by Jules Wake
‘Oooh, what’s the theme this year?’ I asked Dean, the senior props builder who was unravelling a long paper chain.
‘Hey, Tilly. Music. And I have to say the library has done a brilliant job.’ He held up a sparkly gold treble clef and a string of lights which was a replica of the five-lined staff you see on sheet music.
‘Clever,’ I said as one of his colleagues held up a handful of golden sharps, flats and notes.
I turned to Marcus who was staring up towards the top of the tree which reached the upper balcony of the stair case. ‘Each year a different department is elected to design the decorations for the tree.’
‘I can’t imagine that happening in the bank,’ he responded, looking back at the collection of decorations heaped on the floor.
‘It’s very competitive. We did sugar plum fairies and nutcracker soldiers last year,’ I said before adding, ‘I wonder what the IT’s contribution would be.’
He gave me a lazy smile. ‘Something hi-tech, flashing lights in binary sequence perhaps.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I’m not even going to pretend I know what that means. Come on,’ I inclined my head and led him over to the opposite wall. ‘The theatre was built in 1822 but didn’t become home to the London Metropolitan Opera Company until 1956.’ I pointed to a marble plaque on the wall celebrating the creation of the company. ‘We’re not as old or as famous as the Royal Opera House but we have established a reputation for staging innovative and avant-garde versions of established works.’ I gave him a cheesy curtsey. ‘That’s the official line. And now for the low-down.’ I tried to gauge his response, to see whether he’d stick with being corporate stiff or go with the flow, watching his lips which I think twitched ever so slightly. ‘In the industry, we’re known as a little bit maverick and willing to take a risk.’
I led him over to one of the posters on the walls and pointed to it.
‘Sometimes, it can be successful, but very occasionally it backfires spectacularly and we have a right turkey on our hands. Ever heard of the Sailors of Pompeii?’
‘Is that title for real?’ The purse of his lips suggested he thought I was having him on but he studied the poster carefully, giving me a chance to take a good look at his rather perfect and manly profile. He might as well have been some carbon copy of a Greek statue with the strong chin, nothing double about it and a fine forehead and brow.
‘Oh yes. An unmitigated disaster. You don’t want to go there. The critics hated it. There wasn’t a single redeeming comment. They gave us such a mauling and ironically,’ I leaned in, standing on tip-toe to whisper conspiratorially, ‘we didn’t lose money because the tickets sold out with audiences coming to see if it was as bad as they’d said. Bet management didn’t tell you that.’
Spatial awareness is not my strong point and I’d clearly misjudged the distance and got a little too close because he whipped his head around as my hot breath hit his ear. The surprise move had me wobbling on my toes and him grasping my forearms to keep me steady, leaving his lips level with mine. A bizarre thought flashed through my head. What would he say if I leaned forward and kissed him? I think I might even have started to lean forward. Luckily, he was pre-occupied with pushing me back upright and I don’t think he noticed or if he did he was far too gentlemanly or horrified to acknowledge it. Avoiding his gaze, I busied myself by smoothing down my skirt.
‘No, they didn’t mention any of that. I think my guide read from the this foyer cost several million to refurbish and the pure white marble came from the Apuan Alps in north-central Italy tour script, which included detailed financials on how the renovation costs were part-funded by the Arts Council and a generous legacy.’
‘Thought as much,’ I said in a business-like tone, relieved that he hadn’t noticed my brief moment of lunacy, and led him back through the doors and down a long corridor.
The lift pinged, announcing that we’d arrived on the second floor. ‘The wardrobe department,’ I said as we walked out into the corridor, which was a tight squeeze thanks to the clothes rails lining the walls.
‘What’s all this?’ He indicated to the line of at least five clothes rails crowding the way.
‘This?’ I waved a don’t-worry-yourself hand and picked up my pace to move on but he’d stopped and was flicking through the hangers.
‘Yes, this.’ Was there a touch of amusement in his eyes?
‘This,’ I flashed him a bright smile, ‘is probably on its way to our storage facility.’ The bright red plumage of feathers we’d brushed alongside were unmistakably from a recent production of The Firebird.
‘And what happens to it then? I’m assuming they don’t all sit here like the patients in A&E until a home can be found for them?’ He cocked his head to one side.
‘They’re amazing, aren’t they?’ I sought out the principal dancer’s costume and pulled the froth of feathers, net and sequins from the rack, pushing it towards him.
For a minute, I thought he might ignore it and all I could think was how strongly the brilliant red contrasted against the dark charcoal of his suit.
‘You ought to get a tie that colour, it would look great with that suit,’ I blurted out.
Yup, definitely amusement this time, I saw the quirk of his lips even as he ducked his head to hide it.
‘Wouldn’t it?’ I pushed the tutu towards him again.
He reached out to stroke one of a series of large red and black feathers standing tall and proud from the bodice. ‘This is …’ I waited as his face changed, ‘it’s amazing. And it was made just for one play?’ He bent over to study the tiny stitches on the many frilled layers in shades of orange, red and yellow of the tutu skirt. ‘Don’t tell me, this is all done by hand.’ He stepped back as if it might bite.
I shook my head, he had so much to learn. ‘Yup and not a computer in sight.’ I looked him straight in the eye. I deliberately omitted to mention that the wardrobe department also owned quite a few very hi-spec sewing machines, probably with computer chips in them, which did all sorts of clever things including over-locking, embroidery and button-holing.
Most people might have turned away but he took it head on and looked right back at me, and gave a considered nod. ‘Must be very time consuming.’
What was he thinking now?
‘Is it worth it?’ he asked, fingering the feathers again. ‘These look expensive. Can anyone really see them at the back of the auditorium?’
He had no idea but it was rather endearing to watch him as he evaluated everything so carefully.
I guess a lot of people would have thought that sourcing the feathers and dying them an exact shade of red was a lot of faff. I was used to it, and to be honest, had never had to justify it before now but I assessed the costume from a fresh perspective.
‘From a financial point, possibly not … but,’ the thought struck me, ‘we’re asking audiences to come to productions featuring the world’s greatest talent. If you’re an actor and you’re trying to immerse yourself in the character and you get a nasty cheap nylon costume to wear, it undermines the integrity of what you’re trying to do.’
Cynicism danced on his face, indicated by a subtly raised eyebrow.
‘And afterwards, what happens to … all this work?’ Keen to impress him, I went and let my enthusiasm get the better of me, letting my guard down.
‘Most of this goes into storage, although it can vary. Sometimes our productions go on tour, so the costumes are used again. Some are hired out to other companies.’
I could see him taking all the information in a moment too late.
‘I can almost hear the cogs turning and tumblers clicking into place,’ I heaved a resigned sigh. ‘And no, I’ve no idea how they keep track of everything.’
‘Would be interesting to know.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m sure it would.’ And then because he’d been rather accommodating listening to me ramble on, I added with a teasing grin, ‘They might need a system or two.’
; ‘I’m sure they do. And I’ll get to them after I’ve sorted you lot out.’
‘Maybe you should start with them,’ I said with cheeky perkiness as if the brilliant brainwave had literally only just struck me. ‘With all these costumes being picked up any day now.’
‘No.’ His implacable tone made me jump. ‘I think your need is just as great.’ He turned and pushed the feathered tutu back into place, making it clear I was on a hiding to nothing but I caught the quick twitch of his lips.
‘As you said earlier Tilly, this place has a reputation for the avant-garde and leading the way with innovation. It would be a shame for your department to miss out.’ The green eyes twinkled and the unexpected smile sent my pulse haywire as it broke out into a merry trot.
This man was dangerous. The absolute last thing I needed at the moment was wilful hormones leaping about with ill-disciplined intent, complicating things.
As we were making our way back to the lift we bumped into Alison Kreufeld and she was clearly delighted to see us together.
‘Ah, Tilly … and Marcus you’ve saved me a call. How’s the IT project going?’
‘Good,’ I said nodding my head, crossing my fingers in my pocket.
She beamed. ‘Excellent, I’m looking forward to an update at the end of the week. Marcus told me you’ve identified a potential project and how confident he is that you can handle the implementation for the make-up department.’
He had?
‘Yes, we’ve just been discussing how best to move forward, haven’t we Tilly?’ Thankfully he sounded suitably vague. ‘We’re meeting next week, Thursday isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said still nodding, praying she wouldn’t ask for any more information, keeping my foot pinned to the floor instead of delivering a sharp kick to Marcus’s shins.
‘I’m very pleased to hear it. I can’t wait to hear more details.’ Her smile was positively warm. ‘Great to see you taking this on board. Well done Tilly.’
She turned on her heel and walked off.
‘Thanks,’ I muttered to Marcus.
‘For what?’
‘Not dumping me in it.’
‘Does that mean you owe me? I’ll see you on Thursday. Eleven o’clock, suit?’ He flashed a wicked grin and I knew that payback would be coming big time.
Chapter 11
‘Missus, you’re home.’ Felix flashed me a sheepish smile, as he bounced into the kitchen like an enthusiastic Labrador, a smart bag with silky ribbon handles dangling from his hand.
‘I bought you a present and,’ he held up a hand as to halt any objection, ‘before you say anything. I’m really sorry. I messed up, big time.’ His face sobered and he came over to me, put a hand under my chin, staring intently at me. ‘I shouldn’t have listened to Jonno. I swear I’ll never do it again. I’m a pillock, I know. And you’re far too good for me.’
He said these last words with such a sad, sweet smile and my heart turned over with regret.
He took my face in his hands and looked down with such intensity, I wanted to cry. ‘Tilly, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t deserve you. I promise I won’t ever tell another soul about anything you tell me. Please, please darling Tilly, forgive me. I love you so much. You’re my bestest friend in the whole entire wide, wide world.’
My heart hitched.
He dangled the bag at me, his big brown eyes beseeching, worry and contrition written all over his face.
‘Open it.’ He pushed the bag into my hands. ‘You’ll love it.’
Peeling back a layer of tissue paper, I pulled out an exquisite hand-stitched bag made of rich purple velvet and lined with fuchsia-pink marbled silk. The fabric slithered through my fingers, soft and sensuous. It was utterly gorgeous – and so me. I stared up at Felix, and bit my lip. The extravagant gift immediately evoked the plaintive notes of the song from Chess, I Know Him So Well. I’d always thought it a particularly poignant line.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I whispered. I couldn’t resist stroking the rich material.
Felix didn’t just know me, he got me. Understood what made me tick. As soon as Granny had left me the money for the flat, when I was working at the ad agency, desperately unhappy, he’d told me he would sack me if I didn’t get off my arse and go and sign up for a theatrical make-up course. And when my parents had been disapproving, he had been there for me. It was just the two of us. He didn’t think I was flaky.
I had to share the blame in this, it was my own fault. Telling him things I shouldn’t have because it made me feel big and important. With a sense of shame, I realised I’d done that out of my own petty insecurity. To make me feel better, score a few points against my parents’ poor opinion of my achievements.
Did I owe him another chance? He’d made the mistake but I’d made the far bigger one in the first place.
I leaned up and pasting a smile on my face, kissed his stubbled cheek. He’d been my best friend for so long, I didn’t want to lose that. ‘Thank you, it’s absolutely gorgeous.’ I hitched the bag over my shoulder, the velvet whispering against my neck.
‘My pleasure, missus.’ He grinned, his teeth white against his olive skin. ‘Now what do you fancy for dinner? There’s bugger all in the fridge. Shall we go out?’
There was enough to rustle up an everyday sauce and dried pasta in the cupboard but I knew from experience, he didn’t fancy everyday.
Determined to keep the mood light, I quipped, ‘How about a trip to Sainsbury’s then?’
I pushed back the slight feeling of annoyance that he could move on quite so quickly, but then that was part of his charm. Nothing quelled his perpetual upbeat outlook.
‘Do we have to? Can’t we get a take-away?’
‘No. It’s only quarter past eight. This will be cheaper.’ Especially when I knew the bag of pure silk and velvet in its fancy boutique-branded tissue paper wrapping must have set him back at least £100. He would have been better paying a glazier to repair the window in the lounge or getting a plumber to stop the dripping tap in the sink.
‘We can be done and dusted in half an hour.’ I rubbed at the stubble on his face, feeling him pull away. ‘Cheer up, I’ll knock up that green Thai curry you love.’
He’d pulled right away now and for a moment I wanted to pull him back and see if I could feel the sense of closeness we’d once had but then he perked up immediately. ‘What, with jasmine rice and poppadum. And chutney. Oh and those spring rolly things?’
I laughed at him jumping up and down with gluttonous excitement and that joie de vivre that was Felix all over. ‘Yeees. Come on, let’s go before I change my mind.’
This was more like it. Back to normal. But a little voice in the back of my head insisted in asking if normal was necessarily right?
‘Give me five minutes, I need to make a work call.’
‘OK, but if it’s more than five, you can have baked beans on toast.’
While I was waiting for him, I pulled out my Kindle and burst out laughing. Clearly, my wayward digital kiss in my last email hadn’t done any damage.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Book Recommendations
The Anatomy of Liverpool – A History in Ten Matches by Jonathan Wilson
Red Machine – Liverpool FC in the 1980s by Simon Hughes
Ex-Reds Remembered by Steven Speed
Red or Dead by David Peace.
I couldn’t not respond to that!
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Re: Book Recommendations
Lol! If I wanted to read horror stories, I’d read Stephen King.
You are to comedy what Liverpool is to goal scoring. Pitiful result last night.
Tilly
‘Come on missus, stop reading. There’s food to buy.’ Felix bounced in, wrested my Kindle from me and bundled me out of the flat.
After Thai chicken curry with all the trimmings, I curled up on the
sofa leaving Felix, who was still in grovelling mode, doing the washing up.
‘Fancy going to the pub?’ he asked, appearing at the door with his mobile in hand. ‘The lads are down the Windmill.’
I should have known there was a plan hatching from the prurient gleam in his eyes during dinner when his phone kept chirruping.
‘Not really,’ I sighed. ‘I’m all warm and cosy. It’s freezing out there.’ The weather had turned this week and a vicious icy wind from Siberia had swept and swirled around the buildings of London, catching you unawares and robbing you of your breath as you turned a corner and left the leeward shelter of a building.
‘You don’t mind if I go?’
Funnily enough I didn’t. After a frenetic trip to Sainsbury’s I felt exhausted. Felix had entertained the check-out lady with a running commentary on our shopping starting with, ‘Have you tried these?’ as he held up a pack of new finger-shaped chocolate and oat biscuits. ‘Dunked in tea.’ He’d winked at her. ‘Lovely.’
‘Tastes like cardboard, you know,’ he followed up with a minute later, rattling a box of Shreddies and nodding his head towards me before wrinkling his nose and lowering his voice, leaning towards her. ‘But better for me apparently than Coco Pops, if you know what I mean.’ He raised his eyebrows Groucho Marx style.
By the time everything had been scanned, the cashier, squeezed into her nylon uniform laughing along with him, her chins wobbling in enjoyment, I’d ended up feeling like some kind of mean old kill-joy.
‘No, you go. I’ve got a good book on the go.’ I raised a smile. ‘I’m knackered.’
‘Lightweight.’
‘I must be growing up.’
‘Never,’ declared Felix, shaking his head vigorously, a few strands of hair coming loose from the trendy quiff which he quickly slicked back in a familiar gesture, which gave me a slight pang. Maybe I wasn’t making enough effort.