Dear Villain

by Jacqueline Gilbert

  Boxing, Day was terrifying. Liz surfaced at ten-thirty to hear one of her friends from upstairs knocking on the door.

  'Telephone, Liz.'

  Hoping Judy hadn't been disturbed, Liz hurried to the telephone, throwing her dressing-gown round her shoulders.

  'Elizabeth, can you be ready at eleven? I've managed to get hold of someone and I'll pick you up in ten minutes.' Adam's voice sounded briskly efficient on the other end.

  'I'll be ready,' said Liz, now completely awake. She made it in twelve minutes, grabbing an apple on the way out.

  'I wish I'd chosen to be a typist or a telephonist… anything but an unwilling good fairy,' she grumbled to Adam after an hour and a half rehearsal with the pianist and choreographer. 'Where are we going now? You're always taking me on mystery tours,' she complained.

  'We're going to the Harvey residence. They're providing us with lunch and then… we're going over it all again,' was the uncompromising reply.

  Liz subsided into silence and closed her eyes.

  At five-thirty she was being pulled and pushed into a white, limp ballet dress.

  'There! I think that one will do,' said Val with satisfaction, turning Liz to the mirror. 'Now all we need is the tiara placed slightly to one side… so, and the wand, now where? Ah, here it is. I'll just bend the star a little. Now, what do you think?'

  Liz stared in resignation at her reflection, ignoring Val's paroxysms of laughter.

  'I wonder why I never get cast as an alluring glamour-girl?' she asked sadly.

  'Because, my dear Elizabeth,' a cool voice answered her, 'glamour is only on the surface and comes out of a bottle and a wardrobe. Val, you've done a grand job. That's just what I want. Come along, Elizabeth. The pianist is waiting—there's time to go through your song and dance again.'

  Liz pulled a face at Val and shrugging, followed Adam, trailing her bent wand.

  'How's Moira?' she asked hopefully, glaring at his back.

  'Still ill and not available,' was the hard-hearted reply.

  The next half-hour Adam worked Liz into the ground. As she told Judy later, 'I very nearly threw the wretched tiara at him. I was getting more and more into a panic as the time for curtain crept nearer and that's when he gave me his pep talk. My God, if that man ever ends up with a knife in his back I'll know the reason why!'

  It was Saturday morning. Judy had come off duty and waited for Liz to wake so that she could hear how the pantomime had gone, before going to bed and catching up on her own sleep.

  'And what did he say?' she asked with a grin.

  'You might know that it wasn't anything soothing or sympathetic! "Elizabeth," he says, looking down his nose, "let us keep things in proportion. You've been following the script for four weeks now, so you know it inside out, or should do. The fairy isn't a very large part. All that's been altered is the song, which you know, and the characterisation, which you've got. The show isn't going to win or lose on your performance, so stop panicking." Yes, I can laugh with you now, but last night…!' Liz got up and walked restlessly round the room. 'Last night I thought, damn the man! Here am I, doing him a favour and he's almost throwing it back in my face, I was so furious!' She grinned reluctantly. 'Which was just what he wanted me to be.'

  'And it worked,' stated Judy.

  'And it worked,' agreed Liz. 'I went on to that stage thinking, I'll show him, and I did.' She threw herself full length on to the sofa. 'I quite enjoyed myself after the first five minutes, when I knew it was going to work.' She sat up suddenly. 'Oh, by the way, Carlyon gave me this.' She went over to her handbag and rummaged around until she found what she was looking for. 'He thought at first that it was mine, that I'd dropped it when he brought me back from Stretton. When I said it wasn't we decided it must be yours. That you must have dropped it in the Morgan when he gave you the lift to the hospital yesterday while I was collecting my gear.' Liz held out the small red box and Judy took it, her face flaring with colour and then, as quickly, paling. 'Did you think you'd lost it? Poor old Judy,' commiserated Liz.

  'No, I didn't know I'd lost it,' said Judy at last. 'I was in a rush and slipped it in my pocket… Did you look inside?'

  'Well,' hesitated Liz, 'Adam flicked the lid open when he asked me if it was mine,' she said apologetically, 'and of course I saw it.'

  Judy pressed the catch and Liz saw once again the sparkling solitaire diamond ring, lying snugly in its bed of red velvet. 'It's beautiful,' she said softly.

  'Yes, isn't it?' Judy closed the lid with a decisive snap and looked at Liz with a clear gaze. 'I… I haven't made up my mind yet, aren't I a fool? But he insisted I took it. I… wouldn't like him to know I'd lost it.'

  'I won't say anything to anyone and Adam certainly won't,' Liz said quickly. 'Until you tell me officially, I know nothing about it.'

  Judy nodded and with a small smile, wandered slowly into her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Poor old Judy, thought Liz, and clever Simon, to choose such a perfect ring. He must have given it to her yesterday. No wonder he was so down in the dumps when he came back. I hope, Liz admitted to herself, that she does decide to marry him. It would be fun to have Judy in the family.

  Humpty-Dumpty got good reviews, which Liz duly sent on to Max as promised. After six performances, Moira came back and Liz stepped out of her tutu for the last time.

  'I can't really say I'm sorry,' she admitted to Val, who was repacking it away in the storage cupboard. 'I've enjoyed doing it, but I'm happier in the wings.'

  'I don't think Moira is as good as you are,' said Val.

  'Oh, she is, Val! Really she is. You can't compare us. A funny fairy is all right in revue, but only as a last resort in panto, which, let's face it, I was! Kids really want the trad one.'

  'Okay, I believe you,' said a laughing Val. 'Does Carlyon know she's back?'

  'I don't think so. He's in London.'

  'Probably sorting out his next job,' Val said knowingly. 'He leaves at the end of January, doesn't he?'

  'Yes,' said Liz.

  'And Martin and Louise. It won't be the same without the old faces.'

  'No,' agreed Liz.

  The New Year came and went quietly. The second week in January saw the whole of the country gripped in a completely snowbound existence, discomforts and perils soon being taken for granted. It was a winter that would be remembered—like the ones of '47 and '63. The snow on the ground was packed hard, making walking and driving hazardous, and the only happy ones were the children.

  Liz was in the library one Wednesday between the matinee and evening performance, working on the poetry reading programme she was compiling, when the door opened. Liz looked up and sighed.

  'Have you seen Mr Sutton, miss?'

  Monty was an O.A.P. who worked as a part-time doorkeeper and he was an inveterate gossip. She knew she would not get rid of him easily.

  'He's probably in the canteen, Monty,' Liz replied, looking down at her book, hoping he would take the hint. He didn't, and she had to sit and listen to his grumblings and complaints and hear all about his latest ailments, but before these could get really gruesome, there was a shout from the corridor. After he had ignored the first call, Liz said pointedly:

  'You're wanted, Monty.'

  He shuffled closer. 'Suppose I'd better go. Here's Mr Sutton's paper. As he don't seem to be about, I'll leave it here for you to give him. Can't .do much walking or climbing, me feet is something horrible,' and still muttering, he went out of the room.

  Liz waited a few seconds. Monty had the habit of returning, like the Cheshire Cat, but not so cheerful. When the door remained closed, she relaxed and got back to work. After a while she decided to call it a day and closed her books, clipping together the notes. Polly would, she considered, have time to do them tomorrow and get them approved by either John or Adam before sending them on to the printers. Adam. Her hands became still. Adam, who was in London.

  This is what it will be like when he has gone for good, she
mused.

  Adam… a mixture of a person… an enigma.

  Resting her chin on hands, Liz day-dreamed, eyes fixed and unseeing. A door banged somewhere near and she came to, with a start. Her glance fell on Martin's paper, folded in front of her. Liz knew Monty had not looked very far for Martin, but as the paper was here, she might as well read it. Her hands smoothed the folds as she casually scanned the front page.

  More fighting had broken out in Vietnam… a man had won the Cook of the Year Competition… Adam Carlyon, well-known stage director…

  Her eyes were caught and held. Horrified, not wanting to read on but compelled to do so, she read: "Queens-bridge Civic's Director in Fatal Multiple Crash on Ml." Below was the photograph of a white sports car, crushed beneath the tailboard of a lorry. The lettering and picture became a blur as waves of heat swept over her.

  The room began to sway and although she had never fainted before in her life, Liz knew, with certainty and without surprise, that she was now about to do so.

  CHAPTER 8

  Can you not feel my heart is your heart?

  Ernest Hemingway: For Whom the Bell Tolls

  The brandy made Liz choke, but it brought with it a welcoming warmth. Martin frowned.

  'Will you be all right while I go and telephone? I'll bring Polly if you want someone with you.'

  Liz shook her head and smiled wanly. 'I feel much better, honestly, Martin, and I'd sooner no one else knew…' She flicked her hair back nervously. 'I'm sorry to be such an idiot, but when I saw the photograph…' Her voice faded.

  'It does look pretty grim,' agreed Martin. 'I suppose, looking at it, one would assume it was Carlyon who had been killed.'

  'If I'd. read on I would have found out, wouldn't I?' She gave another watery smile. 'I… I've been told before that I tend… to jump to conclusions.'

  'Seeing that it was the Morgan that ended up under the lorry I think you may be forgiven.' Martin picked up the paper. 'It seems that the lorry driver overtook and skidded on the ice, crashing through the central reservation. Eight cars were involved in the pile-up, causing one man's death, and the motorway was blocked for over two hours. It's a miracle Carlyon and his passenger… anyway,' he said quickly, seeing Liz's stricken face, 'we do know that Carlyon's alive, and if you're sure you feel well enough to be left, I'D go and make some enquiries.'

  'Poor Martin! What a shock to come in for a quiet read of your paper and find me in a state of collapse! I truly do feel much better and I would be grateful if you could find out… how he is.'

  He looked thoughtfully at her for a moment, went to say something, but merely nodded and walked purposefully out of the library. Liz glanced at her watch. Only six o'clock. The last few minutes seemed like hours. As if mesmerised, her eyes were drawn to the words below the photograph. 'Mr Adam Carlyon, well-known stage director, was returning from London with Mr George Melling, novelist and television personality, when the crash occurred. They were both taken to Northampton hospital, but the extent of their injuries is not yet known.'

  It had been a mistake to read it. Liz took a deep breath and followed it with a sip of brandy. Martin came in, beaming all over his face.

  'Cracked ribs, Lizzie darling, cuts and bruises. The other chap's got a broken wrist and slight concussion, neither seriously injured.'

  Right on cue, Liz burst into tears and had a good howl on Martin's broad shoulder. When it was over, as is usual in these circumstances, Martin provided her with his large white handkerchief, and after a mopping-up session, she managed a more confident smile.

  'So now we know.'

  He looked gravely at her. 'Now you know, now I know… but does Carlyon know?' Liz shook her head, not meeting his eyes. 'What are you going to do about it?' he asked gently.

  'Oh, Martin!' said Liz wearily. 'What can I do? It's not the first time a stupid female has fallen for him and it won't be the last.'

  'I shouldn't imagine they all faint away when they suspect he's been killed,' he commented dryly.

  'I don't suppose the opportunity occurs very often, thank goodness,' then eyeing him with suspicion, she added warningly: 'Don't you dare tell him!' relaxing when he assured her that he wouldn't. Liz got up unsteadily. 'I'll learn to live with it, and anyway, he won't be here for much longer.'

  'What are you going to do now? There's not much time before curtain, but enough for me to drive you home.'

  Liz gazed at him with affection. 'You're a dear, Martin, but I'm not going home. I'm going to carry on as usual. Nothing's changed except now I know for certain how I feel.'

  'You've hidden it very well, Lizzie, for someone usually so transparent.'

  Her eyes widened. 'You don't think that Adam…?'

  'Carlyon's trained himself to wear blinkers where women are concerned. As for his feelings—well, you should know better than I. Are you sure he's indifferent to you?'

  'Oh, he's not indifferent, you can't be that to someone who constantly annoys you!' she said wryly, but there were times, she thought possessively, oh, yes, there were times that I'll treasure for ever.

  'Why won't you tell him you love him?' persisted Martin.

  'You are absurd, what could the poor man say?'

  'He could say "And I love you too, Liz ".'

  'Elizabeth, he always calls me Elizabeth,' said Liz softly. 'Anyway, he's in love with someone else, so you see…' She squeezed his arm fondly. 'Thank you for listening to all my woes, Martin dear. That's been a therapy in itself. But now forget them. I feel fine, at least I will do. Give me a good night's sleep and I'll be a new woman.' She moved to the door.

  'Don't be that, Liz, I like this one,' joked Martin, trying to make her laugh.

  She smiled obediently, then asked diffidently: 'Do I look as though I've been crying my eyes out?'

  'You're rather pale, but you'll do, you can always say you've got a cold. Perhaps it is a good idea to work, it'll keep you occupied. I'll run you home afterwards.'

  Liz wasn't the only pale-faced member of the company that night.

  'What a terrible accident, Lizzie,' Louise whispered as she waited for her cue to go on. 'I still can't believe it's happened. I can only be thankful that their injuries aren't more serious. We'll know more tomorrow, of course,' and then, smiling brightly, Louise made her entrance, the suave, dashing, principal boy, who hadn't a care in the world.

  As planned, Martin drove Liz home. As they pulled up outside The Laurels, she said:

  'That's strange. The light isn't on. Surely Judy hasn't gone to bed so early?'

  'I'll come in with you, just to make sure everything is as it should be.'

  There was a letter on the table.

  'It's from Judy,' announced Liz unnecessarily. 'She's gone to her father's. She says it's her long weekend and she suddenly decided to have a few days away.'

  'That's odd, isn't it?' Martin asked.

  'Not really. She didn't manage to see them over Christmas and she's very fond of her stepbrother and sister,' commented Liz, not telling him about the rest of the letter, the 'I want to sort things out' part.

  'Will you be…?'

  '… perfectly all right, Martin. Thank you for being such a prop. To be truthful, all I want to do is fall into bed and sleep.'

  'I'll be off, then. Take care, Liz. Are you in tomorrow?'

  'Not until curtain, thank goodness.'

  'I'll see you at the theatre, then. Goodnight.' He patted her shoulder comfortingly and Liz smiled, reaching up and giving him a quick kiss.

  'Goodnight, Martin.'

  Sleep, as Liz might have suspected, did not come easily. Even knowing Adam was safe didn't stop her imagining the worst. She thumped the pillow angrily and concentrated on relaxing her tense body and emptying her mind, filling it with something pleasant to dream about. She relived the few secretly guarded memories of Adam, allowing her imagination to run riot with full permission, and at last fell asleep.

  There wasn't much left of Thursday morning when she awoke. She rang Polly a
nd was told they had kept Adam and his friend in hospital overnight and John had gone to fetch them back to Queensbridge. Liz confirmed that She would be in later and rang off.

  She had a light lunch and decided to go for a walk, hoping that the clear, cold air would blow all her problems into place. She crunched her way through the snow on the park and ended up in the Museum, more for warmth's sake than anything else. Sitting on one of the seats provided, Liz pretended to study the enormous picture opposite called "Man in Conflict", but in fact was trying to sort out her own. As Martin had said—was it only last night?—now she knew. Acknowledged what she had known deep down for weeks but would not dare to admit to. She loved Adam Carlyon. Lingering longingly over the words, Liz wondered how she could have been so stupid. She had fought against his physical attraction, but in doing so had alienated herself from the man. Over the past few weeks, however, she had been allowed glimpses of the real Adam Carlyon, and this was the man she loved. She knew nothing else with certainty, only that. She got to her feet decisively. She had to contact him at once, just to talk, to ask him how he was, to hear his voice.

  Briskly Liz made her way back to the flat. Somewhere she had Adam's telephone number and feverishly searching her bag she found it and dialled the number with trembling fingers. There was no reply. Lying on the rug before the fire, books scattered around her, Liz tried to occupy herself with work, but found concentration difficult. Browsing through her Elizabeth Barrett Browning, she found a half-remembered poem that had appealed in the past and which suited her present mood. She scanned the lines, memory returning, and with eyes closed, she savoured the words.

  'Unless you can muse in a crowd all day On the absent face that fixed you;

  Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;

  Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving;

  Unless you can die when the dream is past— Oh, never call it loving!'