Unlikely, she knew, really extremely unlikely, almost an impossibility: but in his perfectionist self-obsession already almost a reality. ‘There is no paranoia like the actor’s,’ he had told her, when she was just beginning to get to know him. ‘We all await failure, court it almost, even in the midst of some wild success, it’s a kind of superstition. And of course there is no one more superstitious than an actor either.’
She had learnt about most of those superstitions, since then, as she had learnt so many other things in her crash course in Being a Famous Actor’s Wife: never say the word Macbeth, merely the Scottish Play, never have fresh flowers on the stage, never say good luck, always wear the same shoes to arrive at and leave the theatre; she could have written a book or at least a chapter in a book on the subject.
Chloe looked surreptitiously at her watch: still only ten past seven. She seemed to have been standing here for hours, the ache in her back developing nicely. The Princess Theatre was already surely packed to capacity, and there would be at least twenty more minutes before they would go to their seats, thirty before the curtain finally rose; waves of people were pouring through the door, smiling, waving, kissing, cooing at one another and at them, growing ever larger, more engulfing. She was beginning to think if she heard one more voice saying, ‘Piers darling,’ in rapturous tones and then, ‘Chloe!’ in rather more subdued ones, she would raise her own in a piercing scream, when a heavy arm went round her shoulders, a real kiss reached her cheek, and a wonderfully welcome, slightly husky voice said in her ear, ‘Hallo, honeybunch, you look much too grand to be any relation of mine.’
‘Joe!’ said Chloe. ‘Oh Joe, I’m so glad to see you. Stand right here and hold my hand, and make me feel I do matter just a tiny bit.’
‘Right,’ said Joe, positioning himself carefully, elbowing gently but extremely firmly a large billowing blonde, who was struggling to reach across Chloe to kiss Piers, and taking her hand in his. ‘Good turn-out, poppet. Piers must be happy.’
‘Of course he’s not happy,’ said Chloe. ‘He wants to die. He’s been telling me all day. The Lady will flop, the critics will slaughter him, the investors will lose all their money, and the workhouse awaits us.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Joe, ‘of course. Talking of investors, is the terrible Maria here yet?’
‘Of course. She’s over there, look, just dying to get into the theatre and her place next to Piers in the front row. Now you’re sitting next to me, and don’t let Mummy change things, will you? Where is she anyway?’
‘Coming on separately,’ said Joe. ‘She’s been to have her hair done or something like that.’
‘Goodness, I’m honoured. You look as if you’ve been doing something to yours as well, Joe. It’s very tidy. Although a tiny bit lopsided maybe.’
‘Well, I went and got it cut for you,’ said Joe, ‘and I would have had one of those fancy blow jobs on it even, but a call came through from the Observer that could I have a few words with Tabitha about life as the Lady, and I really thought that was more important. They actually didn’t quite finish cutting it, which is why it’s a bit long on the left.’
‘Well, it looks wonderful,’ said Chloe, smiling at him tenderly, before leaning forward to receive a fulsome embrace from yet another over-perfumed fan of Piers. He made her feel so much better, just by being there, smiling at her tenderly, his green eyes watchful for her in his angular face, his shabby dinner jacket, clearly hastily pressed for the occasion, with a double crease in one of the trouser legs, and she thought that whatever passion, whatever adoration she might feel for Piers, it came nowhere near what she felt for Joe in warmth, comfort, reassurance.
‘Chloe, darling!’ Piers’s voice was tetchy, taut, beneath the words. ‘Look, here is Damian, and Liza too.’
What he meant, she knew, was ‘Stop talking and smiling at Joe, concentrate on me and my people.’ She shifted slightly in an attempt to ease her backache, forced a smile at Liza Montague, received her kiss and gently embraced Damian, and kissed him back.
‘You look beautiful, Chloe,’ he said now, ‘simply beautiful. How is the great man?’
‘Very unhappy,’ said Chloe, smiling at him. ‘Knows it’s going to be a complete disaster, probably best to call the whole thing to a halt now, before the curtain ever goes up.’
‘Of course,’ said Damian and squeezed her hand. ‘Oh God, there’s Maria, I’d better go and kiss her feet.’
Maria Woolf came bearing through the crowd towards them, tall and stately, her ledge-like bosom encased in black satin, her legs (still slender beneath her considerable frame) revealed through a long skirt slashed to the thigh.
‘Damian, my darling boy. How wonderful you look. Isn’t this exciting? How proud I am of you all. Piers, shouldn’t we be going in soon? The theatre is filling up.’
‘Not just yet, Maria, dear,’ said Piers, and Chloe, who heard it so often, recognized the edge in his voice as Maria did not. ‘Why don’t you go on in? Is Jack here yet?’
‘Oh yes, somewhere about over there,’ said Maria Woolf carelessly. ‘He’s so useless at these things, never can remember names or anything. No, I wouldn’t dream of going in without you. Chloe, dear, you look a little warm, why don’t you ask Mr Payton to get rid of that stole?’
What she means, thought Chloe, is that my face is red, that my fur looks silly, and that she wants to get Joe out of this line-up. Maria didn’t like Joe, he didn’t treat her with the deference she thought she deserved, and had once written some rather harsh words about her in a piece about patronage of the arts; she certainly wouldn’t like to see him standing there, unmistakably family, on what she saw as her night as much as Piers’s.
‘Hallo, Chloe.’ It was her mother, coolly elegant in black, her dark red hair swept up on top of her head, a slightly distant smile on her face. ‘Joe, whatever time did you leave the flat? I’ve been ringing you for hours.’
‘Hours ago obviously then,’ said Joe easily. ‘You look very nice, Caroline. Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, no thank you. Chloe, how are you feeling?’
‘OK,’ said Chloe. ‘Fine. Considering.’
Caroline nodded. ‘Good,’ was all she said,
No words of comfort, thought Chloe, no compliments, no reassurance, not even a kiss. She often wondered if her mother was warmer, kinder to Joe; she presumed she must be although she had never seen it. She smiled at her rather weakly, and then saw Magnus Phillips, looking more like a boxing promoter than a first-nighter, in his dinner jacket, coming towards them, a blonde of incredible fluffiness on his arm, her hair piled on the top of her head like a bouffant soufflé, dressed in a black lace dress of awe-inspiring shortness.
‘Hardly worth putting that dress on,’ whispered Joe in Chloe’s ear, ‘there’s so little of it between the neckline and the hem.’
Chloe managed a rather weak smile.
‘How very beautiful you look, Mrs Windsor! Even more so than on your wedding day.’
‘Thank you, Mr Phillips. A little larger, I fear.’
‘Well, only in the one extremely well-contained place. Otherwise, exquisitely the same. And Lady Hunterton, how nice.’
Caroline nodded coolly; Magnus kissed her hand, Chloe’s cheek and moved on to Piers.
‘Good evening, Piers. Congratulations.’
‘Save them for later,’ said Piers, slightly irritable.
‘OK. And I mustn’t say good luck, must I? Break a leg, old chap. We must get together soon, discuss this book idea. This is Sally-Ann, Piers. Sally-Ann has theatrical pretensions as well. Come along, my dear,’ he said to Sally-Ann. ‘Let us go and find our seats.’
‘Round to Mr Phillips,’ said Joe, grinning appreciatively at the back of Magnus’s head.
‘Well,’ said Piers finally, just as she thought her back would snap with pain and strain, ‘well
, perhaps we should move in now. Good evening, Caroline, how wonderful you look. And Joe, how nice.’ He turned, proffered his other arm to Maria; she took it, somehow managed to draw him forward, away from Chloe, who was left trailing after them, slightly uncertain.
She looked round wildly; she had lost Joe, who was talking to Caroline, had indeed lost everyone; Damian had gone with Liza, and here she was, looking huge, hideous, flushed, abandoned; as she tried to pull herself together, to smile, to look confident as she walked alone into the stalls, she felt it: deep within her body, buried almost, but unmistakable, a taut, hard tug that was half pain, half pressure, and she knew exactly, even though she had never felt it before, what it was. She was going into labour, two weeks early, in the front row of the stalls, at the most publicized first night of a decade, in the presence of dozens of photographers and journalists, and on the most important night of her husband’s life.
Chloe stood quite still, trying to be calm. The pain, if indeed it could be dignified with such a word, was already receding; on the other hand, there was absolutely no doubt, no doubt at all that it would return. What should she do? Piers was already gone, lost to her; Joe and Caroline had disappeared into the throng of people; she could hardly ask Damian or even Liza Montague to help her.
For want of anything else to do, she decided to go to the Ladies. In any case she already needed to pee, quite badly, in spite of having carefully drunk nothing all afternoon, and having spent most of the half hour before leaving the house sitting on the loo. Piers had been very emphatic that she was not to spend the whole night rushing into the lavatory: ‘I know it’s a problem of your condition, darling, but I also think it’s partly nerves. And it really isn’t very – well, very attractive.’
‘I’ll give you attractive,’ said Chloe to herself as she hauled her dress, with immense difficulty in the space of the tiny theatre loo, up over her vast stomach and eased herself down on to the seat. Sitting there, feeling her heart thumping painfully, she took deep breaths, and tried to remember everything her natural childbirth teacher had said. For a start, of course, first babies took for ever to arrive. At the very least twelve hours, and probably longer. So the baby was actually extremely unlikely to make its entry into the world in the stalls of the Princess Theatre. The clue to how things were progressing, how serious they were, she also had been told endlessly, was the regularity of the contractions and the intervals between them. If she watched that carefully, she would have a very good idea exactly what was happening to her. Chloe shivered slightly as she stood up, eased her way out of the cubicle; she was more than a little frightened of what lay ahead of her: although less frightened of that than of how Piers was going to react when she told him what was happening. Well, that was too bad. This was one thing she really couldn’t help.
As she looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing her hair, stroking her own forehead without quite realizing why, she heard the final bell go. God, he would be going completely insane. She picked up her skirts and fled, through the now deserted foyer, into the darkening auditorium, down the central aisle. She sank, gratefully, breathlessly, into her seat in the front row, just as David Montague came in, took his place on the podium, to tumultuous applause; Piers’s face, tense and white in the darkness, looked at her with a rage so violent she felt sick. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, and he looked away. Next to her Joe put out a hand, took hers.
‘You OK?’
She nodded; as she did so, the tug came again. Just slightly stronger, longer, just slightly nearer pain. She looked at her watch: exactly 7.40, exactly ten minutes after the last one. Fear gripped her, alongside the pain; what was she to do? She took a deep breath, consciously trying to relax: she sensed Piers’s hostility, even at that slight sound.
And then the curtain went up, and the haunting overture died away, and she momentarily forgot everything except what was before her eyes.
She had seen sketches of the set, models even, had heard it discussed endlessly, of course: as she had seen drawings of the costumes, had read the words, heard the music played on the piano at home, had heard Tabitha and Julius Hovatch, who played the Knight, singing with Piers and David as they rehearsed, also at home, in the early days, but none of it had prepared her for the finished reality. Piers had never allowed her near any rehearsals, and so it was for her almost as fresh, as enchanting as it was for the rest of the audience. The set was ravishing: ‘four grey walls and four grey towers’ at the left of the stage, and against it great urns of lilies and rose trees; two vast trees, real willows, trailed into the orchestra pit, which was itself transformed into a river, painted as closely after Millais as was possible; to the rear of the stage, hazily set behind gauze, fields of barley and of rye met a blue sky; in a window high in the tower was the figure, the strange enchanted figure of the Lady of Shalott, weaving her web, and as the music swelled again echoing the crescendo of the overture, the tower turned slowly and the Lady was there, on a great platform within it, sitting in her enchanted prison, weaving her web with the great mirror before her, reflecting the scene she was forbidden ever to directly see. Then the music changed, became sweeter, softer, and Tabitha Levine, moving with a deathly, enchanted slowness, sat there, her lovely gaze fixed on her mirror, and sang the first song, ‘Sick of Shadows’.
It was an enchantment: and as the song ended and Tabitha took the first of her many tumultuous ovations, Chloe looked at Piers and saw that he had tears standing in his eyes, and she was, in spite of everything, moved by the fact.
Lydia Wintour, who had designed the set and the costumes, had done a magical job: the dazzling colours of the troupe of damsels, the crimson-clad page, the funeral with its plumes and lights, flickered against the greyness of the mirror and were gone; and as the moon rose and the two young lovers, lately wed, appeared, the audience again caught its throat audibly and sighed with pleasure and a ripple of applause ran through the theatre, very quietly, as if not to disturb the enchantment.
It was as well it did: for it was then that Chloe felt again, and more fiercely, another wrenching pain, and despite herself caught her breath and thrust her fist into her mouth, lest some sound of distress might escape her. The time on her gold Cartier watch, a wedding present from Piers, was precisely eight o’clock; and she was beginning to realize that she was going to have to act.
She glanced at Piers, sitting there in total concentration, his face looking as if it was carved from stone; she knew she could not possibly disturb him with what would seem to him the most gross intrusion. She turned to her other side, and thanked God for him, for Joe, as she put out her hand, touched his and whispered, shakily, fiercely into his ear, ‘Joe, I think I’m having the baby.’
Joe turned to look at her; she saw in his face, alongside concern and love and a degree of panic of his own, a sense of acute amusement that such a thing should be happening to her.
‘Can you hang on till the interval?’ he whispered in Chloe’s ear. ‘I’ll get you out then,’ and she turned to him and smiled briefly, rather wanly, and nodded and he took her hand in his and held it very tightly.
She forced her attention back to the stage, concentrating, almost meditating on the ebb and flow of the music, forcing calm within herself. Suddenly, almost immediately it seemed, timed perfectly to coincide with the shock of the Knight’s bow-shot, brilliantly executed by a sliver of white light and an echoing scream of the strings, the pain came yet again, fierce, forcing, and despite herself a slight but audible whimper escaped her. Joe turned away from the stage, away from the Lady, away from Sir Lancelot as he rode through the yellow field in her mirror, and as Sir Lancelot began to sing ‘Riding down to Camelot’ and the orchestra was huge and loud he said, ‘Now?’ and she nodded, biting her lip, and then she saw again, watched Piers’s face flashing at her, at both of them, a look of pure hatred as he said, ‘Be quiet. Please be quiet.’
And then, mercifully, it was the interval a
nd she stood up, smiling bravely, released again from pain, and made her excuses, pushing through the crowds as they fought to get near Piers, and Joe followed her, ignoring Caroline’s puzzled face, and he put his arm round Chloe as they reached the foyer, and she said, ‘Go and get a taxi, Joe, I have to write a note to Piers.’
She handed it to one of the ushers and then made her way towards the door. Joe was waiting for her, standing by a cab; he helped her in, took her hand, held it tenderly.
‘The London Clinic,’ he said to the driver, ‘and hurry.’
‘Blimey,’ said the driver, ‘my chance of being famous. I think I’d rather not.’
The cab leapt forward as he put his foot down.
Another pain came, gripped Chloe, fierce, hard, longer; she clung to Joe’s hand, fearful, seeking comfort.
‘All right?’
‘Not really,’ she said and tried to smile.
‘You’ll be all right when you get to the hospital,’ he said. ‘I’ve already rung them. They thought I must be Piers of course.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘of course. They would.’
And even in the midst of her fear and pain, she could hear the bleakness in her own voice.
Joe helped Chloe into the clinic (bent double now, white-faced, gasping), called out for help and finally, released from responsibility but not from pity, from fear, from love, watched her being wheeled away, her eyes large with pain and apprehension, the absurd necklace pulled off, held in her hand, the elaborate hairdo crumpled and tousled into nothingness, a nurse now holding her hands, talking to her calmly, and he thought that if Piers Windsor was to appear now he would surely kill him.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 42