The day of the dress rehearsal for Streetcar arrived. Plump and practical Jennifer Greenly, also a first-year student, had been allocated the position of wardrobe mistress.
‘Here’s Oliver’s costume. He’ll need his shirt ironed during the interval. And this is for Terry. Once he’s dressed, he’s done. It’s Oliver who’ll require the attention. He needs to look sexy and alluring. Well, he does anyway, of course, but we can’t have him wearing a poorly ironed shirt now, can we? Oh, lucky you, Kurtiz.’
Kurtiz accepted the neatly pressed articles of clothing laid across her outstretched arms and nodded. She was too nervous to speak.
The men’s dressing room was compact, barely larger than a cell, off what had once been the church apse. As she approached, a couple of her classmates were placing rows of chairs in the nave. There was an almost palpable mood of excitement, even among these juniors.
‘Elia Kazan’s coming,’ someone shouted.
‘Rubbish!’
‘Yes, he’s in London casting his next film.’
Kurtiz proceeded through the old church and knocked on the dressing-room door. She was not expecting the two actors to be in the theatre at that early hour but Oliver was present, seated at a table in front of a mirror. He was unpacking his belongings, carefully placing objects on a towel on the table: comb, brush, skin creams, script. She instinctively began to back out, muttering apologies.
‘Come in.’ He smiled, rising to greet her. What a smile. It could have melted the cobwebs off the high ceilings.
She tiptoed in, placed the costumes on coat-hangers, hung them from a mobile clothes rail and spun softly on her trainers to leave. ‘Don’t go,’ he said. His voice sounded a little croaky, and now that she looked him full in the face, those hazelnut eyes gave out a look of terror. ‘You all right? Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m shit scared,’ he confessed. ‘If this is how I feel this morning, what will it be like tomorrow night?’
‘You’ll be amazing,’ she said, and then, without thinking, ‘You were born to play the role. Elia Kazan’s coming, did you hear?’
Oliver guffawed. ‘Yes, along with Tennessee Williams.’
‘He’s not!’ Kurtiz’s mind was blown.
‘Tennessee Williams died over a decade ago. No one except my mum and dad, Terry and Sally’s mums and dads and my brother Ben will be out there. Don’t listen to the chatter. They’re talking foolish dreams.’
Kurtiz felt like a half-wit, taken in by the gossip. She wanted out of there before she made herself look even more naive.
‘What’s your name?’
‘K-Kurtiz Fellows,’ she stammered.
He frowned.
‘My mum’s favourite album was Move on Up. Curtis Mayfield, remember him? Mum did, at least, have the kindness to spell mine with a K and a Z, so that it was clear I had not been mistaken for a boy. An African-American one at that.’
Oliver was watching her intently. A smile was breaking across his lips. ‘No one could mistake you for a boy, KZ.’
She lowered her gaze, blushing. ‘I’d better let you get on with your preparations.’
From that day on, Oliver’s nickname for her had been KZ, and it had stuck.
After the first night’s performance, while she was gathering up his sweat-stained T-shirt and socks, Oliver invited her to the pub. ‘Are you joining us for a drink, KZ?’
She made her excuses. ‘Better not, I’ve got to wash these.’
He was gazing at her reflection in the mirror while wiping off his make-up. ‘You’re very meticulous, aren’t you?’
She shrugged shyly.
‘Thanks for all your help this evening.’
She shrugged again, tongue-tied.
‘So, what do you reckon? Fifteen minutes to wash a shirt and a pair of socks and hang them to dry? Come on, you deserve a drink. Sorry I can’t wait for you but my family was in to see the show. Get the Fairy Liquid frothing, then come and join us. Meet my boring big brother. Promise?’
She nodded.
The Horse and Carriage was heaving. Most of the customers were third-year students, their mates and adoring families. Kurtiz pushed open the door and came face to face with a mass of animated life. A swift glance to left and right, as she nudged her way in the general direction of the bar, doubtful as to whether she would be able to locate Oliver, told her that no one famous was in attendance, least of all any film directors. Oliver, all six foot two of him, caught sight of her before she saw him. He elbowed a path towards her, calling her name, and was instantly swallowed by females: wives, mothers, sisters, casting directors. He lifted his arms above his head and called, ‘Make way.’ The throng of drinkers divided like a holy sea. Oliver locked Kurtiz by the wrist and guided her towards the bar where his brother Ben, shorter and plumper, was waving a fiver to and fro, shouting, his voice drowned by a hundred conversations all around them. Others, too, were attempting to get the barman’s attention. Or Oliver’s, Kurtiz noted.
Oliver insisted Ben buy every round of drinks, of which there were many. ‘He’s working, we’re not.’ The performance had gone well, no hitches, and the mood in the fuggy lounge was lively and theatrical. The world and his wife, mostly the wives, surrounded Oliver, complimenting him on his ‘moving’, ‘charismatic’ and ‘sensual’ interpretation of the role. Oliver lapped up the attention. Ben, meanwhile, was attempting to chat up Kurtiz. ‘He’s kept you a well-guarded secret,’ he shouted in her ear, spittle flying, above the jabbering and cooing.
‘No secret to keep,’ she muttered, watching every female and gay man in the place press themselves up against Oliver Ross, fawning over him, while he did nothing to deter them.
It was five minutes to midnight when the indulgent landlord rang the bell for last orders.
‘One for the road and then bed, eh, Kurtiz? Us actors need our beauty sleep and all that.’ Oliver pronounced ‘actors’ exaggeratedly and with pride. No longer a student, but a fully-fledged performer.
The entire play, every complex emotion, had to be re-enacted the following evening and then for another two nights.
‘That’s show business.’
‘Any agents in?’ she asked him, when the crowds had thinned. The attention he had been enjoying had, thankfully, diminished and they could make conversation without giving themselves sore throats.
None had been spotted. But it had gone well. ‘There will be tomorrow.’ Oliver’s mood was jubilant. He took her hand. ‘Your support was much appreciated, KZ,’ he crooned.
They were outside, standing alone beneath a lamppost. Everybody else had miraculously melted away. Even drooling Ben had waved his farewells and driven off in a gleaming royal blue Morgan. It was warm, agreeably so, with a clear sky. Kurtiz attempted to stare at the stars, squinted, staggered: her head was spinning. She took a long, deep breath, expanding her ribs as she had been taught to do in voice classes, and inhaled the fresh night air; a welcome relief after the day’s heat, the crush of bodies, the cigarettes and the mood of noisy exuberance.
The star of the school slung a leather satchel over his shoulder – a script poked out of it – and raked his fingers through his dark hair. She noticed beneath the streetlights that he was still wearing the residue of his stage make-up. A line of black mascara highlighted his hazel eyes. They were flecked with yellow, like the body of a bee.
‘You coming home with me, KZ?’ He posed the question so casually, as if it didn’t matter a hoot to him whether she did or didn’t, as if he were in no doubt that her answer would be an affirmative.
‘I’ve got my bike,’ she replied shyly.
Oliver burst out laughing. ‘Any chance of a lift?’
She unlocked and wheeled out her bike from the college’s forecourt onto the pavement while Oliver stood watching her. He was stretching his arms, yawning. They climbed aboard, he on the seat, she perched on his thigh, and wove an unsteady path up the street with its gentle gradient. By the time they had turned right onto Haverstock Hill,
he was gripping her round the waist with his right arm while steering with his left. ‘It’s not far,’ he called into her ear.
She felt the thrill of him so close, the vibration, timbre of his voice. ‘I hope we don’t get stopped for drunk-driving.’ She giggled, elated, not the slightest bit concerned that they could indeed be pulled over.
They parked her transport in the weed-infested front garden of a large stucco-fronted Victorian house in Belsize Park. Kurtiz, full of nerves for what lay ahead and a little clumsy due to the booze, fumbled with the key, before padlocking the spoke of a wheel to a sinking fence. Then she mastered the three stone steps to where Oliver was waiting at the front door.
‘Sssh.’ He pressed a finger against his lips. ‘My two flatmates will definitely have hit the sack and will not be happy to be woken in the middle of the night by inebriated actors, given they both have proper jobs to crawl out of bed for.’
He led her along a corridor, where another bike was parked, into a capacious high-ceilinged, ground-floor apartment, then into a bay-windowed room at the rear of the house, which overlooked an overgrown yet elegant garden. The floor was strewn with CDs, books and videos. The bed was a double, hurriedly made. The room smelt faintly of joss sticks, amber or patchouli, or possibly hash. She had never smoked pot so couldn’t be sure.
She placed her bag on a chair and nervously pulled off her cardigan. He lit two candles, scooped a CD off the floor and slipped it into the player. ‘David Bowie.’ He smiled. Real Cool World. ‘The face of seduction is you, Miss Fellows,’ he whispered, as he wrapped himself around her and lowered her to the bed. ‘My, but you’re beautiful, KZ. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since you stepped into my dressing room. The exquisite sight of your curvaceous body naked, bathed in moonlight. Please, fair maiden, don’t deny me.’
They made love till dawn, till the birds began to sing through the semi-open sash windows. At which point, as a rose-pink sun crept in through the curtainless panes of glass, and doors along the corridor began to open and close, they hunkered down beneath a sheet – too hot for the duvet – and drifted off to sleep, sated, their damp bodies carelessly entangled, their sweat mingled, scenting one another. They had barely shared a word since he had first kissed her, so hungry were they for one another.
The bedside clock read ten past eleven. Kurtiz threw back the sheet and sat upright on the edge of the mattress, breathing in the aroma of coffee. She rose and strolled to the window. Her body was damp and loose-limbed. It was a glorious summer morning. A morning like no other, blossoms abounding, soaking up the heat, bees and butterflies flitting from one flower head to another. It was a morning when you wanted to shout, to halloo his name Shakespearian-style, with your arms wide open, because you were young and alive and because you had spent the night – yes, spent the night – with Oliver Ross. She began to hum to the music playing softly behind her. A female chanteuse, exhaling the blues like cigarette smoke, whose voice Kurtiz did not recognize.
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she heard, ‘making coffee. Real percolated coffee, not the instant powdered rubbish my plebby flatmates drink.’
She looked about for her clothes. There was only one chair in Oliver’s room and that was piled untidily with what might have been his entire wardrobe.
He appeared at the doorway, two mugs in his hands. ‘I’ve guessed white, no sugar, correct?’ He winked. She nodded and returned shyly to perch on the mattress, discreetly pulling a corner of sheet about her, to drink her coffee while he disappeared to shower. When he had gone, Kurtiz actually pinched herself. On the lower, fleshy part of her left thigh. It turned red and began to sting. Ouch. But this was real. Her, here, on Oliver’s bed.
She knew it couldn’t last, that she had probably been foolish to sleep with him on what was not even a first date, but it had been delicious. The sex had been lusty and exciting, and she didn’t care. She bloody well didn’t care. She would cherish this night for ever, and not tell a soul about it.
When Oliver strode back into his room, hair dripping onto his muscular shoulders, wearing nothing but a lemon-coloured towel hooked around his waist, feathers of dark body hair on his flat abdomen, she nearly dropped her mug.
‘There’s plenty of hot water, and Rory and Jonathan have already left for work – jobs in the City, don’t you know – so you don’t have to worry about flaunting yourself in the buff. I’m here to enjoy every turn of your torso, but – alas, alack – I’ve got director’s notes at two so I suggest we have a spot of lunch, if you fancy it?’
‘Six o’clock,’ she muttered. Her voice sounded as though she were speaking through a damp flannel.
‘Six o’clock what?’
‘My call to set up for your show.’
‘Perfect.’ His back was to her. The towel had fallen to the floor as he slid open a drawer, drew out and then stepped into white underpants. She was staring at his legs, his naked buttocks. God, he was beyond gorgeous.
He turned round as he leaned to the chair, rummaged for a shirt, caught her watching him and grinned. ‘Bathroom’s second door on the left,’ he said. ‘I put out a clean towel for you.’
She rose, picked up her bag, feeling self-conscious that she was naked in front of him and rather ludicrously hugging a shoulder bag. Utterly stupid to be shy, given what they had been doing for the past six hours. She was grateful that she always carried a toothbrush with her while thinking that she’d have to nip back to her place before the show to pick up some clean underwear.
He stopped her in her path, put his arms on her shoulders and clasped his hands behind her neck. ‘You’re beautiful, KZ, and, wow, you’re great in the sack and there’s nothing I’d like better than to whisk you back to bed, but I’d better conserve some energy for the show later. I hope you agree?’
She nodded.
‘So, when you’re dressed I’ll stand you a ploughman’s and a beer at the Richard Steele on Haverstock Hill. How does that sound?’
On the strength of his performance as Stanley Kowalski, Oliver was offered a six-month contract for a season starting in September at the newly refurbished Birmingham Repertory Theatre. It meant that he was away from London throughout the week, arriving home to Belsize Park late, after curtain down on the Saturday-evening show, pelting down the M1 in a battered and not very comfortable fourth-hand Mini, bought specially for the purpose. Kurtiz was always there at his rented accommodation, waiting to greet him, a bottle of chilled wine at the ready. Sex on the carpet in front of the gas fire or sometimes they managed to make it to the bed.
Sunday, they lazed about. She cooked lunch and he slept for most of the afternoon, or learned his lines for the next play in rehearsal, while Kurtiz prepared for her upcoming week at drama school. She was into her second year, gaining in confidence, totally inspired by the work.
During the week, while Oliver was in Birmingham, Kurtiz returned to her dull room in Gospel Oak. Life without him was unexciting but she was determined to live fully during his absences. Because this couldn’t last, could it? It was just too good to be true.
Most evenings, she waited on tables in a local bistro up in Belsize Park village. The tips were pretty generous and she frequently shared them with Oliver for his petrol home. His weekly salary was pitiful and he was paying for digs and food in Birmingham.
Kurtiz had offered to fund his London living costs as well as her own, but it was a struggle and he insisted that he continue to pay. ‘Move in with me,’ he pronounced, one Sunday, after breakfast in bed. ‘Since I’m away for six months, it’s more practical if you’re here. Then we won’t be forced to give the room up. It makes financial sense.’
Kurtiz willingly agreed.
Rory and Jonathan, baking a cake in the kitchen, cheered; they were perfectly thrilled with the arrangement. ‘We never liked the idea that Oliver was a gooseberry in his own home,’ teased Rory.
Since Oliver had left college, Kurtiz didn’t feel so awkward about her classmates’ discovery of their rela
tionship. Even so, she preferred to keep her personal life private. There was plenty of whispering and nudging in the rehearsal rooms and a self-doubt within her heard that she didn’t deserve him and everyone bar Oliver could see that; sooner or later he’d meet someone else and Kurtiz Fellows would be history.
Oliver was playing in pantomime, Jack and the Beanstalk. It involved performing two shows every day – matinees and evenings during the holiday season plus another matinee on Sundays. Sundays, when the theatre was packed to the rafters with grannies and aunts and screaming excited youngsters, unwrapping sweets and ice creams and crunching popcorn underfoot. Mums loudly berated their unruly offspring while dads grabbed the opportunity to kip, snoring loudly. Thirteen performances a week – it left Oliver hoarse and ragged. Because he couldn’t get away, Kurtiz took the train to spend Christmas in his digs: one room at the top of a widow’s semi-detached house in the suburbs. Their first Christmas together. They were both strapped for cash so presents were minimal. She chose for him a silver-plated Cross ballpoint pen, which she had wanted engraved with his name, but she couldn’t afford the extra. Oliver bought her Grace, a Jeff Buckley CD, a singer she confessed to never having heard before, and black lace underwear.
And then, in early January, her period did not arrive.
Back in London, she bought a home pregnancy testing kit, locked herself in the bathroom, which reeked of Rory’s Eau Savage, and sat on the closed loo seat, hands clasped tightly, praying. She stared incredulously at the pink dot on the test stick. This was impossible. It was erroneous. Wrong. She was on the Pill. How had this happened?
The Lost Girl Page 15