaims.
“Burn the truth from her!” a jury member screams.
I think he’s in his late twenties. Ben Featherstone. What if he does ask me out on a date? I can’t go. What if it’s my day with Dad? What happens if it’s not and the date goes well? Eventually Ben would want to see where I lived. He’d expect me to live alone or with flatmates, like most people in their twenties. Maybe I shouldn’t have given him my number, but it just slipped out. Did I shout them at him or relay the numbers in a nonchalant fashion? Why am I so bad at this?