Curtain Call

by Anthony Quinn

  The temptation was to bolt, but somehow she resisted it. By the time her mother and sister returned to the table she had managed to compose herself. By unspoken agreement the incendiary subject was not mentioned again; all was politeness and deference. How Nina got through dinner she couldn’t say. She made a show of listening, though contributed barely a word herself. There was nothing wrong with the omelette she had ordered, but every mouthful disgusted her, and she gave it up half eaten. She ordered a second bottle of wine, and drank most of it. Her senses had blurred somewhat, though not to the point of oblivion that she craved.

  ‘Darling, are you all right?’ said Felicity, taking her by surprise.

  She nodded, and checked her watch. ‘I must go. I promised to meet a friend at his club in Dover Street.’ Her words seemed to come out mechanically.

  ‘Well, that’s on our way. We could drop you.’

  The thought of having to feign civility for even ten minutes longer sickened her. She stood up and, with all the actorly guile at her command, projected brightness into her manner. She thanked them for coming, and for taking her to supper, and wished them ‘safe home’. Her mother accepted a kiss goodnight with not a trace of her previous ill temper. Indeed, it was as if none of the earlier conversation had actually occurred.

  Hailing a cab on the Aldwych she plumped herself on the seat and felt her head swimming. She must have had at least a bottle and a half of wine, with a large cognac floated on top for good measure. The glare of the West End street lamps through the dark enclosure of the cab played games of chiaroscuro across her face. She didn’t want to think about what her mother had done – and she couldn’t think of anything else. The bitch. The rotten bitch. How could she, really? It was one thing for her to have made Bee her favourite. She could bear that. But to advertise the preference to the point of changing her will, no, that was too much. It was unmaternal: it was unforgivable. She replayed the conversation, and gave a bitter laugh at her mother’s describing Bee’s ‘horrid little boarding house’ in Fulham. So what about her own horrid boarding house in Marylebone? Did her mother think she could simply up sticks and move wherever she pleased?

  And what havoc would follow. Nina had meant it when she told her of the ill feeling it would create. My God, it was like Lear, with Felicity and herself as Goneril and Regan. ‘Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well . . .’ It was a legacy that could warp them all for years. Perhaps Felicity would be all right about it, having a more equable character, not to mention the security of a husband and a large house. She would probably have to play the peacemaker, once Nina got round to telling Bee exactly what she thought of her accepting their mother’s poisoned bequest. She’s got no objection to the plan at all. No wonder! Inheriting the house would allow her to escape her miserable accommodation; she might even take in a lodger or two, making the house pay and freeing her of the job she professed to hate. How could their mother not foresee this as a source of strife? Possibly because she had so little imagination. It had enabled her to behave without guilt her whole life.

  The cab had arrived. She could see shadowy figures ambling through the porticoed entrance of the Nines, the light from its upper windows hushed and discreet. She had just made her way into the entrance hall when she heard her name called from above, and there was Stephen trotting down the stairs, looking as eager as a new prefect. That, and his cheery ‘halloa’, coming so quickly on top of the high turbulence she had been fielding all night, caused an unforeseen reaction. A hot prickling welled behind her eyes, and suddenly she was watching him approach through a helpless blur of tears.

  Madeleine hurried along the Strand, dodging around the window gazers and pavement pounders and office workers streaming home. The night carried a little chill in the air. Buses rumbled past, their dim interiors and expressionless passengers reminding her of old saloon bars, with the conductor on his platform like a welcoming publican. Roddy had pulled a face when she told him why she wanted the night off. ‘The theatre? What d’you wanna go there for?’ She began to explain how she and her aunt used to enjoy the local am-dram, but he didn’t seem in the least bit interested. ‘Should find better things to waste your money on,’ he called over his shoulder. She had decided not to tell him she was someone’s guest for the evening.

  She had assumed the Strand Theatre would actually be on the Strand, but it wasn’t, and she had to stop and ask a newspaper vendor for directions. As she followed the curve of the Aldwych she realised she had no distinct memory of what Tom looked like. When they had spoken on the telephone the previous week, the voice was familiar but she couldn’t put a face to it. In her mind’s eye she saw a thirtyish man of medium build, dark straight hair, and a face that was, well, average-looking. It was odd to have spent intense moments in another’s company and still be unable to describe them.

  People were swarming through the theatre’s doors as she arrived. Her mood was somewhat tense about the night ahead of her.

  ‘Madeleine,’ called a voice.

  He was standing under a lit sign that announced TONIGHT AT 7.30. She returned his uncertain wave as she threaded her way among the crowd.

  ‘Hullo! I wasn’t sure I could remember’ – she began, and saved herself at the last moment – ‘where this place was.’

  ‘The name’s a bit confusing, I suppose, not being on the Strand . . . Well, we’ve just got time for a drink.’

  He led her through the jostling foyer and up the stairs to the circle bar. She asked for a gin fizz, a drink Roddy had introduced her to. Tom, amused, had the same. She kept stealing quick glances at him, weighing up her imperfect recollection against the man she saw in front of her. He was perhaps a bit older than she had initially estimated, there were flecks of silver in the floppy hair that fell across his brow, and his manner was more at ease; that wasn’t surprising, really, given the disconcerting nature of their first encounter. He caught her looking at him, and seemed to read her thoughts.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re absolved of Samaritan duties this evening. The play would have to be quite atrocious for me to have another turn like that.’

  ‘You look very well,’ she said with a laugh, relieved that he could make light of his illness.

  ‘I’ve been feeling much better,’ he admitted. ‘And I’ve been looking forward to seeing – erm – this again.’ Tom, too, had swerved away from forwardness at the last moment.

  Madeleine blinked her surprise. ‘You mean, you’ve seen the play already?’

  ‘Yes! I reviewed it when it opened. I was deputising for my boss.’

  ‘So you don’t mind seeing it again?’

  ‘Oh no. There’s a terribly good actress in it – and of course I thought it’d be something you might enjoy.’

  The bell rang, calling the loiterers in the bar to take their seats. They had barely managed to sip their drinks. Tom, clinking his glass against hers, shot her a look of mock alarm.

  ‘We’d better gulp these down. Here’s how!’

  She watched him drain his glass in one, and followed suit. As the sharp juniper coldness bolted down her insides she regretted not having a strong head for drink, though the subsequent lightness in her chest was really quite pleasant. Tom led her into the chattering gloom of the circle, and she admired the nimble way he edged along the row to their seats. She felt glad to have dressed up for the occasion.

  The lights were just dimming when she turned to him and said, in an undertone, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve already forgotten the name of this play.’

  Tom leaned in at a respectful distance to whisper, ‘It’s called The Second Arrangement.’

  The play was a melodrama, set in the 1890s, concerning a well-regarded politician, the coming man of his party, who’s about to marry a young heiress. Everything seems set fair when, out of the blue, he meets an old flame of his at a London gathering. This lady, who has been abroad, is no longer quite respectable, and has no fortune. But it’s plain she is more the politician’s sort of woman than his you
ng intended will ever be. At first he’s not sure he recognises her, but once he does the effect on him proves momentous: he realises that his passion for her, far from being extinguished, burns more fiercely than ever. The second act ends with the politician arranging an assignation with the woman in a seaside hotel: is he going to jeopardise his forthcoming marriage and political career?

  As the curtain was rung down for the interval, Tom looked hopefully to Madeleine for her reaction. She had been absorbed in the drama, as far as he could tell; though now, with the house lights up, he detected in her a troubled abstraction. On the way back to the bar he tried to jolly her along.

  ‘It’s not quite so assured as the first time I saw it. What about the old boy – missed his cue completely!’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that,’ she said, still preoccupied.

  ‘You’re not finding it a bore?’

  She looked at him in confusion. ‘Not at all. I was enjoying it very much. It’s just –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The actress playing Hester – is that the one you thought was terribly good?’

  ‘Indeed. You disagree?’

  ‘No, no, she’s wonderful . . . I just have a feeling I’ve seen her before.’

  ‘She’s quite well known – Nina Land.’ The name triggered no recognition in Madeleine. ‘Perhaps you saw her photograph in one of the illustrated newspapers,’ suggested Tom.

  She nodded, still wondering; she was not in the habit of reading newspapers. Tom had reached the counter, and was trying to catch the barman’s eye when he heard his name called. He looked round to see Jimmy’s old pal Peter Liddell, offering a little salute from the other end of the bar and pointing to a bottle of champagne he had on the go. Tom turned back to Madeleine.

  ‘There’s a friend I’ve just spotted over there. D’you mind if we join him?’

  Madeleine signalled her willingness, and they wriggled their way through the press of bodies. Peter, who had the stooped posture of one conscious of his lankiness, greeted them with a benign smile.

  ‘Peter, hullo. This is, um, Madeleine Farewell.’

  ‘Miss Farewell – very pleased to meet you!’ he said, offering her his hand. After László, Tom liked Peter the best of all Jimmy’s friends, who tended to be rather strong meat. He had been grateful to Peter from the first time they met, nearly ten years ago, when he had openly encouraged Jimmy to give him, a perfect stranger, a job as his secretary.

  Peter nodded at a little coterie of men chatting away in the corner. ‘We’ve got a bottle of pop open,’ he said. ‘Will you have a glass?’ He began pouring.

  ‘Are you a theatre person, too?’ she asked.

  Peter laughed. ‘Don’t be deceived by these matinee-idol looks. I’m actually a doctor.’

  Madeleine smiled. ‘I suppose you get people coming to you with all sorts of imaginary complaints.’

  ‘Of course!’ he replied. ‘Though I’d say about eighty per cent of them were from our friend Jimmy – I’m sure Tom’s told you about him.’

  ‘Are you his doctor, then?’

  ‘Used to be,’ Peter said. ‘His ailments were so many and various it became practically a full-time job. If I hadn’t stopped being his doctor I think it would have killed me – or else I would have killed him.’ He nodded at Tom. ‘I don’t know how this fellow has managed to stick with him all these years. He’s too saintly.’

  Tom made a grimace. ‘Not really. And it might not be for that much longer.’ Even as he spoke he regretted it. Peter’s confiding manner had tempted him to candour, and now his widened eyes couldn’t have looked more intrigued.

  ‘So you’re going to leave him?’

  ‘For God’s sake don’t say anything – please. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, you know, and . . . now might be the time.’

  ‘Have you been arguing?’

  Tom made a sound that was half-sigh, half-snort. ‘We’re always arguing. I don’t know, it’s like . . . being stuck in a bad marriage.’

  He felt Madeleine’s eyes upon him as he spoke, and wondered how that admission would sound to her.

  ‘Well, it’s difficult,’ said Peter, ‘but it could be for the best . . . Jim’ll be upset, of course – he’s come to depend on you.’

  Tom, trying to reassure himself, said, ‘I’ll just have to find the right moment.’

  Peter gave a slow sympathetic nod, and Tom changed the subject.

  ‘How d’you like the play?’

  ‘Not bad, the odd Victorian creak notwithstanding. Nina Land is superb, I think.’

  ‘Isn’t she! Madeleine here thought she might know her.’

  Madeleine blushed. ‘Oh, I’m probably mistaken . . .’

  Peter, seeing her awkwardness, said kindly, ‘She’s got one of those faces, hasn’t she? I remember Jim raving about her in something a few years ago.’

  ‘He’s always been quick to spot talent,’ said Tom, mindful of giving Jimmy his due.

  ‘We’re meant to be meeting him later,’ said Peter. ‘Why don’t you join us?’

  Tom looked to Madeleine. ‘A drink after the show?’

  Wanting to be agreeable, she smiled. ‘That would be nice.’

  The interval bell had just rung. Peter downed his glass and said, ‘Righto. I have to look after this lot’ – he gestured at his contingent behind him – ‘but I’ll see you at my club. You know the Nines on Dover Street?’

  Tom nodded, and they dispersed in the direction of their seats. Madeleine, having observed Peter’s manner and the company he kept, now wondered if Tom was queer too. Devotion to the theatre wasn’t necessarily a sign, though the business did attract a certain type. He dressed with care, and he seemed on very familiar terms with Peter. Perhaps what most inclined her to think so was his behaviour towards her. He was friendly, and had nice manners; he didn’t try to peek down her dress, as other men did, or stand too close. She had become used to men giving her the eye, the ravenous gleam that meant they wanted to possess you or, if the mood went the other way, do you in.

  The play had resumed, and again her attention was held by the actress playing the lover: Nina something. She’s got one of those faces, Peter had said. Had she met her at Roddy’s club? An ever-changing traffic of women flowed through the place, dancers, waitresses, street girls, it was hard to keep up with them all. She felt sure she hadn’t spoken to her, yet she recognised her voice, slightly husky, quiet at first, then raised . . . she had been on her way out . . . her way out. She leaned forward in her seat, staring hard. Oh God, it was her. That afternoon in the Imperial. It was the woman who had knocked on the door. The voice that had saved her life. She had nearly run the woman down in her rush to get out of there. Now Madeleine remembered the face, and the startled expression as she careered past her.

  She found her breathing had become shallow as the panic returned. The bruises on her neck had faded, but how she had come by them remained vividly present. The insect-blackness of his eyes, the hands bunched about her throat, the droplet of his sweat feathering her cheek . . . She felt her stomach lurch, and the dizzying approach of nausea. Grasping Tom’s arm for leverage she rose, amid bemused murmurings, managed to whisper that she had to get some air and stumbled across him towards the aisle, hardly seeing, but moving headlong.

  Absorbed in the drama, Tom had not noticed Madeleine’s turmoil, and was taken aback by her sudden barging exit. What on earth was the matter? He had sensed an uneasiness in her just before the interval, but she seemed to recover herself once they got to the bar. He experienced a moment’s indecision. The play was gravitating to its climax, and he was loath to miss it; on the other hand, she might be in real distress, in which case –

  He found her outside, sitting on a fire-door step, head bowed, her shoulders rising with her deep breaths. He called her name, softly, and she looked up. The colour had fled from her face.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She closed her eyes, and nodded. ‘I’m sorry . . . I thought I was going
to be sick.’

  ‘It wasn’t the excitement of the play, was it?’

  She gave a pained half-smile. ‘I don’t know what it was – I just had a moment of – panic.’

  ‘Panic?’

  She had not meant to say that, because it invited a question. She gave her head a little shake, as though to dismiss the word. ‘I sometimes have these . . . turns, when I’m in public.’ She was making it up on the spot, but his grave expression indicated he believed her completely.

  ‘Oh dear – that sounds like what I’ve got!’

  She felt awful about lying to him, the more so for knowing his own illness to be the real thing. But she had been forced to bluff. If she told him the truth about her encounter with the actress, he would naturally wonder what she was doing at a hotel in the middle of the afternoon. And it was important to her that he didn’t know how she earned a living. She wanted to be just an ordinary girl to him. They continued sitting on the step for a few moments, looking down whenever the footsteps of a passer-by below sounded in their ears. Tom gave his watch a furtive glance.

  ‘D’you think you might like to go back in?’ he said.

  The shake of her head was decisive. ‘But please – don’t let me stop you,’ she added, catching his eye.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said, smothering a surge of disappointment. ‘Perhaps we should stroll for a while – some fresh air might restore you.’

  He helped her to stand, and as she rose she had to keep down a dangerous lurch in her gullet: unbearable to be sick in front of him. She felt his eyes nervously upon her as they began to walk, her hand light in the crook of his elbow. Tom wondered if Madeleine’s discomposure had something to do with her recognising Nina Land, but he sensed how little she would welcome his prying. So he paid her the courtesy of silence instead. They had reached the Strand when he looked at her again.

  ‘We could take up Peter’s invitation and pole over to the Nines . . .’

  ‘I don’t think I can face it,’ she replied, and felt another stab of guilt on seeing his crestfallen expression. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a quick drink before I go home.’