Home. Sophy smiled although as yet she couldn’t quite think of their modern little flat as home. It was very nice, possessing a small kitchen, a large sitting room and a lovely light bedroom amply big enough for a double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, and it also boasted that most newfangled of features, a bathroom complete with its own water closet. Each of the three flats in the terraced house had one, which was why the rent was so expensive, Sophy supposed. At seven shillings a week she could have rented a positive mansion up north, but when she had said this to Toby he had told her she couldn’t compare the two. This was London, he’d declared, not some provincial little backwater, and if he had his way they would soon be moving to something much grander than Margaret Street. And the flats were smart and newly renovated; he didn’t intend to start their married life in a couple of shabby rooms somewhere.
She hadn’t argued, although she still felt slightly overwhelmed at the amount they would be paying out each month. But they could afford it, as Toby said. He was earning five guineas a week and she would be bringing home three guineas when she began her new part, although if the play failed that might be short-lived. Toby’s play was due to end in the next little while but he was quite confident he would be offered something else before that happened.
Once outside the hotel, they went their separate ways. The Lincoln was only a stone’s throw away so Sophy and Cat and a small group of other actors, including Augustus, went in one direction on foot, and Toby and his crowd hailed a couple of cabs. Dolly and Jim had already left a little earlier.
Cat slipped her arm through Sophy’s as they walked, the two of them a little tiddly after the champagne. ‘I shall miss you when you go, and I won’t even have our evenings in Dolly’s kitchen any more,’ Cat said with a little sniff. ‘Dolly will be sad too, you know that, don’t you?’
Sophy nodded. It had been their habit, two or three times a week when she wasn’t seeing Toby, for the two girls to take a box of chocolates or a cake and spend an hour or two with Dolly and Jim. The old couple were hilarious, especially Dolly, and had kept the girls entertained with stories from the past and present about their family and some of their odd doings. One of their sons was an undertaker and the tales connected with him verged on the macabre, and another two were ‘into this and that’ according to Dolly, although the girls suspected most of their dealings were rooted in the London underworld. They had drunk copious pots of tea and laughed a lot and Cat, whose upper-class parents had had very little to do with their children, had revelled in the family atmosphere.
‘We’ll still pop round and see Dolly and Jim,’ Sophy said now. ‘We’re not going to lose touch, Cat. I’ve only got married, not disappeared to the other side of the world.’
Cat nodded and squeezed Sophy’s arm but said nothing. She hoped she was wrong but she would be surprised if Sophy’s friends saw much of her from this point on. Toby was determined to rise and he aimed to cultivate people who could make that happen, like Rosalind Robins. The woman was a major leading lady with many connections, and Toby knew as well as anyone else in the field that actors were paid according to their popularity, and that to get the right part was essential. Often the main criterion by which a play was chosen for production was the size and dramatic or comedic possibilities of the central male character, closely followed by the lead female role. Sophy was destined to be a star, Cat thought, but Toby? He was handsome enough and he could be charm itself when he chose, but there was a weakness to the man. He was flawed. She wished Sophy hadn’t married him. More than that, she wished she had said so before the event, even if it might have resulted in Sophy drawing away from her. She wouldn’t be feeling so wretchedly guilty now if she had.
‘Cheer up.’ Sophy unwittingly heaped coals of fire on Cat’s head as she gave her a hug. ‘We’re friends for life, through thick and thin. I promise. What were those lines in the first play we did together at the Lincoln? Oh yes. “Nothing can separate us, dear friend. Neither the trials of life nor the blessings. Not husband or lover or foe, not surfeit or famine. Friendship is the golden cord of life.”’
‘“Oh sweet Patricia, that you would always cleave to such noble thoughts.”’ Cat struck a dramatic pose. ‘“And I pray that golden cord will bind us more surely in the years to come.”’
They both laughed, walking on, but Cat wished more than ever she had spoken before it was too late.
Chapter 14
Sophy’s first night of marriage was a mixture of pain and pleasure, but overall a feeling of surprise that men regarded this thing so highly. She knew Toby had sown his wild oats in the past, but she hadn’t questioned him about it because she didn’t want to know. It was enough that he had wanted to marry her, that she was the one he had asked to be his wife.
He had been gentle with her and understanding of her initial embarrassment, and she had been grateful for his consideration. It had engendered in her a deeper love for him, as had the act itself.
The next morning she had thought of her mother for the first time in a little while, wondering how Esther could have given herself away so cheaply. She couldn’t imagine being so intimate with anyone but Toby, and surely love would have to be the main ingredient for a woman to allow a man to possess her? But then women were bought by men for money on the streets and in brothels, it was a fact of life. She had known about it, of course, but until now hadn’t realised the significance of what was entailed.
She had told Toby only the bare facts about her past life, that her parents had died when she was a baby and her aunt and uncle had brought her up, and that she had run away from what was a claustrophobic and unpleasant existence and come to London. He had been satisfied with that and hadn’t pressed for more. But now, as they sat together at their little dining-table in the sitting room enjoying their first breakfast as man and wife, she felt she needed to tell him the full story. Something had changed with the act of making love. She couldn’t explain it but she didn’t want any secrets between them.
‘Toby, dear, I want to tell you something.’ He was sitting behind his newspaper like an old married man, and as she placed a plate of sausages, ham and egg in front of him, he lowered the paper and smiled at her.
‘Don’t tell me.’ He inspected his plate. ‘You’ve burned the sausages? Or is the yolk of the egg hard? No, I know. You’ve forgotten my breakfast roll.’
She had, as it happened. After another trip to the kitchen she surveyed the food on the cheerful little gingham tablecloth she’d bought especially for their breakfasts. Everything was in order. She sat down, poured them both a cup of tea, and said again, ‘Toby? I need to talk to you.’
Toby stifled an impatient sigh and lowered his newspaper again. He didn’t like conversation first thing in the morning. He’d always been that way. Once he’d eaten and read the paper and had a shave and a wash, he was a different man. But Sophy would learn that in time. And this was their first morning together in the flat. For a moment recollections of the mornings he’d woken up in Rosalind’s bed when her husband was away on business flashed through his head. Her maid had rarely opened the curtains before eleven o’clock, used to her mistress’s habits when the master was away, and then had followed a decadent breakfast of champagne and caviar on tiny slices of toast most days. He had never heard of caviar before the first morning he’d stayed with Rosalind, but that was her all over.
He smiled at Sophy. ‘What is it?’
‘I want to tell you about my parents. Well, my mother, I suppose.’
‘She died when you were a baby. Right?’
‘Yes, but— but there’s more. She . . .’ Sophy took a deep breath, ‘was a music-hall actress. She left her home like me and came to London when she was a young girl.’
Toby sat up straighter. This wasn’t what he’d expected. He stared into the beautiful amber eyes watching him so intently, his eyes moving to the cloud of shining, silky hair she’d tied back with a blue ribbon for breakfast. ‘Did she look like you?’
‘A bit, I think.’
‘Then she must have been a very successful music-hall actress.’
Sophy forced a smile. ‘She wasn’t married to my father, Toby. That’s what I wanted you to know.’
He took a moment to digest this. He was shocked, she could tell, and suddenly she decided she wouldn’t tell him the rest, that her mother hadn’t been able to name her father because she hadn’t known which of her lovers had impregnated her.
Toby stared at her. ‘But you said your uncle was a minister.’
‘He was. He is.’
‘And your mother was his sister?’
She nodded.
He shook his head. ‘I can understand why they were over-protective of you.’
‘They weren’t over-protective,’ she said sharply, hurt tearing through her at the implied criticism. ‘They were cruel. There’s a difference.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He read what was in her face and stood up, coming to her chair and drawing her up and into his arms. ‘I didn’t mean anything, sweetheart. I know you were unhappy at home, that’s all, and I was just trying to say they probably over-compensated for your mother’s mistake.’
A mistake. Was that how he viewed her now? But no, she was being unreasonable. Reading too much into his words. And he had every right to be shocked, of course he did. She relaxed in his embrace, her arms going round his waist. Nevertheless, she wished she hadn’t told him.
The next few months were not easy ones. The Choice was a critical and financial success, receiving favourable notices from the press and audiences alike. There was much praise and acclaim for everyone concerned, but it was generally acknowledged that Sophy was the new prodigy to conquer the West End. Words such as ‘nonpareil’ and ‘sensation’ were bandied about, which would have been wonderful except for the fact that Toby’s play was finishing and he’d be out of work soon. He’d auditioned for the subsequent production, fully expecting it to be a mere formality, but another up-and-coming actor had been given both the part and – if rumours were to be believed – the delights of Rosalind’s benefaction.
He had gone to see Rosalind the morning after he’d discovered he didn’t have a part in the new production. They had arranged to meet at an apartment one of her friends owned. Of late Christopher Robins had taken to returning home unexpectedly, and Rosalind suspected he knew of their affair. Whether this was the last straw in a succession which had broken this particular camel’s back, Toby wasn’t sure, but certainly he felt his failure to gain the prize male part was due to the fact that Christopher Robins was a generous financial asset to the theatre concerned.
Rosalind had been waiting for him when he had knocked at the door of the sumptuous flat off Grosvenor Square. She had soothed him about the job, telling him that he was a fine actor and that he would pick up a leading male role with no trouble whatsoever, once the other prime theatres knew he was available. ‘Darling, you’re superb, everyone says so.’ She was getting ready for a romp in bed, discarding her clothes with the complete lack of inhibition which always served to make him hungry for her. But not today.
He stared at her, feeling gauche and ridiculous but unable to stop himself saying, ‘Bruce Thorpe, why did he get the part, Rosalind? Did you have anything to do with it?’
‘How can you say that?’ She sounded hurt but then she was an actress. ‘You know I adore you, darling.’
‘And Bruce? Do you adore him too?’
She was standing in front of him stark naked now and for a moment her eyes widened, then she turned and walked over to the bed the room held. It was a big bed with, of all things, black satin sheets. She slid under the top one, stretching like a cat before she murmured, ‘No strings attached, remember, sweetie? That’s what we promised each other at the start of our fun. I have enough problems in that direction with Christopher as you well know, and it’s so unattractive in a man.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
The half-smile left her lips and her eyes hardened. ‘I don’t have to, but since we’ve had some good times together, I will be honest with you. Bruce got the part because he’s a damn good actor for one thing. How much Christopher had to do with it I don’t know. All right? But if I had insisted you were given the part it would have confirmed any suspicions Christopher has, and believe me, Toby, he makes a bad enemy. I’ve done you a service in keeping quiet although you may not see it that way right now.’
‘You’re right. I don’t.’
‘Oh for goodness sake, don’t be petulant.’ She sat up, pulling the sheet round her breasts and flicking back her hair. ‘These things happen. You’ll get another part soon enough.’
There was a sickness churning his stomach and causing his insides to shake. He had thought this woman loved him, he’d imagined he held her in the palm of his hand and she would do anything for him, but he’d misjudged the balance of their relationship. She held the upper hand. She had always held it. She had used him for her pleasure and now he was expendable. That was the truth of it. If she hadn’t bedded Bruce already, it was only a matter of time.
‘Look, come to bed, sweetie.’ She held out her hand. ‘I don’t want to argue and spoil things. And this might be the last time we can see each other for a while. The play finishes this week and rehearsals begin straight away. We’ve been warned they’ll be pretty gruelling short-term, as Christopher and the other backers want the show to start as soon as possible. You know how it is.’
He knew how it was all right.
His face must have spoken for him because now Rosalind swung her long shapely legs out of bed. ‘Oh hell, you’re going to be difficult, aren’t you?’ she said in the tone of voice one would use to a tiresome child. ‘And I really don’t see why. You surely knew we weren’t going to last for ever, dear boy?’
She retrieved her clothes and dressed swiftly, and it was only when she was fully attired that she looked at him again. ‘Can’t we still be friends?’ she said softly.
‘What do you think?’ It was churlish but he couldn’t help himself.
She stared at him a moment more and then shrugged. Turning, she adjusted her hat in the bedroom mirror with deliberate slowness before leaving the apartment without another word. Toby walked over to the window and stared down into the street below, watching her walk away until she was lost from sight.
So that was that. All her promises of what she could do for him, the people she could introduce him to and the opportunities she could make happen had boiled down to this. He had even married Sophy because of her. Rosalind had suggested it would effectively allay any suspicions her husband might be harbouring if he was to take a wife.
He banged his fist against the wall next to the window, making the glass rattle. But he’d get another part soon enough, he told himself, nursing his bruised knuckles. And he’d been sick of currying favour with Christopher Robins and watching his ps and qs, as well as pandering to Rosalind’s whims and fancies, in the bedroom as well as out of it. He had thought he knew it all sexually and that he had an open mind, but Rosalind had introduced him to things that had made him feel a novice in that department. But it was over. And now he had to tell Sophy he wasn’t in the new play. He hadn’t mentioned it last night, not wanting to say anything until he had seen Rosalind this morning. He supposed he had been hoping she would tell him it was all a mistake and that she had fixed things for him. Fool that he was.
He walked out of the bedroom and into the sitting room of the apartment, picking up his jacket which he has discarded on entering. He stood in the middle of the expensively furnished room, his mind assessing the quality of the furnishings and fittings. Rosalind knew some wealthy and influential people all right. He had thought he was going to have a meteoric rise to fame and fortune as her lover. She hadn’t been able to keep her hands off him when they had first got together. But he’d succeed without her. She was just a woman, after all, like any other, and all cats were grey in the dark.
‘Oh, Toby darling, I’m
so sorry. Whatever are they thinking of? But it’s like Cat always says, half the time in our profession it’s not how good you are but whether the owners or the actor-managers have their own agenda and their favourites. I’ve heard of this Bruce Thorpe, I’m sure he’s a relation of Christopher Robins. A distant cousin’s child or something. But they’ll live to regret it. He won’t be a patch on you.’
Toby and Sophy were sitting eating breakfast the next morning, the windows wide open to catch any breeze the muggy August morning might afford them. He hadn’t got in until the early hours, having gone for a drink with some fellow actors after his performance at the theatre. They had ended up in one of the more disreputable establishments in Soho much the worse for wear, and he had no recollection of how he’d got home. He did remember following one of the actors to the back of the club where they’d gained admittance into a room guarded by a pair of big burly ne’er-do-wells, however. He had never tried an opium pipe before and it had knocked him for six.
He smiled blearily at Sophy. She had been distinctly frosty this morning until he’d told her about losing the part in the next play, whereupon she’d leaped to his defence.
‘I must admit I was a little put out at first,’ he said, ‘but there’s other parts in other theatres.’
‘Of course there are.’ She reached across and took one of his hands between her own. ‘And you’ll be snapped up. You’re such a wonderful actor.’
Toby looked down at his plate and tried not to shudder. He had forced down a breakfast roll and a cup of coffee, but he had a stinking headache and felt as sick as a dog. Putting his hand to his head, he muttered, ‘I think I’ll go and lie down for a while. I might have overdone things a bit last night.’
‘Do that.’ Sophy was all concern. ‘I’ll wake you in plenty of time to get ready for the theatre. When – when do you finish?’
Break of Dawn Page 18