Stardust

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Hello?’ said a voice before Pippa could ask who it was. ‘Is that you? I thought I must have dialled the wrong number.’

  ‘Hello.’

  It had been Jerome, she knew it had. Pippa just wished she didn’t, feel quite so giddy whenever she heard his voice.

  ‘Look,’ the beautiful voice said. ‘I hope you weren’t asleep – except it’s much too early for sleep. It’s just that I couldn’t get to a phone before.’

  ‘Before when?’ Pippa asked, managing to get the lightness back into her voice. ‘Before this evening? Or before this week?’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry. Mea culpa,’ he groaned. ‘But please try and understand. If I haven’t rung you, it’s not because I haven’t thought of you every moment of the day, because I have. I couldn’t ring you before because we had a dis-as-ter.’

  ‘What sort of disaster?’

  ‘Ohhhh . . .’ a long, deep moan came back down the line. ‘Elizabeth lost it. But completely.’

  ‘You’re talking in code,’ Pippa said. ‘Translate.’

  ‘She lost her performance,’ Jerome explained. ‘It was as if suddenly she had forgotten how to act. It was a disaster! I had nothing to play against, nothing! So I started to overact to compensate. It’s been misery.’

  ‘Poor you,’ Pippa laughed. ‘How rotten.’

  ‘I’d have cut my throat,’ Jerome said darkly, ‘if I hadn’t had the thought of you.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all too true,’ he replied. ‘It was only the thought of you, and of seeing you again, believe me – that carried me through.’

  ‘You make it sound like war,’ Pippa chided.

  ‘Oh, the theatre’s a lot worse than war, Pippa Nicholls,’ Jerome laughed. ‘In war at least you know who’s on your side.’

  Pippa fell silent. She was sitting on the woodblock floor now, with Bobby beside her. She got hold of one of his silky ears and twisted it gently in her hand.

  ‘So when am I going to see you again?’ Jerome demanded, breaking the silence.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pippa told him, in all honesty. ‘Aren’t you going off on tour next week?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Oxford first stop. Pippa—’ Jerome paused, and then continued quickly. ‘Why don’t you come up? Come up to Oxford and see the play.’

  ‘How can I?’ she asked. ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘You must. You have to. I have to see you. I have to tell you how I feel.’

  Lights from a car pulling into the drive alerted Pippa and she quickly got to her feet.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You must come up to Oxford, Pippa,’ Jerome urged. ‘Please. I must see you.’

  Pippa looked round behind her as she saw the lights of the car sweep round outside the front door.

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Can’t it wait till you’re back in London?’

  ‘No, it cannot wait!’

  Jerome sounded almost peremptory.

  ‘Why not?’ Pippa asked, as Bobby began to bark.

  ‘Because I love you.’

  ‘I really do have to go, Jerome,’ Pippa told him, without having time to tell him why. ‘Goodbye.’

  Just in time, Pippa banged the telephone down and ran back upstairs, leaving Bobby downstairs to bark even more excitedly as Mrs Nicholls opened the front door of her house.

  Once in bed, Pippa put her light out, and lay in the darkness with her heart pounding in her chest. She would love to go to Oxford and see Jerome open in the play, but she knew it was out of the question, because her mother quite simply would never allow it, not even if she arranged for someone to look after her. She disapproved most strongly of Jerome, and told Pippa daily that she wanted her to have nothing to do with him.

  ‘There is only one thing actors ever take seriously,’ she had told Pippa several times over, ‘and that is themselves.’

  ‘Your mother tells me you’re walking out with an actor,’ Pippa’s Aunt Bea said as they walked out on the Downs. ‘Impossibly good-looking, I’ll bet.’

  Her aunt had arrived from London that Friday afternoon, unexpected and unannounced but as welcome as always. Everyone who knew her loved her, Aunt Bea was very dear, and always had been. Pippa was always particularly pleased to see her, because as her late father’s sister, she could more or less always be relied on to be in Pippa’s corner, even down to providing the necessary so that Pippa could keep her beloved Welsh cob, Bumble, in livery just down the road. Although a very pretty blonde, Bea had never married, because as she said she had never wanted to do so, agreeing with the dictum which asserted that marriage was not a word but a sentence.

  ‘I’m not a crank,’ she would explain when pressed. ‘I’m just too afraid of loneliness to get married!’

  At which bon mot she would laugh deliciously and infectiously, before proceeding to draft one of her notorious fun plans, as she always referred to her schemes. Aunt Bea dearly loved a scheme, and schemed constantly.

  Her latest scheme was centred around how to fix up Pippa’s trip to Oxford.

  ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t go,’ she said to Pippa as they walked. ‘You’re a big girl now, and you’ve never been a silly one. As long as you remember the sort of people actors are. And don’t go getting yourself over-involved.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start, Bea!’ Pippa laughed. ‘I have it all day from my mother!’

  ‘That’s one thing your mother’s right about,’ her aunt replied. ‘You want to watch actors. They’re inclined to take the wrong things seriously, and they’re forever away on tour.’

  ‘I just think perhaps actors have a totally different defence mechanism,’ Pippa said, quite surprising her aunt. ‘I think that’s why so many people don’t really understand them.’

  ‘I see,’ Aunt Bea nodded and smiled. ‘They are inclined though, are they not, to use their emotions up on stage, leaving little for afters?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Bea,’ Pippa replied, with a smile. ‘I’ll let you know when I get to know Jerome better.’

  ‘Jerome?’

  ‘Jerome Didier.’

  Her aunt nodded.

  ‘I have always believed in names, you know, Pip,’ she said. ‘You can’t be a great actor if you’ve got a name like Dobbs. Or Ruggins, or whatever. And I must say, Jerome Didier does have a ring about it.’

  ‘He says he’s going to be a star,’ Pippa said. ‘I’m dying for you to meet him.’

  ‘So am I!’ her aunt laughed. ‘But first we must concentrate on getting you to meet him.’

  The plan as devised was for Aunt Bea to stay a few days in Sussex, which every so often she did whenever she felt the need to escape London, and while in residence, Pippa could auspiciously go to London to see the new Christopher Fry play, for which Aunt Bea had been given some complimentary tickets.

  ‘Which will provide us with the perfect alibi,’ she said. ‘I saw it on the first night, you see, so I can tell you all about it, without you having to go and see it at all. Because what you will be doing, sweetheart, is popping up to Oxford to see your jolly actor.’

  ‘I’ll never do it,’ Pippa said when they were roughing out an itinerary. ‘I’ll never make it across from Paddington. I’ll never make the last train.’

  ‘Of course you won’t, you chump,’ Aunt Bea laughed. ‘You’re going to have to “miss” your last train, and stay overnight in my flat, aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I?’ the bewildered Pippa asked her.

  ‘Yes,’ her aunt replied. ‘Provided Scouts’ Honour you come back from Oxford ay-lone, and you stay in the flat – ay-lone. Not that I really need to make that a condition,’ she added, when she saw how quickly and brightly her niece’s face was colouring.

  ‘No,’ Pippa said. ‘You don’t, Bea. Even so—’

  Pippa broke off, to wonder on the feasibility of their plan.

  ‘Are you sure it will work?’

  ‘Darling. I shall tell
you the whole play from boring beginning to boring end, just in case your mother quizzes you about it, which she won’t, because theatre bores her rigid. She’s really only interested in what’s going on in the parish, and what that ghastly vicar has to say.’

  Not for a moment did Pippa believe her mother would approve the proposed trip, but even so she learned a potted version of Christopher Fry’s A Sleep of Prisoners just in case, and ironed her best summer dress the next afternoon when her mother was resting.

  But as it happened, and to Pippa’s well-concealed delight, her mother agreed. Naturally she had initially voiced doubts, but since Bea had come to stay and would be there to help her, she could voice no sustainable objection to the proposed trip, particularly after her sister made a great display of lending Pippa the key to her flat as a safety precaution, just in case Pippa missed her last train. This buried the last of any doubts Pippa’s mother might still have been nursing, and she finally gave her consent, which was how Pippa found herself on Wednesday afternoon of the following week, making her way from the railway station across Oxford to catch the matinée of All That Glitters at the New Theatre, having rung and left a message at the stage door for Jerome to that effect.

  The theatre was about two-thirds full for the afternoon show, but to judge from the excitement generated by the play and even more so by the unknown leading players, it could as easily have been an opening night in the West End of London. Not that Pippa had ever been to a first night, but she had often attended matinées in the company of her Aunt Bea on her occasional visits to London, and the matinées she had frequented had borne no resemblance to the performance she witnessed that afternoon in Oxford. For once the ladies in the audience were held spellbound, and nothing distracted them as they watched the play unfold. They even hurried through their interval tea, anxious to finish everything that was on their trays so that the clatter of cup and saucer would not distract either the performers or their audience. And when the final curtain fell, the predominantly female audience refused to release the cast until they had taken six curtain calls, even cheering and calling bravo! when Jerome and Elizabeth stepped forward to take their joint calls.

  From her seat in the fifth row of the stalls, Pippa clapped and cheered with the rest of the delighted audience, many of whom Pippa noticed were in tears. The woman next door to Pippa was still crying openly, as indeed she had been since halfway through the final and very moving scene. Pippa smiled shyly at her, as she prepared to make her way from the auditorium.

  ‘Do you know something, my dear?’ she asked, dabbing at her eyes with a small lace handkerchief. ‘That’s the most beautiful play I have ever seen.’

  ‘It was wonderful,’ Pippa agreed. ‘It was funny, and yet so touching.’

  ‘Yes it was,’ the woman agreed, ‘and I shall never forget it. Not for as long as I live. And most of all, I shall never, ever forget that beautiful young man.’

  Pippa was almost shocked by how she felt as she found herself saying his name.

  ‘Jerome Didier, you mean?’ Pippa asked, finding herself suddenly disorientated by the surge of emotion she felt just saying Jerome’s name.

  ‘Jerome Didier,’ the woman replied, now consulting her programme, and opening it at Jerome’s photograph, which made him look almost impossibly handsome. Pippa stared at it as well, becoming increasingly bewildered by how she was feeling, a mixture, she discovered, of fierce possessiveness and helpless adoration. The power of these unexpected emotions surprised and frightened her, and suddenly all Pippa wanted was to escape, to get out of the theatre and to run away as far as possible.

  She picked up her handbag which she had almost forgotten and made to leave.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said to her neighbour, but the woman wasn’t quite ready yet to allow her to leave.

  ‘You know something, my dear?’ she asked, tapping Jerome’s photograph with a sigh. ‘They’d better all look to their laurels, you know. All of them. Because what we’ve seen here this afternoon, we haven’t seen a star being born, my dear. What we’ve seen is something which is going to light up our heavens. What we’ve seen is the launch of a meteor.’

  Staring down at the photograph of Jerome’s beautiful face, Pippa still wanted to run, but where she wanted to run was not away any more, but straight round backstage to Jerome.

  ‘We could have taken at least another two calls, darling,’ Elizabeth teased as she and Jerome climbed the stairs to their dressing rooms. ‘If you hadn’t been in such a perfectly beastly hurry.’

  ‘You can take as many as you like tonight, my darling,’ Jerome smiled back, squeezing his co-star’s hand, ‘but this afternoon I have a visitor.’

  Elizabeth stopped as they reached the stage door-keeper’s booth and looked Jerome in the eye.

  ‘Business?’ she asked. ‘Or pleasure?’

  ‘Cecil B. de Mille,’ Jerome replied, before leaning into the booth to see if he had either any mail or messages. There was nothing for him, but there was a note for Elizabeth which he handed her.

  She took it, barely even glancing to see whom it was from, before looking back at Jerome, inclining her head to one side.

  ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘You were even more brilliant than usual this afternoon.’

  ‘We both were,’ Jerome assured her. ‘Your timing in the last scene—’ He put his index finger to his thumb and closed his eyes. ‘Mmmmm!’

  ‘You were far too good for a matinée,’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘In fact, I’d say you were inspired.’

  ‘I was simply doing my best, my darling,’ he whispered, leaning over to kiss her lightly on one cheek, ‘to keep somewhere near up with you.’

  Elizabeth paused for a moment, tempted to wait and see who was coming round to see Jerome, but at that moment the telephone rang.

  ‘It’s for you, Miss L,’ the old door-keeper said. ‘Shall I put it through to your dressing room?’

  ‘Please, Albert,’ Elizabeth replied, before squeezing Jerome’s hand in farewell. ‘I’ll see you later, my darling,’ she said.

  Jerome wandered out into the alleyway as Elizabeth disappeared up to her dressing room, and lit a cigarette while he waited for Pippa. As had been the case since the day after the play had opened in Oxford, there was already a crowd waiting for autographs, and Jerome charmingly and dutifully obliged, while all the time keeping an eye on the end of the alley for the arrival of his visitor.

  When Pippa finally appeared, looking slightly bewildered and just a little bit lost, Jerome detached himself from his group of admirers, and went to collect her.

  ‘Pippa Nicholls,’ he said, stopping in front of her, and folding his hands behind his back. ‘I was beginning to give you up for lost.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Pippa said with as much assurance as she could manage. ‘I only went round the wrong side of the theatre.’

  ‘You look – wonderful,’ Jerome said, now taking her arm and leading her back to the theatre. ‘You have brought the sunshine from the South Downs with you.’

  He stood aside by the stage door and Pippa walked in past him, looking inquisitively at her surroundings.

  ‘I’ve never been backstage before,’ she said. ‘It’s really quite bleak, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bleak?’ Jerome laughed as he followed her up the stone stairs. ‘Backstage at any theatre – it’s like an institution!’

  Reaching the first landing, Jerome steered Pippa along the corridor which contained the first set of dressing rooms.

  ‘Number One,’ he said, as they passed the first door. ‘That’s Miss Laurence’s—’

  Pippa held back for a moment to look at the grease-painted star on the dressing-room door, and the message in the middle.

  ‘Told you!’ it read. ‘Love, love, love – J.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Pippa enquired. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘I told her,’ Jerome said, steering Pippa away from the door, ‘that she was going to be a star, which she is. And
this—’ he added, throwing open the very next door, ‘is Chez Moi.’

  There was a similar star drawn on Jerome’s door, in a different colour, in what looked like lipstick. And the hand-drawn star also contained a message.

  ‘Same to you, my love,’ the inscription read. ‘With things on it.’

  Underneath the star was a string of red x kisses. Jerome sighed as he saw Pippa staring at them, and took her by the hand to tug her into the room.

  ‘Actors,’ he sighed. ‘We’re just like children.’

  ‘You’re right though,’ Pippa said as Jerome closed the door. ‘She is going to be a star – Elizabeth Laurence. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful girl.’

  ‘She is beautiful,’ Jerome agreed. ‘She is certainly the most beautiful actress that I have ever seen.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pippa said, looking at the poster for the play which Jerome had pinned on his wall. ‘She’s completely stunning. And she can act. At least, I mean, I think she can.’

  ‘She can,’ Jerome agreed once more, nodding seriously. ‘She is the most beautiful and talented young actress I have ever seen. But she is nothing beside you.’

  ‘I’m not an actress,’ Pippa said, being deliberately obtuse.

  ‘Thank God,’ Jerome breathed, now standing behind Pippa as she stared at the poster on which she was now unable to focus. ‘Elizabeth is a beautiful actress, Pippa. But you are just quite simply beautiful.’ He turned her round slowly to him, holding her by the shoulders. ‘You, Pippa – are the most beautiful girl – I have ever seen.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Pippa replied, but her answer sounded faint, and weak, and much less categorical than she had intended, because Pippa found she could now hardly breathe, let alone speak. It wasn’t because of what Jerome had just said, or the way he had just said it, and it wasn’t because of the way he was now looking at her or the way he had looked at her when he met her in the alleyway, or because he was holding her by her shoulders and standing so very, very close to her, it was none of these things. It was simply because he was Jerome, and no-one else. Because no-one else except this person, this someone called Jerome Didier, no-one else had ever made Pippa feel quite as overpoweringly helpless as he was making her feel right now.