Mary rolls her eyes at me and leans forward, next to Carol. ‘Lizzie was going on about how she recognised Cassie and wouldn’t leave it alone. Then suddenly it clicked and she said, “There’s the sun”, and that’s when it clicked for me too.’
Mary pauses. Carol smiles at me. Both of them want to catch the moment I twig.
I shrug at them both. ‘I don’t get it.’ I have no idea what they’re talking about.
‘She’s that girl, the girl from the orange juice advert. Juice-C?’ Carol says it like it’s obvious. ‘You know, the blonde one who looks all miserable? Come on, Alice. You must remember. I mean, it was a few years ago, but everyone, everyone, was doing the catchphrase, even you …’
My mind is totally blank. I still can’t think of any adverts, especially none I’d impersonate.
Carol holds her wine glass close to the side of her face. She takes a long sip, finishing off her wine in one draw. She exhales, as if sated, and says in a wispy Marilyn Monroe-style voice, ‘There’s the sun.’
I stare at Carol and then Mary.
Carol starts laughing again, delighted. ‘It’s her, Alice! Lizzie looked it up. Cassie’s the girl from the Juice-C advert.’
Mary and I sip, Carol gulps. The fruit machine sounds like it’s having a fit.
‘You don’t remember it, do you?’ Mary sounds deflated.
‘No no, I do remember something like that. I’ll have to have a look when I get home. Was she in anything else?’ I don’t really remember but I want them to stop looking at me, expectant, like I’m about to perform some amazing trick.
‘Not really, not that I know of. She’s a bit like the MilkyBar Kid, isn’t she? I don’t think he was in anything else either.’ Mary’s voice is already sticky with wine.
‘What a weird old world, huh?’ Carol turns to me. ‘The girl from the Juice-C advert on our ward, pregnant and in a coma. You couldn’t make it up.’
‘Does anyone else know?’ I ask. ‘About Cassie and this advert, I mean?’
Mary blinks at me and Carol shakes her head.
‘OK, good,’ I say, ‘Sharma was going on about confidentiality to me again yesterday, silentius maximus.’
Carol snorts on her wine and Mary scoffs, ‘Arrogantius prickus.’
Mary moves on to tell us about her little grandson, Thomas, who has had the measles recently. He’s been wailing so much Mary’s daughter hasn’t left the house in three days. Carol commiserates. Her daughter had it when she was little and it was a bugger to get rid of apparently.
I want to leave, to google the Juicy-C advert, but now they’re talking about kids I’ll have to stay at least another fifteen minutes. I don’t want them to feel bad or think that’s why I’m leaving. I wait, trying to be patient, while Carol asks us for the tenth time if we think she should have laser surgery on her eyes. Mary tells her again that she’s too young to have ‘reading glasses’.
I probably haven’t been listening long enough for them not to worry, but I can’t stop thinking about that advert so, in what I hope is a happy voice, I say, ‘Sorry, ladies, I’m going to leave you to the wine.’ I kiss them both. ‘Happy belated birthday,’ I say to Carol.
They tut and ohh their disappointment that I’m leaving so early, but I reassure myself they’ll be back to their stories as soon as I’ve picked my bag off the floor.
I watch the advert on my phone twice in my car. As soon as the mocked-up grey, 1950s, black-and-white street comes onto the screen, I remember it. An attractive young woman – more of a girl really – walks down the dull street, although they’ve made her skin light grey, similar to what it is now. She is undeniably lovely but a low-key, natural lovely. Her face isn’t showy, demanding adoration, and her dimples and long neck are quietly gorgeous; there should anyone notice. Advert Cassie walks close to the camera and appeals right into the lens, ‘Where’s the sun?’
Immediately, a carton of Juice-C drops down from the heavens into her hands. She takes a good, long gulp through a convenient straw and, all of a sudden, the sky opens, the picture turns into brilliant colour and out of nowhere, laughing, beautiful people bounce onto the street. Cassie is transformed. She’s sparkling, her hair in a ponytail, her smile wide and her teeth California-white. A brass band marches behind her, cheerleaders twirl about, fireworks explode in the background and Cassie looks at the carton in her hand, her smile never shaking, and turns back to the camera. ‘There’s the sun!’ she says, with laughter in her voice.
The advert feels made to be annoying, aggressively catchy. I remember promoters outside a supermarket handing out free tasters of the drink to anyone who did the catchphrase ‘There’s the sun!’ I just scuttled past.
I don’t know this Cassie. She’s too produced, too shiny, to fit with my idea of the strong, beautiful artist, who rose to all the challenges the world threw at her with dignity and grace. Trying to know Cassie is like wrestling with smoke; whenever I think I’m getting to know her, the image blurs and she comes back into focus as someone else.
My phone starts buzzing in my hand, it’s David. Shit, it’s already 7 p.m. Jess and Tim will be arriving at ours any minute. I turn the car on so David can hear the engine in the background and tell him I’m on my way. As I wait for the machine to read my staff card and open the barrier so I can leave the car park, an old blue estate pulls up opposite on the other side of the road, in front of the entrance barrier. The man, who looks like he’s in early old age, has parked too far away from the side of the barrier and can’t reach the parking ticket. He kicks his door open and uses it to pull himself up to stand. He stumbles slightly as he leans forward to pull the ticket out of the machine. The wind blows his white hair as the barrier rises with a jerk and he holds onto the car door again as he lowers himself, with a wince of pain, back behind the wheel. Maybe he’s at Kate’s to have his hip seen to.
The car behind me beeps for me to move on. I shake myself to wake up, and wave an apology at the car behind as I drive away.
Heat singes my face as I heave the lasagne David made out of the oven. It bubbles and pops so I leave it on the side to cool a little and turn to Jess, who sits at our kitchen table, cluttered with David’s architecture magazines, candles and paperwork. She’s cleared a little space to chop tomatoes for our salad. She’s wearing a threadbare apron printed with little wild flowers I’ve had since I was a child over her light-grey fitted work dress. She’s left her heels by the back door in favour of my slippers and her red lipstick is starting to wear to a diluted beetroot but her dark-chocolate bob is still sleek. There’s still a hint of the Sony Executive she’s worked so hard to become.
‘Shall I do the olives in halves or not bother?’ she asks, taking a sip of red wine.
I sit opposite her. ‘Don’t bother,’ I say, before handing her a cucumber.