Charlie screeched to a halt, dropped the bike on the ground, hopped over the handlebars and ran towards her.
She was attempting to ease herself out from underneath the bike frame. ‘Ow! Ow!’
‘It’s all right. You’re all right.’ He tugged the bike away and helped her to her feet.
Her bare legs were criss-crossed in a pattern of grazes and scrapes. She tried to sweep dust and gravel from her knees but it only aggravated the broken skin. ‘I hit a pebble or something.’ She hobbled to the side of the road. Her elbow was bothering her.
‘Show me.’ Charlie peered.
A slow trickle of blood seeped down her arm towards her wrist. ‘It’s nothing, don’t worry. It’s just a cut, that’s all.’ She pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabbed at the wound. The blood soaked into the makeshift dressing, turning it crimson, dark. Her knees began to sag.
He took hold of her arms. ‘Just a little blood, looks worse than it is. Are you all right to cycle back?’
‘I think so.’
‘Freewheel,’ he said, ‘as much as you can.’
*
Back at the farmhouse he fixed up the wound, using antiseptic cream and plasters from a first aid kit she kept in a kitchen drawer. Perched against the kitchen table she succumbed to his ministrations without moving and he sorted her out, the way mum used to do for him when he was a child: silently, no nonsense, no tears or complaints allowed. ‘Coffee?’ she said, when he’d finished.
‘No thanks, it keeps me awake.’
‘Just a thought,’ she replied.
The darkening sky closed in around them. A few twinkling lights from the wine estate were visible in the trees through the window. She moved away from the table edge and stood in front of him.
‘You’re my client,’ he said.
She patted the dressing on her elbow. ‘Not yet I’m not.’
A tremor ran through him. Like so much else he couldn’t place it, couldn’t identify it, even as it settled around him like a thick heavy cloak of beaded brocade, a cloth of densely coloured indigo, sapphire and gold, smothering him in a drowsy delirium.
There was too much cluttered furniture in the way and she had already banged her hip bone against a chair back, when he shoved her up against the bookcase and kissed her. She put her hands in his hair and tugged at his roots, a mild restraint that he instantly responded to. He did the same to her, combing his fingers through the loose hair and pulling it taut.
Somehow they pitched themselves away from the bookcase and tripping and stumbling across the floor they manhandled each other towards the narrow doorway. His hands had already pulled her shirt undone and the bra straps fell away from her shoulders. Reeling, they left the doorway and collided with the stair post. She fell against the bottom steps, pulling him down on top of her. Her legs were entangled in his; her arms were across his back. She gave a small cry as the hard edge of the stair cut into the base of her spine. He tried to ease her into a more comfortable position, but as he was simultaneously in the process of removing the rest of her clothes, they were unable to resolve the issue. She pulled violently at his stupid shirt, and tugged at his annoying belt loops. He shrugged off his shirt, grabbed her quickly, nudged open her thighs when suddenly he stopped.
‘Sorry,’ he said, disentangling himself.
She copied him, leaning her head against the stairs, getting her breath back. ‘Why’ve you stopped?’ She tried to sit up straight, find a roomier position on the stairs.
He pulled her to her feet. ‘Where’s your bedroom?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right.’
She led him up to the top of the stairs where the landing was dark and windowless. She clicked open a latch and went through a rustic wooden door. There was a step between room and landing and she advised him not to trip.
Padding across the room she groped for a bedside lamp, switching it on and illuminating the cast iron bedstead, the quilt and the bolster. A jug of lavender sat on the window ledge, and a Turkish-style rug was spread across the floor and half way under the bed. The white walls were decorated at intervals with Provençal scenes, and a van Gogh Starry Night. The tiny window, small enough to keep out the wind, but large enough to let light in, admitted a low glow from the moon. He pulled her gently towards the bed.
‘Lie down,’ he commanded.
She hesitated.
‘On the bed,’ he said.
She lay still and straight, her arms at her side, her legs together.
‘On your front,’ he ordered. ‘Roll over.’
She obeyed, turning over so that her stomach rested on the smooth quilting, and her elbows were propped on the bolster. She wasn’t sure whether to flex her feet or keep them flat. ‘Like this?’
‘Good.’
She tried to crane her head, to see where he’d gone.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t move. Stay perfectly still.’
The floorboards creaked slightly as he approached the bed. He lightly touched his fingers at the nape of her neck and moved her hair to one side. Next his fingers drifted across her shoulders, gently smoothing her skin as if he was laying out a piece of silk, teasing it flat, removing every tiny crease and ripple.
The bed springs bounced as he perched himself alongside. And then he made a dozen butterfly kisses down the length of her spine and across her buttocks, lightly whispering across her skin. She couldn’t resist. She rolled over, longing him not to tease her any longer and held out her arms.
He moved in close and kissed her.
Chapter Seven
Anne Marie stretched and wriggled underneath the sheets. ‘Maybe, Mr Gilchrist,’ she said, ‘that was all the therapy I needed.’
He laughed but his next question was serious. ‘Have you had any?’
‘I’m an actor, what do you think? Narcissistic, highly sensitive, possessor of a glass ego; I’ve tried all sorts of New Age religions and therapies.’
‘Apart from retrocognition.’
‘It’s a newie, I grant you … but who cares as long as it solves the issue.’
‘You haven’t told me what the issue is yet,’ he pointed out.
She eased herself up onto her elbow and stroked his arm, kissing his shoulder. ‘I was once voted first place in a “One to Watch” poll of young British talent.’ She gave an amused snort.
‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘It’s not much good being the one to watch if you can’t actually bear for anyone to watch you.’ She turned over and reached for the laptop on the bedside table. Then she sat up, typed in her own name and navigated onto a biography site. ‘Here you go. Read that.’ He manoeuvred himself upright and scrolled to the top of the article.
‘British Actor,’ he read aloud, ‘appeared in films and TV but most famous for clutch of acclaimed theatre roles early on in her career. However, promising theatrical career curtailed by series of personal woes including crippling stage fright, brought on following tragic death of partner Tom Harrington. Subsequently forced to take parts in a series of poorly received films, she nevertheless briefly attained critical plaudits for come-back role of Victoria in the Anglo French production Hair in the Gate, until sidetracked by ongoing personal problems, to wit: divorce from her former co-star Francois Bodell and her career once again stalled. Currently to be heard on voiceovers for French products including strawberry flavoured chocolate, banking, soap and wine. Lives in the South of France.’
He scrolled further. The theatre reviews, most of them glowing, were interspersed with consistently scathing comments from the critic Angus Malone, and contemporary news stories about Tragic Tom’s death. He paid especial attention to a news report about her disastrous appearance in The Strawberry Thief:
The stage actor Anne Marie Devine was forced to cancel her latest performance at The Royal Haymead last night due to illness and exhaustion, although sources speculate that the real reason for her no show was due to the agonising stage fright that has dogged this
talented young actress for many years now. The play was written especially for the actress’s acting ancestor Minnie Etherege Devine in the early decades of the 20th Century, and had been revived by Anne Marie’s close friend the playwright and director John Edgerton. Following the actress’s late arrival at the theatre on opening night, curtain up had to be delayed it is believed while colleagues and fellow actors helped her compose herself before going on stage. This follows on from her well publicised ‘choke’ in the RSC’s production of Shakespeare’s Pericles and her absence for three performances of Marlowe’s Edward II, which occurred during the midst of her troubled relationship with the musical theatre actor Tom Harrington who later died of a drugs overdose.
Ms Devine’s agent insisted last night that the actress was absolutely fine and was looking forward to returning to the role of Jane Morris as soon as she was a hundred per cent fit and well. In the meantime her co-star Will Thorn continues in the role with Ms Devine’s understudy. ‘Mr Thorn is more than capable of carrying the play on his own,’ commented renowned theatre critic Angus Malone. ‘Ms Devine’s indisposition is no great loss to the theatre world,’ he continued.
Other commentators have been more sympathetic to the actress’s plight, bearing in mind her acclaimed performances in a variety of roles both on TV and on stage. Stage fright is an actor’s worst nightmare, some actors are known to physically vomit before they can go on; others freeze mid-stage and can’t continue – an experience Ms Devine has suffered on several occasions …
‘What’s Angus Malone’s problem?’ Charlie asked. ‘Why’s he got it in for you?’
Anne Marie tapped her knuckle on the screen. ‘Angus Malone is Tragic Tom’s father.’
‘What?’
‘As far as Angus Malone is concerned, Anne Marie Devine is the woman who destroyed his son, or at the very least was involved in his murky decline.’
‘I see.’
They came across a press photo of Anne Marie attending an awards ceremony. She was in a beautiful evening dress, a vibrant young man on her arm. The caption read: A disappointed Anne Marie takes comfort from her gorgeous new boyfriend, Tom Harrington.
‘I was up for an award that night,’ she said, ‘favourite to win, but it went to someone else. Not that it bothered me, despite what the papers wrote.’
Tom, the beautiful dancer, had a big happy smile and a thick mane of lustrous hair. Slim, poised and muscular, no wonder he’d caught her eye. Anne Marie was facing the camera, amused and bemused at the attention they were attracting. Charlie’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, clicking onto a gaunt faced image of a hounded woman, head down as she was caught emerging from the door to a town house. The caption read: Anne Marie pictured leaving her home, forty eight hours after the death of the dancer Tom Harrington.
He clicked again: a short piece about an inquest; a report detailing Anne Marie’s arrest and release after police questioning; a shot of a funeral cortège …
‘Arrest?’ he queried.
‘Procedure. They didn’t really think I’d done anything, but they had to question me anyway. In the end the verdict was accidental death.’
He was beginning to see why she’d been happy to leave that world behind.
She took the laptop from him and replaced it on the bedside table. ‘Let me fill you in. As I already told you I come from an acting dynasty. My father and his grandmother, Minnie Etherege Devine, were both actors. Minnie was popular during the Edwardian era but nowadays all anyone knows about her is that she was a bit of a diva. I’ve been trying to find out more about her but there’s precious little online and I can’t find any books. My father has some old playbills and photos, but not much else. She went AWOL sometime in the middle of the last century, and no-one in the family knows why.
‘The thing is, – and this is going to sound very stupid –I think the problem that I have is something to do with her. I feel like it’s got some connection to her life. Everything came to a head when I performed in The Strawberry Thief at the Haymead – the same play that Minnie had starred in nearly a hundred years earlier. It was cute casting: the great-granddaughter of the original star performing in the same play in the same theatre. But every time I stepped on that stage it felt like there was something physically hindering me; stopping me from performing. I suppose I had what used to be called a nervous breakdown; I was diagnosed as suffering from exhaustion and depression. I left the production midway through the run and I haven’t been able to set foot in a theatre since.’ She sounded embarrassed. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, or I never used to … but I felt like there was something there …’
‘Some kind of presence?’
‘Yes, if you like. I’ve never told anyone this before but it was as if something was holding me back, physically preventing me from doing my job. As if I was being deliberately thwarted. I tried talking to my dad about it but he just thinks I’ve lost the plot. Can it be coincidence that everything went to pieces during that particular play? Do you understand what I’m getting at?’
‘I understand completely.’
‘It sounds ridiculous but if I find out what happened to Minnie it might enable me to move forwards. Can you help me do that?’
‘Is that what you want from me? To initiate a comeback. A return to the British stage?’
She hesitated. ‘There’s a reason I’m asking. A producer has been in touch who wants to revive The Strawberry Thief.’
‘Right …’
She made herself more comfortable. ‘He wants me to star in it. He thinks it will make a fortune. If I successfully return to the stage in the exact same place I left it, they’ll be quids in.’
‘How mercenary.’
‘That’s one way of interpreting it.’
‘Do you want to?’
‘I can’t. Not unless I manage to exorcise my demons before rehearsals are due to start. Do you think I can?’
Charlie mused. ‘If your career depends on it, who am I to refuse the challenge? But there’s not much point trying to help you here in the south of France. I need to be in the theatre where the breakdown happened. You’ll have to show me where it all started. After that, we’ll see …’
‘I’m still not entirely convinced you’re for real,’ she said with a slight incline of the head. ‘But in any case what harm can it do?’
For the time being he reserved judgement.
Chapter Eight
Tucked down a side street off one of central London’s main arteries, the Haymead Theatre was not quite what he’d been expecting. In between a sandwich shop on one side and an Indian restaurant on the other, he might have walked straight past its grimy facade had he not been looking. Separated from the street by the narrowest of pavements, Charlie squeezed his way in via the heavy rotating door.
In contrast to the shabby exterior the foyer made a brave effort to retain 150-year-old character of the original design, with blue walls painted the same colour as the carpet, and sconces and curlicues picked out in gold. He was struck by the smallness of the space. On a busy night the audience must have to spill out of the lobby and into the gutter, and God knows how a 19th century female theatre-goer got her crinoline in and out, but this morning everywhere was sleepily silent. As yet, no one knew he’d arrived and although the light was on in the box office, the seat behind the window was empty. He was free to absorb the surroundings without interruption, which was all well and good but how did he get backstage? A staircase to the right of the box office led down to the stalls and another on the left was sign-posted “Dress Circle”, but he’d also noticed a varnished wooden door marked “Private” on the far left of the foyer.
A young woman arrived and unlocked the side door into the box office. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Give me a minute; I’ll be right with you.’ She was wearing a black polo shirt bearing the white stitched theatre logo, and she busied herself at the desk, adjusting her chair and straightening out the card payment machine and the telephone.
‘What performance are you after?’
‘Oh no, sorry, I’m not buying tickets. I’m waiting for Anne Marie Devine. I’m a friend of hers.’
Her attitude changed at once from solicitous to scornful. Of course you are dear, she appeared to be saying, and I’m the Prime Minister’s secret love child, but ‘Sorry,’ was what she actually said, and, ‘we don’t allow members of the public backstage, not without an invitation.’
‘I have got an invitation,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
She eyed him a moment, not sure whether to humour the request or not. She was saved the trouble by the arrival of another staff member, similarly dressed, clutching a cardboard box of theatre programmes. ‘Mrs Page is the theatre manager. I’ll ask her.’
Mrs Page looked him up and down. ‘Name?’
‘Charlie Gilchrist, I’m a friend of—’
‘Who are you with?’
‘Er, myself,’ he replied.
‘Which publication?’ the woman asked patiently. ‘Because there’s no press, I’m afraid. She’s not doing any interviews. Maybe later during the run, but at the moment, no. Absolutely not.’
‘I’m not press. I’m a friend.’
The woman appraised him once again. ‘What did you say your name was? Gilchrist? Amy, can you just check – are there any messages for a Mr Gilchrist? Has Miss Devine left any word?’
Amy rummaged through a pile of Post-its. ‘Nope, nothing here.’
‘Sorry,’ said Mrs Page, adjusting the box against her hip.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait outside until she arrives …’
She gave a “please yourself” shrug and strode up the dress circle stairs. Out on the pavement, Charlie watched through the glass door as Amy tidied up the box office desk for a few minutes, before exiting the booth and following the same route as Mrs Page. He slipped back inside and made for the door marked “Private”.
Allowing his fingers to drift down towards the brass S-shaped handle, it required only a gentle pressure for the mechanism to give way. The unlocked door swung open to reveal a narrow, unlit corridor. For a brief moment the dark interior obscured the route forwards, but slowly the floor and walls came alive beneath the glow of an oil lamp set midway along the wall …
The Dragonfly Brooch Page 5