His eyes widened with a sort of puppy-dog sadness and surprise. ‘No, no. No, of course not . . . I wish I could explain it . . .’ I wished he’d said yes, because it meant it must be me then, something wrong with me.
‘It’s OK,’ I tried to say, without my voice cracking, ‘you just don’t feel that way. It’s fine.’ I was trying to be calm but I felt like I was shaking.
‘No! That’s not it either. I do. I do feel that way.’
I looked at him and finally couldn’t keep the tears at bay any longer.
‘I do,’ he said. He said it looking into my eyes and I was so happy – but so confused. I just wanted him to hold me but he was already on his feet, ready to run away again. I looked away. I wanted him to know he was hurting me.
‘I’m so sorry. I really am, if I could explain it, I – I wish I could tell you why but I just can’t now. I’m sorry. I’ll be in the lighting box watching, I promise.’
And then he was gone. Again.
All the way home I bit my lip and swallowed hard against the tears. There were five hours until rehearsal started and I spent most of it in my room, crying. It felt like I’d cried more in the last few weeks than I had in the last ten years combined. I felt so exhausted.
I hadn’t heard from Steve since the last rehearsal and I knew it must be because he was too angry to speak to me. I knew he’d take me aside tonight and have another go at me. It’d be hard to see David too, after he made the effort to talk to me and I – Olivia – blanked him. On top of that, there was Jack – and all the other stupid guys in the world who played games with girls’ hearts. I didn’t know if I could take it.
‘Why . . . Rebecca, darling . . . I thought you’d left over an hour ago. I . . .’
I was too tired to feel panic when Anton said that line at the rehearsal that evening. I felt hollow, like I’d used up all my emotion. The others looked through me instead of at me because of all the things I’d done to them. I was empty and invisible – it was like I was the ghost. Like Olivia had forced me into swapping places with her – it was like she was the one who was alive now, while I faded away.
She waited again, until the shooting, so I was lying down and couldn’t run. I felt the familiar nausea and darkening vision and I thought of Jack. Despite how he confused me, somehow I still trusted he’d be watching out for me.
At the end of the scene, Olivia opened my eyes and stood. She smoothed my top down with my palms and then looked out into the auditorium. There was a metallic clang and a spotlight shone right into my face. The rush made me smile before I blacked out.
You did it, Jack. Thank you.
‘Have you talked to your dad about this?’ Steve asked me as I sipped water, sitting on the chaise longue on stage. The others had gone for a break and instead of getting the grief from him I’d been prepared for, my collapse got me sympathy instead. I wished we’d worked the lights thing out sooner.
‘I think you should,’ he said when I shook my head.
‘I don’t think there’s anything medically wrong with me. I think I’m just stressed out,’ I argued.
‘If you’re suffering physical effects of stress as severe as passing out then that is something medically wrong,’ Steve replied. ‘If you’re this ill, I don’t know if you should be performing tomorrow . . .’
‘Please don’t say that, Steve.’ I felt panic then – I couldn’t go through all this and then get chucked out of the play just for fainting, surely? ‘I’ve been trying so hard to keep on, despite everything – I mean, despite feeling stressed – because it’s so important to me. It’s only five performances – I can get through it, honestly. Please?’
‘Well, let’s see how you go through the rest of this evening, if you’re sure you want to carry on?’
I nodded.
‘But I’ll have to speak to your dad about this before I can give you the go-ahead.’
He called Dad right then and told me afterwards that Dad was going to come and collect me. The rest of rehearsal was great and by the end, Dad was waiting at the back of the auditorium. There was no sign of another visit from Olivia and I finally got to do the end of the play myself. Me as me as Rebecca, not Olivia as me as Rebecca. I even got a wink from Steve at the end, which I think meant I did good and that he was happy to let me go on stage for the performances as long as Dad was.
As the others left, I deliberately dawdled so I could go and thank Jack. As Dad and I went to leave, I pretended I’d left my phone behind and came back in to find him. I went up to the lighting box. I rushed up the stair, took the handle and pushed – but the door wouldn’t open.
Jack must have rushed to turn everything off and lock up before I could find him. Hurt and confused, I turned back as quickly and quietly as I could. I checked backstage again but there was no sign of him. In the end, I couldn’t stall any longer and had to get in the car with Dad.
‘I’m fine, honestly, Dad. I just forgot to eat or drink any water, and it was hot in there . . .’ I argued with him in the car that we didn’t need to go straight to a doctor. He looked sceptical and stern. ‘Please can we just wait and see? I’ll be extra careful and I promise if it happens again, I’ll go.’
We were coming through the front door and I hoped the vague stains left in the carpet wouldn’t remind Dad of the fainting I’d confessed to before.
‘It’s not right, Zo, there could be something really wrong . . .’ he said.
I made my most pathetic pleading face and he relented a bit.
‘OK, look, I’ll just ring the doctors and see what they say. If they say you should go in, then I’m going to book you in, all right?’
I nodded reluctantly.
I couldn’t sleep that night. My head was spinning. I was worried and excited about the play, still a little high from outwitting Olivia again, still happy that Jack had saved me from her, but still confused and angry about the way he’d been this afternoon. He cared enough to risk his job saving me from Olivia, but not enough to face me and just tell the truth. I lay there in the dark, willing him to call, watching my phone and trying not to blink, hoping with each second that passed that it would light up with an incoming call.
Chapter 18
I rested my hand lightly on the heavy fabric of the curtain and listened to the people filling the auditorium. I hadn’t heard or seen Jack since I’d confronted him about pulling away from me. I’d officially frightened him off, I decided, and I was working hard at being angry with him instead of longing for him. The collective murmuring of the growing crowd was loud enough to give me a fluttering twinge of stage fright.Our side of the curtain, backstage, the bustling was weirdly silent (except for a few people saying shhh quite loudly). I wished my growing anxiety was just down to plain old first-night nerves but I had more to worry about than just fluffing my lines . . .
At least it was only Wednesday and we weren’t expecting a full house until the Friday. But Dad was here. Because of the fainting, he said he’d only let me go on if he came with me to every performance – so he got tickets for all of them and I agreed to meet him at intermission and go home if I wasn’t feeling well. I’d agreed just to keep him happy, but it wasn’t really a promise I could keep. By intermission I didn’t know where – or even who – I might be.
No matter how hard I tried not to, I kept looking around for Jack. One second I was frustrated with him for being so cagey, the next with myself for scaring him off. On the phone we could talk like we’d known each other for ever, but being in the same space together seemed impossible. If he’d just explain what was going on with him, maybe we could get past it . . . Maybe he just didn’t want to see me any more.
I checked I wasn’t being watched. We were under instruction not to try and peek at the audience but I couldn’t resist. I wouldn’t normally give in and break the rules, but Jack had exhausted my willpower and this seemed so unimportant I let myself look. I was so on edge I couldn’t stay still or concentrate.
It was so crowded! Stev
e said they hadn’t even nearly sold out but I wondered if he’d been lying to stop us getting nervous – I could only see about ten or so empty seats and people were still coming in. The lights were pretty low, but no lower than backstage, so I could see everyone quite clearly. I scanned the rows and spotted Dad. I kept looking, staring at the figures in black, wondering if maybe Jack had been put on usher duty . . .
Then something drew my eyes a couple of rows back from Dad’s seat. There was an immaculately-dressed old woman with a tiny, heart-shaped face . . . and a beautiful bright white shock of curls. I stopped breathing. I recognised that hair. And those delicate features were lined with age but I recognised them too. Marion.
There was no mistaking her from the photograph I’d seen. She looked serious, angry even, and my mind started racing. Why was she here? Maybe she’d just seen the posters up around town and came out of curiosity. No, she must be here because of the letter. I scanned the rest of the room, the side aisles and around the double doors at the back, looking for police uniforms. Nothing. Yet. Then an even worse thought struck me – if she hadn’t called the police, maybe that meant she was planning to take the matter into her own hands. What if she was here to silence the new witness to her murderous plot from all those years ago?
I stared at her. She was eerily still in the hubbub. She was peering up at the stage. Her eyes moved slowly towards me and fixed – could she see me? I wanted to move but I was frozen still. She suddenly lifted her clutch bag, a beautiful, old-fashioned beaded thing, and searched through its contents. She nodded a tiny nod as she found what she was looking for, but she took nothing out. She rested the bag back on her lap, giving it a little pat, and smiled a satisfied smile. Oh God. Was it a gun? Did she have a gun in there? Should I make a run for it now? Panic rushed through me and gave me the power to move. I backed away from the curtain. If I ran now, I could get a pretty good head start while the first two plays were on . . .
I sneaked out to the green room to find my bag. Steve had put it in a big pile with all our stuff together – and there he was, guarding it, arms crossed, lips pursed. He looked at me with beady-eyed suspicion and insisted I sat with him. It was almost like he didn’t trust me. Anyone would think I had a history of running out in the middle of rehearsals or something crazy like that. I thought about going to the ladies’, but I knew Steve wasn’t the type to be squeamish about following me in. I guess there’d be no easy escape for me.
At least the theatre was a public place, lots of people around to discourage murderers from their work. If Marion did anything to me in public, it would defeat the whole purpose of her coming here to silence me. I just had to keep away from her, that was all.
Finally, under Steve’s ceaseless supervision, Foul Play was about to start. Anton and I sat at our act-one breakfast table as the curtain went up. I felt the heat of two hundred pairs of eyes boring into me and my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. But I held it together and, after we’d gone through a couple of lines each, it got easier. Actually, we were good.
Gemma and Anton were great, and watching them in their full costume and make-up, for a moment, I forgot everything, just letting myself get sucked into the play. But there was an empty space where Jack should have been. I wondered if he was in the lighting box, watching over me. Even as sure as I felt that he would be, it wasn’t the same as having him there, smiling at me, making me feel like everything was all right.
But when I looked into the darkness of the wings opposite, only David was there, his eyes fixed on the stage. I wanted to try to sneak to the front and see what Marion was doing. I wanted to check she was sitting safely in her seat. Steve was still watching me like a hawk but I wasn’t going to run away, not now.
Then Anton said that first line of act three. I wished I hadn’t told Jack I didn’t want him to try the lighting trick during a performance. Now that the moment was drawing closer, I felt physical revulsion at the thought of Olivia taking hold of me. I felt the fight in me coming back – I didn’t want her to take over now. I was having too much fun. But she knew she had me trapped. She knew the way I felt about the play meant I wouldn’t even try to resist her. Before I got to my first line, I was spinning and sick again, disappearing into the darkness.
Olivia was really good in the last act, but the injustice of it was tearing at me deep inside while she used me. I wanted to be free. As the audience clapped and cheered and we took our bows, I wanted to be me and have all my senses so I could soak up the moment. But I understood why Olivia wanted it, too. I wondered if part of her struggle to come back from the dead was just about being back here, reliving the life that had been stolen from her. But this was my life, not hers. Just because someone took her life from her didn’t mean she got to have mine. It wasn’t my fault.
We all filed off stage finally, but instead of going to the green room with the others, Olivia took me out into the auditorium. She fell into step with the crowds and was carried out into the foyer in the stream of people going for drinks. Inside Olivia’s prison, the clamour of people’s chatter and the clinking from the café sounded muffled and confused to me. I was helpless and paralysed again, not knowing where she would take me. Would I miss Dad? He’d be worried if he couldn’t find me. But maybe that was better than if he did find me and Olivia said something evil to him. All I could do was wait and see what happened next.
I caught sight of Dad over by the exit, but his back was turned – and Olivia kept moving, she was looking for something, scanning the great room with my eyes. They stopped as they registered a shock of white curls . . .
She went straight for Marion then, and reached out with my hand just as Marion was turning towards us, grabbing her arm, hard. I saw her wince with fright as my fingers clamped viciously round her thin arm.
‘You won’t get away with murder, Marion, I know what you and Tom did. You’re MURDERERS!’ Olivia hissed. I was terrified of what she might do. ‘You don’t kill someone in front of all those people and get away with it. I might not have been able to find the gun or the evidence but I promise you you’ll regret it if you don’t give yourself up. You’ll go to the police, now, and hand yourself in. Do you understand?’
Marion was stunned, frozen motionless.
Olivia tightened her grip. ‘I’m warning you – I won’t rest until you pay.’ I could see the terror in Marion’s eyes and I couldn’t believe I’d been so scared of her. Everything about her seemed gentle. I felt terrible to be part of this attack.
‘I thought it was an accident!’ Marion cried. She seemed to sway on her feet. I could see she was shocked and confused about how I could know what I knew. It was like one part of her understood right away that it was Olivia talking through me, while another part struggled against accepting it, because it was crazy and impossible that some young girl she’d never met before could be having this conversation with her. ‘It wasn’t until Richard died and we cleared out his things that I found out the truth. And then I thought, it was so long ago, why dredge up the past and drag a dead man’s name through the mud? He was my brother . . .’ She was incredulous and pleading at the same time, but she didn’t seem like a guilty killer – and I could sense Olivia was thrown by her openness.
‘What are you talking about?’ Olivia snapped at her, using my voice in a way I’d never used it – so hard and bitter. ‘What does it have to do with Richard? You stole Tom from me, and then you both plotted to kill me by switching the gun. The police knew it, they just couldn’t prove it. But now you’re going to confess.’
Olivia let go of her arm, throwing it back at her, and I thought Marion might cry as she rubbed where my fingers had been digging in – her face was so full of hurt and disbelief.
‘No, no. Olivia, Tom would never have cheated on you. I thought you knew that.’ Her voice was small and wavering but beseeching – and amazingly compassionate, considering Olivia’s violent tone. ‘That was a lie Richard was trying to get you to believe, so he could be there to
comfort you and steal you away from Tom. He was in love with you right from the start. I thought you knew, I thought you’d know he was lying.’
I felt so weird then – I could feel Olivia’s shock and distress, my chest tightened with her sadness as she clutched at her heart with my hands. Then I felt her weaken – like she was loosening her grip on me. It even seemed like some of the darkness lifted. I saw my chance and I tried with all my strength to speak. I managed to make the tiniest squeak. It felt like a triumph but Marion barely noticed.
‘Tom and I both believed it had been a genuine tragic accident, a mistake.’ Marion shook her head. She reached out and took hold of my hand and looked into my eyes. ‘He was devastated, Olivia. Broken. He never got over it really; he sort of wasted away in the end, with the drinking . . . I thought you knew . . . Oh.’ She let go of my hand and her expression changed, as if she was seeing me for the first time, instead of seeing Olivia. ‘I shouldn’t be saying this to you, you’re so young and you don’t know me, but you’re, well, Olivia, is almost the same age as I am, or at least she would be, if . . .’
Dad appeared behind Marion and helped her into a seat. He must have been watching – I guess we were causing a bit of a scene. I vaguely noticed an odd silence around us.
‘Zoë, this is unbelievable – unacceptable!’ Dad said fiercely under his breath. ‘What are you doing upsetting this woman with —’
‘No, please.’ Marion interrupted Dad’s rebuke with a soft touch of his arm and turned back to me.
‘Olivia, or Zoë, is it? I found out after Richard, my brother, the director, died, that he’d become enraged that Olivia wasn’t interested in him, even after all his efforts. There were notes and photographs and unposted letters in his things – I think he . . . wasn’t in his right mind in the end.’ She shook her head and looked away for a second. It must have been hard for her to say this about her own brother. ‘In one letter, he wrote that if he couldn’t have her, no one would.’ She started to cry. ‘That’s when I knew it hadn’t been an accident at all. He must have decided to swap the gun. Oh Olivia, don’t you see? It was deliberate that he wanted it to look like it was Tom that shot you . . . and when we realised, it was too late . . .’ It seemed like Marion was losing her senses then, reliving that awful night. ‘The only person who’d guessed Richard’s plan was that poor technician, but he couldn’t stop it either. He tried to rush on stage before we got to that part of the scene but Richard held him back. He was bigger and stronger. So Richard had two deaths on his hands. I’m sure he didn’t mean to kill the boy, but they must have struggled and I suppose he fell, and that would have been when he hit his head . . . but nobody knew while it was happening, you see, because on stage you were bleeding and . . . oh, he was such a nice boy, too, Jack – he tried to save you, you know, but Richard was so angry . . .’
The Last Act Page 12