The first thing you see when stepping onto the platform at Latimer Grove tube station is Grenfell tower. It looks over the station. The upper levels lit up. A green heart spotlit against the night sky. "Grenfell. Forever in our hearts."
There's no escape from it. Even when you leave the station. The Co-op opposite has a banner slung up one of the upper windows. "Justice 4 Grenfell."
As I walk through the streets to the Playground Theatre, I can feel it behind me. The tower. Looking over my shoulder.
I hope I'm not the only one it's hounding tonight.
I clutch my jacket close about me and check my phone. There's a message from Allison.
"I think I'm here!" it says.
I bring up Google Maps. I'm very much not here. Or there, rather. By the looks of it, I'm a good ten minutes walk away. And that's if I don't get another coughing fit stopping me in my tracks.
"I'm a few minutes late," I lie in my reply.
Just as I'm putting my phone away, the screen lights up again. Another message from Allison. "It's not busy at all."
Oh dear. I really don't like an empty theatre. Especially when I'm unwell. There's no one to hide behind when the choking starts. Then again, I also hate a packed theatre at these times.
As I stumble through the dark streets, I try to work out what percentage of fullness suits my current grotty condition.
Sixty-two percent.
I think that would work nicely. Full enough that I can visibly sink low in my chair and hide myself from the cast. But enough free seats so that I don't get someone else's perfume choices clogging up my throat.
I check my phone again.
I turn a corner and find myself on some sort of industrial estate. Pre-fab buildings line the wide street. From an upstairs window loud music pours out into the otherwise silent air.
I really should update Allison again on my whereabouts. Not that I think I'm about to be murdered. But I'm definitely about to be murdered.
But that's okay. I'm nearly there. That's it, over on the other side of the row.
At least, I think that's it. I can't think of any other reason that one of these stubby little buildings would be surrounded by cafe tables and parked cars.
I hurry over and make my way through the doors.
Inside it's bright and warm, with peach mottled walls and carved wooden doors. An aesthetic that would have given me serious Italian palazzo vibes if it were not for the fact that we were in the middle of an industrial park. By brain realigns, and categorises my surroundings more on the level of upmarket garden centre.
A great big chalk board points the way to the box office and I follow it around into the bar. Glass domes cover a cake selection, and wannabe Phillippe Starck Ghost chairs crowd around metal tables.
Allison waves at me.
I must look even worse than I feel because her smile immediately fades into an expression of concern. "How are you?" she asks in a tone that makes me think only politeness is preventing her from questioning: "what the hell happened to you?"
"I'm ill," I tell her, collapsing into one of the see-through chairs. On cue, I cough.
"You're coughing! Again!"
Yup. I'm coughing. Again.
Properly as well. Not just the cough that I've had for over a year at this point. But the type of really intense, hacking, cough that goes hand-in-tissue with the worst sort of man-flu.
But as I keep on telling my boss, I feel fine. Well, as fine as one can when you literally can't lie down without your lungs trying to escape through your mouth.
Probably not the best condition to be in when going to see an opera, but if I stayed home every time I coughed... well, I'd never leave the house ever again.
"So," I say, pulling myself together and getting out my phone. "There's a sign out there saying we should pick up a playing card." I turn my phone around to show Allison the picture I took. "What do you think that means?"
"I don't know!" comes the reply.
Well, okay. As long as I'm not alone in my ignorance.
I look around.
"It suddenly filled up," explains Allison as I take in the bustle surrounding us. "It was totally dead when I first got here."
A front of houser makes an announcement. It's time to go to our seats.
There's a slow stirring around the bar. No one is going anywhere fast.
As we pass the box office the young woman behind the counter calls out to us. "Hi ladies! Have you got your playing cards?"
"Have we?" I say, turning back to Allison, having completely forgotten the conversation we'd had all of three minutes ago.
"I don't even know what they are!" she replies.
The box officer smiles indulgently at the pair of us, clearly used to people being as useless as us.
"What's your surname?" she asks.
I tell her.
"Maxine?"
That's me.
"Great." She holds out two playing cards. They've been laminated, but that's exactly what they are. The Jack and Nine of Spades. Slightly beaten up and a bit grimy under their plastic coatings. "When you check in, you get playing cards, which you hand over on the door."
Ah, I see. They're admission passes. I should have guessed. They do the same thing over at Camden Peoples' Theatre. Except their ones are new and avoided the laminator in favour of a hole punch. Still, same idea. And very neat.
"And here's a free programme," adds the box officer, handing over a pair of freesheets. I turn mine over to look at it. No cheap photocopies here, oh no. This has been professionally printed. Satin finish. With the artwork on one said and all the credits on the other. Slick. I like it.
We go out into the corridor, passing the loos, and heading towards the entrance to the auditorium. As promised, there is someone on the door to take our cards from us. And then we're in.
It's a big room. Bigger than I expected given there can't be more than fifty-two seats in here. Not unless they added a couple of jokers to the pack.
The stage is floor level. The seats are all lined up on a raked platform. The type of seats that you'd expect to see at a wedding reception. With gold frames and velvet backs.
"Where do you want to sit?" I ask.
"Oh, I don't know!"
I start climbing. There are two aisles going on. Three seats on one side. A huge middle section. And then two seats on the far end.
"Shall we sit over there?" I suggest, already making my way over to the other end. Over here, I won't have to sit next to anyone but Allison. I'm hoping that will help with the whole crowding thing.
The seats fill up.
I think we're going to get way past sixty-two percent.
Someone comes out. The director. We're starting out the evening with some piano.
Oh dear.
This does not bode well for my lungs.
Four hands, two pianists, one piano.
It sounds like the beginning of some dodgy YouTube video.
One of the pianists steps forward. Mark Stringer. Who from the looks of the freesheet actually composed the piece too. "As you can tell, I've lost my voice," he says in a quite rasp.
Allison looks round and nudges me. "Like you!" she whispers.
Yeah, like me.
"The producer said 'at least you're not singing tonight!'" Stringer goes on, and we all giggle along with him.
He takes his seat.
The page turner slides forward on hers.
They're ready.
I force a quick cough, hoping that will see me through, but as the four hands hit the one piano, I can tell it's going to be a tough evening.
I look around.
There's only one exit, and that's on the other side. There's no way I can escape without crossing the stage.
Shit.
It's fine.
It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.
I've got my cough sweet. That'll last a good fifteen minutes. The freesheet said this bit of the evening was only half-an-hour long. Fifteen minutes with a cough sweet. And a bottle of water to take me through the rest. I can do that.
I can do that...
I can...
Nope. Nope. I can't.
I'm already coughing.
I bury my face in my scarf, hoping to smoother what noise I can, but Allison sympathetic hand on my shoulder is telling me that I'm not doing a very good job of it.
I reach into my bag and pull out my water bottle, chugging a good half of it before the cough subsides once more.
There. I made it. That wasn't so bad.
And someone else just coughed too. Someone sitting in the back. It's just that time of year, isn't it.
It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.
Except it's not fine and a few minutes later it's starting again.
I dig my nails into the back of my hand, hoping the pain will distract my from the desperation of my lungs.
I doesn't.
I jerk in my seat as my body fights against me, desperate to cough.
My stomach muscles clench. My ribs contract. My face grows hot.
I can't keep it in any more.
I cough.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Loud and deep and rasping.
I sound like I'm dying.
Allison clutches at her neck, clearly horrified at what is happening next to her.
I try to sip water, but it only takes the edge off. Putting off the next bout for a few short minutes.
Over onstage, the page turner looks over at me, giving my the filthiest look I've ever received in my life..
I keep chugging water.
At last, the music comes to a halt and Springer stands up. "That was the end of the first piece," he tells us.
The audience dutifully applauds and I use the time to get out as many coughs as I can.
"The next one has three movements," he goes on. "Like this one, as you may have noticed."
Three movements.
Okay.
I can do that.
I take off the lid of my water bottle. There's no time to be dealing with that now. That's precious seconds wasted between me and hydration right there.
I sip slowly and constantly as the pianists jump back into action with a fast and jaunty piece.
The page turner removes a section of pages and sets it to one side. That's the first movement done.
I hold my entire body taught, every muscle clenched, tiny expulsions escaping from between my pursed lips.
The page turner sets aside another section.
Allison looks over to me and holds up a single finger.
One movement left.
I'm holding my stomach so rigid I'm almost bent over. I'm getting a killer core workout over here. Pity I won't live long enough to appreciate it.
And then it's over.
I curl over, the fit taking hold.
The lady sitting in front of my turns around. I want to apologise to her but I can't talk.
"Shall we go fill up your water bottle?" asks Allison.
I nod. I've drained the poor thing dry.
We go back out into the bar.
There's a table with big glass bottles of water on it.
"Sorry, excuse me," I say to two people standing right in the way. As I refill my bottle I realise the person I just asked to move is the director.
Oh dear.
He can't be very happy with me.
Allison finds an empty table for us.
Still unable to form words, I pull out a Crosstown bag and offer her a doughnut. Strawberry and champagne for her. Spiced pumpkin for me. I instantly feel better.
"It's just men's voices," says Allison, as we enjoy our carb-fest.
She's reading the freesheet.
"Hopefully loud ones," I say, taking a break from my doughnut to cough again. My voice is so raspy now I can barely understand myself.
Conversation out, I settle for reading the freesheet. All of the freesheet. Even the line of thanks.
"Is that...?" I say pointing at a name. "Isn't she a ballerina?"
We both look at the name.
"I don't know..." says Allison.
I get out my phone and google it.
Yup. A ballerina. A Canadian one. Which pleases Allison, who is also one of that tribe.
A bell rings. It's time to go back in.
Forks scrap against plates as the audience members who ordered proper hearty meals for the interval try to finish up.
We go back to our seats.
I ready the water bottle in my lap. Lid off.
The piano has been moved over to the side, and there's the page turner ready to do her bit.
I duck down a little in my chair, hoping she can't see me.
The cast comes out.
Army of Lovers, here we go.
The opera, for four voices, is about an army. Of lovers.
Does what it says on the tin, really. Everyone is coupled off. Which makes them unbeatable. Except of course one bloke has to be difficult and is refusing to get himself a boyfriend. So then they lose.
Sucks.
"You didn't cough!" says Allison as we start to applaud.
"I know!" I say proudly. Or at least try to say, because my voice has entirely gone now. "I tried really hard."
"Thirty-five minutes, you deserve applause."
I do. I really do.
We escape back out into the night air, and I let Allison lead the way. I've got a lot of coughing I need to catch up on.
"I didn't come this way," I say, suddenly noticing that we are now investigating the wrong side of an underpass. "Where are you taking me?”
"It's really dodgy," says Allison. "At least there's two of us. Two women are safer than one."
"I'll protect you," I say, striking a fighting pose before dissolving into another coughing fit.
A man walks past, and gives me a look of disgust.
Well, I never said how I'd protecting her. Being a walking plague is certainly effective.
We turn a corner. And there it is again. Grenfell.
"Christ," I say, somehow caught unawares by it again.
We both stop to look at it.
"It's awful," says Allison after a long moment.
Yeah...
Let's leave it there before I end up saying something trite.