Free The Art of Standing Still by Penny Culliford Page A

audition.’ She glanced at Amanda Fry, who was still on the phone.
    â€˜I hope you get the part,’ said Josh. This time it was his turn to blush a little. ‘I’d like to see you again.’
    Before she could answer, he turned and walked out of the hall, almost bumping into Alistair Fry. Alistair greeted Ruth, then came over to Amanda, who finally finished her call. He kissed her lightly, once on each cheek, then held up a hand and apologised to Ronnie.
    â€˜Glad you could make it.’ A hint of sarcasm crept into Ronnie’s voice. ‘You’re too late for Jesus, I’m afraid, but we’re still a Judas short, if you want to try out for that.’
    Harlan turned to Amanda. ‘Are you ready now?’
    â€˜Changed my mind,’ she said and tottered over to join her husband.
    Harlan came up to her and put a bony arm around Jemma’s shoulders.
    â€˜Well done, Mary Magdalene. Make sure Ruth’s got your address and phone number, and we’ll give you a date for the first rehearsal. You can pick up your script too. Welcome aboard.’
    Jemma grinned. Then she reminded herself that she didn’t want the part. Not only did it mean a night or two out every week, unpaid, but the indignity of a weekly column.
    Then again, there was Josh Wood. Maybe there were compensations after all.

    JEMMA DROVE HOME WITH HER HEAD SPINNING. THE FIRST REHEARSAL WAS A week on Thursday. She had got a part in a play she wasn’t interested in, had to write a column she didn’t wish to write, all to please a boss she found irritating. To cap it all she felt her heart tugging her towards another relationship. This was definitely the last thing she wanted to happen.
    She pulled up in the car park alongside the river and leant her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. She let out a deep groan. First Richard and now this. How could it happen?
    She felt like this only once before, when she was eleven. She was on holiday with her father, her uncle, and her cousin Brad. Brad at fifteen was like a two-year-old Labrador – the body of an adult with the mind of a puppy.
    They had stayed in apartments on Corfu, and Brad became obsessed with water sports: speedboats, jet skis, paragliding, and scuba diving.
    One afternoon, when the adults were taking their siesta, he had procured the keys to his uncle’s speedboat. ‘Come on Jemma. Let’s see what you’re made of. I’ve hitched up the towrope. You get the water skis. I’ll just go and start the engine.’
    Jemma had frozen, rooted to the spot.
    â€˜Not chicken, are you?’
    No one called her chicken, especially not that spotty brat.
    She climbed on the skis for only the second time in her life, and they took off around Agios Georgios Bay at breakneck speed.
    Terrified, she clung to the tow handle. Afraid to hang on and but even more afraid to let go. As she bounced round the bay, panic overcame her pride.
    â€˜Stop, Brad! Please stop.’
    He chose to ignore her. She was trapped. Held by the rope that was both peril and lifeline. The pain in her shoulders and arms was excruciating, but she clung to the handle.
    Then her father shouted from the shore. She gritted her teeth. And prayed. Finally Brad slowed down, drove the speedboat close to the beach, and she felt safe enough to let go. Kicking off her skis, she swam to safety, where her white-faced father and uncle were waiting. As she rose from the water, shaking more from terror than the cold, she vowed never to take on anything she couldn’t control.
    Now that she was an adult, she insisted on driving herself everywhere, she cut her own hair, and she refused to visit a doctor unless she was at death’s door.
    No one ever told her to ‘get a grip’. Her grip on her life, her emotions and her destiny was Herculean. Until now. She tried to pinpoint the start of her current predicament. She leant back in the driver’s seat and