“You get used to it,” I say. “It’s like the Brighton hot stone massage—trying to find the right position to sunbathe!”
On the Pier, we get a tall, fluffy stick of candyfloss and laugh as the colour turns our tongues blue. We get a few tokens and ride the bumper cars, and I remember how much fun it is just hanging out with a girlfriend.
Once we’ve worn out the fun on the Pier, we stop at my favourite ice cream shop—Boho Gelato—where we both get cones of the best flavour: carrot cake. It’s so soft and buttery, it’s like a piece of cake melting in my mouth.
We make our way over to the Pavilion Gardens with our ice creams, and laugh until our sides hurt at the pigeons mating and squirrels stealing food from the school party of German kids trying to eat their lunch.
We then wander up through the Lanes, and I point out the antique jewellers, ogling at the 1930s Art Deco rings and the pearls and diamond necklaces from the 1950s. We pick out our engagement rings (even though we’re years away from that) and when we get bored we go to the candy store and both get jelly rings to wear.
“My mum’s shop is just round the corner,” I say. “She’s dying to meet you. I apologize in advance if she’s a bit . . . full-on.”
Posey laughs. “I get full-on mothers, trust me!”
When we reach To Have and to Hold, Posey gasps at the window display. This week, the theme is Harvest Bounty, and everything is shades of bronze, red and gold, just like autumn leaves. The dress in the window is made of crimson silk, and has long sleeves that fall to a point, like something Maid Marian would have worn in the Middle Ages. At her feet is a basket with dozens of apples tumbling from it, and a reed-woven cornucopia full of autumnal delights: conkers, shiny and brown; oak leaves already crisp and orange; and all sorts of pumpkins and gourds.
“This is your mum’s shop? It looks amazing!”
“Why thank you! You must be Posey!” says Mum, who just then opens the door to see a client out and welcome us in. “See you later, Chantal!” she waves to the woman leaving. “Come on in, girls,” she adds, returning her attention to us.
I always love coming to Mum’s store. It’s a cornucopia in itself, stuffed to the brim with goodies and shiny things. Posey and I walk around first, Mum pointing out to us some of the store’s interesting props and telling us the stories behind them. “Ah,” she says, coming across a huge headdress adorned with black and red feathers. “I wore this when I was in Paris. Whenever anyone wants a Moulin Rouge theme, this is what I pull out . . .”
“Penny tells me you used to act in Paris in the eighties? What was that like?” asks Posey.
“Ah, Montmartre . . . those were the days,” she says dreamily. “It was a different Paris then, and I felt so bohemian. We didn’t call ourselves actors: we were troubadours, and we were as comfortable performing in the street as we were onstage.”
“Sounds like a dream,” Posey says.
“Posey’s a music and drama student at Madame Laplage, just like Megan,” I say. “She’s the lead in their production of West Side Story.”
Mum clasps her hands together. “That’s wonderful! Tell me all about the production. Are you performing the classic version of the show?”
“It’s the classic version, but it’s abridged—unfortunately.”
Mum’s hand flies to her forehead in a dramatic swoon. “Abridged! A writer’s worst nightmare!”
“I know,” says Posey ruefully. “But it’s still a good show. Or, it will be, once Megan takes the lead.”
“I’m sorry?” Mum asks.
Posey turns her eyes to the ground and I put my hand on her shoulder. “Posey has really bad stage fright,” I say, “and I thought maybe it would help if you could talk to her?”
“Oh my, yes. I used to get so nervous, I would throw up before a performance. I can show you some breathing tricks if you want. Eventually though, I gave up performing,” says Mum, a little wistfully. I can see it’s not helping Posey though, so I give her a pleading look. She nods. “But, honey, lots of actors suffer from it, and they keep on performing! In France it’s called avoir le trac. I remember one of my best friends from that time, Éloïse, she used to have le trac until she learnt to picture the audience naked . . .”
Posey shudders. “Somehow, I don’t think I want to be picturing all the kids in our class naked. That just seems wrong.”
“Hmm, yes . . . that probably wouldn’t be the right way forward. Tell you what, I really should get in touch with Éloïse again. Maybe I’ll write to her and see if she has any tips for you?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Porter,” Posey says politely. I can tell that any hope she might have had of my mum being able to help has disappeared. Posey needs to speak to someone who’s overcome it and kept going.
“Yeah, thanks, Mum. I’m going to take Posey back home now. See you for dinner?”
“Sounds good,” Mum says with a smile. “I hope you like spaghetti bolognese?”
“I love it,” says Posey.
We take one last trip through the Lanes before hopping on a bus back to my house. “I’m sorry that talking to my mum wasn’t that helpful,” I say.
Posey smiles. “This is something I’ve been dealing with for so long now that I don’t expect an easy fix. Don’t worry, Penny, I didn’t come down here only because of that. I’m having a lot of fun.”