by Caragh Bell
William took a seat on the armrest of the sofa behind her. ‘We’re shadows of our former selves, James. He’s confusing night and day at the moment.’
‘I might be wrong, but isn’t that what babies do?’
‘Not all babies,’ said William. ‘You meet some parents who have produced angels. Coffee? Something stronger?’
James shook his head. ‘I’m fine. I just came from Mum’s place.’ He regarded his younger brother. ‘Fatherhood suits you, Will. Especially the milk stains on your shirt.’
‘Vomit stains,’ he corrected. ‘Andrew likes to regurgitate sometimes.’
‘How was the wedding?’ asked Ella conversationally.
James stiffened. ‘It was fine,’ he said. ‘Very short and to the point. Very Laura.’
‘Aurora called yesterday and she was gushing about the hotel. She said that the beach was incredible.’
James’ face was impassive. ‘She was here?’
‘Yeah,’ said William. ‘She’s staying with that Bertie bloke. His party’s tomorrow night and she’s singing at it.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
Ella shrugged. ‘Not really. She adored Andrew and was very good with him actually. He slept in her arms for half an hour.’ She kissed the baby’s nose. ‘I think she’s heading back to New York immediately after the party. Her agent called and summoned her.’
William crossed his long legs. ‘She seems to be running around in circles at the moment. One minute she has a job, the next she’s singing at parties and weddings. Nothing seems to be stable. Mum is worried about her. She thinks it’s no life for a young girl. She’s dying for her to meet someone and settle down.’
James said nothing. Instead, he fiddled with the tassels on the cushion next to him.
‘Have you seen Henry?’ he asked William directly. ‘He’s been very ill.’
‘He called with Mum a few days ago to see the baby. They only stayed a few minutes as he was coughing – Mum said it was the aftermath of some kind of flu.’ William shrugged. ‘If I’m honest, I barely took any notice. Andrew didn’t sleep the night before and we were frazzled.’
‘Still coughing?’ James was dismayed. ‘Will, I found him coughing up blood in France.’
William’s face changed. ‘That’s not good. What did Mum say?’
‘She wasn’t there. It was the day of Laura’s wedding, just before we all went to dinner, and he begged me not to say anything. So I let it go but I made him promise to see a doctor as soon as he got back to England. I assumed he did.’ James was suddenly stricken with guilt. He had been so preoccupied with Aurora, he had neglected Henry. ‘I should have checked. I’d better contact him.’
‘Look, leave it to me,’ said William. ‘I’ll find out and make sure he sees a specialist if necessary.’
‘Thanks, Will. I really should have checked. But do it discreetly. He mightn’t have told Mum.’
‘I will.’
There was a pause, then Ella changed the subject. ‘So, is Claire working today?’
James reddened slightly. ‘Um, yes, she is. That’s why she couldn’t make it.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘She sends her love.’
‘So when’s your big day?’ asked Ella. ‘Please give me time to lose some of this weight. All my nice dresses are much smaller.’
‘Not for a while. We’re saving for a house.’
‘Don’t leave it too long, Jiminy,’ said William. ‘You’re fast approaching middle age.’
Later that evening, Aurora was in her bedroom at Bertie’s, painting her toenails dark-red. The bedroom was like something out of a fairy tale. The bathroom alone was bigger than her old flat. There was a large four-poster bed and a walk-in wardrobe with panoramic mirrors. She had purchased a white full-length gown for her performance and her stomach did flips when she thought of it. Bertie had shown her the guest list and it was littered with famous names. He had invited actors, directors and producers, writers and poets and musicians. A big security firm had been safeguarding his home for the last two days, making sure that it was like Fort Knox. Bertie had given her a plus one for the party and suggested asking James. She had looked at him as if he were mad. Had he forgotten what had happened? And James was engaged. In the end, she asked Ophelia who screamed when she heard.
‘I might meet Justin Bieber!’ she yelled, jumping around her flat.
‘I’m not sure if he’s invited but you never know,’ said Aurora in amusement.
She had refused a dinner invitation at The Ivy with Bertie’s ex-wife and her new Italian lover, simply because she wanted to rest her voice. She had a face mask all ready to go, then a soak in the bath and finally bed.
Her phone beeped, signalling that she had a message. Ophelia had been texting all evening so she presumed that it was her. She waited until her toenails were completely dry before pressing the screen. James’ name flashed before her. Her heart slowed down and then began to thump loudly.
It read: Hi, Borealis. Heard you’re in London. Can we meet? I want to sort things out.
She reread it three times.
I want to sort things out.
That could only mean one thing. He wanted things to go back to normal. What he didn’t realise was, things would never be normal again. She didn’t want to hear what he had to say. She could almost predict it anyway: it was all a mistake, there was too much wine involved, he was due to be married soon and she, being young, had the world at her feet.
It was all too raw for that. He didn’t realise how she felt – he didn’t take her seriously. Like lightning she replied.
Too busy. See you soon.
She pressed ‘send’ and sat back. It was curt, but not too unfriendly. She would see him soon, probably at Andrew’s christening. She just needed time to sort out her head. Seeing him now would set her back.
The phone beeped again and she jumped. It was Ophelia wondering if she was allowed to snog Justin Bieber if the opportunity arose. Was there a protocol she had to follow?
Aurora smiled, despite the ache in her heart. She decided to put James out of her mind and concentrate on her upcoming performance.
As promised, Bertie had hired a full orchestra to accompany her. His party-planner Marcel had cleared some bushes at the end of the garden to facilitate the huge number of musicians. There was a silver podium right in front of the conductor’s spot where she was due to stand. The repertoire was simple: most of the Bond songs from the start of the movie franchise. She would begin with ‘Goldfinger’ and go from there. The conductor, a small Russian named Alexei, had arranged slower versions of ‘A View to a Kill’ by Duran Duran and ‘You Know My Name’ by Chris Cornell to suit her voice. Her favourite song was Nancy Sinatra’s ‘You Only Live Twice’. The violin intro with the French horn harmony sent shivers down her spine. She couldn’t wait to perform it.
Ophelia arrived at five. She had her red curls piled on her head and was dressed in a green-and-silver mermaid dress with a fishtail. Despite having an invitation, it took her twenty minutes to get past security.
Aurora met her in the foyer and hugged her close.
‘You look like Ariel from The Little Mermaid, she said fondly. ‘I love the dress.’
‘Oh, they’re all the rage,’ Ophelia replied. ‘Bloody hard work though. The narrow hemline doesn’t give me much room to walk.’
They ventured out into the garden. Bertie was instructing the head waiter on how he wanted things done and men with earphones walked around constantly, monitoring any suspicious behaviour.
‘Are you nervous?’ asked Ophelia. ‘That’s an awfully big orchestra for such a little girl.’
‘It’s strange but I feel completely relaxed,’ said Aurora. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’
‘Bertie went for the Sean Connery look. I was hoping for Daniel Craig.’
‘Oh, he’s convinced that Connery is the best Bond.’ Aurora smiled.
Someone tapped her shoulder and she turned around. Standing there was Justi
n Debussy, all dressed up in a tuxedo and with a wary expression.
‘Hello,’ he said in his clipped tone.
Aurora stiffened.
Ophelia, sensing the awkwardness, backed away. ‘I’ll just get some champagne,’ she said lamely, disappearing into the house.
Aurora hadn’t seen him since that night in his flat – that night when he was drunk and high and nasty.
‘Bertie’s looking well,’ he said, gesturing to his uncle.
‘Very well.’
His blue eyes darted around the room. She could tell that he was nervous. This made her glad – she wanted him to squirm.
‘So he told you about my Elise Sloane situation then?’
‘Yes, what a shame.’ She stared at him steadily. ‘Surely there’s some up-and-coming American actress who will fit the bill?’
He shook his head. ‘Anyone who has auditioned has been wrong. Actresses are ten a penny in this business. Stars are harder to find.’ He twirled the stem of his glass between his forefinger and thumb. ‘Would you consider . . .?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Purely professional – no funny business. No one else can play her like you. No one else comes close.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Just a month. Just until November. Let the critics see you and write about you.’
‘Harry doesn’t want me doing theatre.’
‘Bugger Harry! He has you running around doing bits and pieces. This is solid and it will be great for your reputation.’ He stared at her. ‘Do you want to be a two-bit extra for the rest of your life?’
Her brown eyes widened. The past few months had indeed been bitty. Nothing to ring home about – just small roles that people forget. Maybe a few weeks of Elsie Sloane would be refreshing. She had enjoyed it and she liked the cast. Justin aside, it had been a nice experience.
‘Look, I’ll call you when I get back to America,’ she said. ‘I need to think about this.’
‘It’s the right move, Sinclair, and you know it.’ He walked away.
At around nine, Bertie nodded at her to get ready. She ran to her room to check her make-up and do some warm-up exercises. Ophelia had bonded with one of the bodyguards and was on her fifth glass of champagne. She had forgotten about Justin Bieber and was now concentrating on flirting outrageously with the hunky security guard.
Aurora looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. In her white dress she resembled Grace in that portrait. Her cloudy dark hair framed her face and her fuchsia necklace lay between her breasts.
‘Get me through this, Mummy,’ she whispered. ‘Guide me through.’
Bertie was on the podium when she got downstairs. There were about one hundred guests milling around. She had already seen Gordon Ramsey, Jeremy Irons, Judi Dench and Paul Weller. She had met Victoria Beckham in the loo and Stephen Fry was holding court in Bertie’s study, telling amusing stories about last year’s BAFTAs. In a brief conversation, she had told him of Henry’s most recent birthday present: the first edition of Salomé. He had been very impressed as he was a huge fan of Oscar Wilde and proceeded to tell her a story of a time that he and Henry went fly-fishing together.
Bertie thanked everyone for coming and for their overly generous gifts which he was giving to charity. The crowd applauded. ‘Well, except for Elton’s all-expenses-paid week in Mauritius,’ he added. ‘That’s just too tempting to forfeit.’
He then told a little anecdote about Ian Fleming and how James Bond had been a major influence in his life since he was a boy.
‘Who wouldn’t want to be that cool, sophisticated seemingly indestructible spy who could get any woman into bed?’ he asked.
‘He didn’t bonk Moneypenny!’ called Ophelia and everyone laughed.
‘You’re quite right, young woman,’ agreed Bertie.
Aurora walked up onto the podium and stood next to him. She kept her eyes down, her face slightly flushed. It was intimidating to stand in front of such talented people.
Bertie took her hand and kissed it. ‘Good luck, my sweet,’ he whispered. Then he turned to the crowd. ‘So, without further ado, I give you Aurora Sinclair!’
The crowd clapped and the orchestra played a few notes in sync. Then the opening bars of ‘Goldfinger’began to play, a spotlight was trained on her and she started to sing. There were a few wobbles at the beginning as she battled with the brass section. But then she found her feet and her voice soared out over the crowd. She never felt as alive as she did on stage. Something happened to her and she was transported away.
The song ended and there were slight murmurs in the crowd followed by rapturous applause. Bertie clapped the loudest. ‘Bravo!’ he shouted. ‘Bravo, my darling!’
Aurora blushed. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
The pianist started to play the intro to ‘Skyfall’ and she started to sing.
After two encores, she finally got to mingle. Everyone she met congratulated her and shook her hand. People she had never seen in her life were gushing about her talent and wondering if she had ever done musical theatre. Someone put a flute of champagne in her hand and then she was whisked off to meet Tom Cruise. After an hour of small talk, she stole away into the house. She needed to wind down. Ophelia had disappeared with her hunky guard so she grabbed her phone and bag and sneaked off.
Walking down the corridor, she checked her phone, just in case James had texted. There was nothing. She sighed in disappointment and threw the offending phone into her bag. It was odd really. She had told him that she was too busy to meet him, but part of her wanted him to arrive on Bertie’s doorstep, whisk her into his arms and take her away with him. Just like her Barbie Ferrari dream. She was confusing herself at this stage with her mixed signals. Maybe she should meet him before she jetted off. Maybe . . .
The study was mercifully empty so she took refuge in there. The walls were lined with books and journals, some old and frayed. Bertie’s desk was overflowing with papers and magazines and a large plant stood in the corner with drooping leaves and dry soil.
She took off her shoes and rubbed one of her feet.
‘Hello,’ came a voice from one of the leather armchairs facing the fire.
She whipped around. ‘Yes?’
A man was sitting there, his dark-brown eyes fixed on her.
‘You sang well.’
She couldn’t place his accent – it sounded Irish but with British overtones. He looked about fifty, his dark hair slightly streaked with grey, and he had sallow skin.
‘Thank you,’ she said warily. ‘Sorry to disturb. I thought this room was empty.’
‘Not at all,’ he said, gesturing for her to sit down on the other chair. ‘I could do with some company myself. How’s Henry?’
‘You know my father?’
A shadow passed over his face for a second. ‘Yes, I do. We go back a long way.’
‘And you are?’
‘I knew your mother too.’
She relaxed a little. ‘So many people have said that to me tonight. It’s been wonderful hearing about her. Daddy doesn’t say much.’
‘Oh, I knew Grace very well.’ He sipped his whiskey. ‘You look like her.’
She smiled then. ‘I know. There’s a portrait of her in my old house and I can see the resemblance.’ She sat down and continued to rub her feet. ‘No one ever warns you about heels. They have the potential to maim you.’ Her long hair fell to the side. ‘So, how do you know Bertie?’
‘Oh, everyone knows Bertie.’
She laughed. ‘I suppose.’
‘I knew him in the eighties, before he was a mega star. I directed a play he was in once.’
‘Oh, so you’re a director.’ She sat back.
‘Not any more. I write books now. I’m also a poet.’
‘Oh, I love poetry,’ she said wistfully. ‘We had an English teacher at school called Mr. Crowley. He taught us everything from Donne to Kinsella. Are you well known?’
> ‘In my own circle.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t do it for the fame.’
‘Nor does Daddy,’ she said. ‘He hates fuss.’
‘I suspect that he’s slightly more famous than I.’ He focused in on her necklace. ‘I like the fuchsia around your neck. Where did you get that?’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘You’re one of the first people I’ve met outside of Cornwall who could identify it correctly – are you a botanist too?’
‘I live in West Cork, right down the south of Ireland. That little flower is quite abundant down there.’ He stared at the pendant. ‘Why do you have such a flower?’
‘It belonged to my mother,’ she explained. ‘I like to wear it as it makes me feel close to her.’
There was a loud scream and lots of laughter from outside the window. They could hear a man shouting, ‘Get in the pool!’ and then a splash.
Aurora giggled. ‘This will get crazy, I think.’
The man said nothing. Instead, he gazed at her unflinchingly. ‘So, this Mr. Crowley instilled a love of poetry in you. I commend him. Do you have a favourite poet?’
Aurora paused. ‘Gosh, that’s a hard question. Poems speak to one in such different ways. Depending on one’s mood, of course. For example, at the moment I’m reading lots of Yeats as I can relate to his heartbreak regarding Maud Gonne’s rejection.’
‘Have you been rejected?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’ She met his gaze. ‘Quite badly in fact. So, when I read a poem about a similar theme, it gives me solace.’
‘Go on.’
‘I adore the Romantic poets, Shelley in particular.’
‘Your mother loved Lord Byron,’ he said.
‘Yes, Daddy mentioned that one time. You must have known her quite well.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You never told me your name – how did you know Mummy?’
He got to his feet. ‘You were wonderful tonight, Miss Aurora Sinclair. Congratulations.’ He held out his hand formally. ‘Until we meet again.’
She shook his hand firmly. ‘You’re leaving?’
‘Goodbye, Aurora.’
And he was gone.
Three weeks later, Aurora stepped off the stage with Paul Lewis by her side. La Morte was sold out every night and the American crowd couldn’t get enough of the tragic tale. Bertie came to see her during the first week and brought a herd of journalists with him. ‘My favourite play in the world,’ he gushed to the different newspapers. ‘Watch this space.’ And they did.