All That She Can See: Every Little Thing She Bakes Is Magic

by Fletcher, Carrie Hope

  There are a few people in particular that I can’t go without mentioning:

  Sam Harris, the playwright. You sat with me in many a coffee shop drinking lattes and eating cake as I wrote this book and you adapted Howard’s End into a play. We kept each other motivated and focused and so much of this book was written under your care. You’re utterly brilliant.

  Scott Paige, my tour husband. I don’t know how many times I’ve said to you ‘I’ll just come for one’ only to end up stumbling home from a casino at 5 a.m., but you always know just when I need a break and you’re always there and happy to provide it! At the same time, you always know when I need to knuckle down and get stuff done which is when you turn up with snacks and drinks from Tesco to keep me going. You’re a true friend and I love you with all my heart!

  Oliver Ormson, I’ve not known you long but from the moment I met you in the audition for The Addams Family… I totally stole your face for this book! Thank you for being cool with Chase Masters stealing your looks and thank you for keeping me relaxed on tour when things are getting stressful. What I would do without you? Who’s to know?!

  Mollie Melia Redgrave… yes, you heard me, REDGRAVE. You’re one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet, let alone call a friend. We’re kindred spirits and we knew it right from the off and I hope Cherry does you and your fabulous name proud. Love you.

  Pete Bucknall, you watched me write this book, sometimes painstakingly, and I thank you for keeping me going when I felt like I would never reach the end. My workaholism often drove you mad but you stuck by me and my books even so. Thank you.

  Also: Paul Wilkins, Anton Zetterholm, Natasha Veselinovic, Alex Banks, Adam Hattan, Gary Caplehorne, Rob Houchen, Jack Howard, Emma Blackery, Louise Jones, Ryan Hutchings, Louise Pentland, Celinde Schoenmaker, Jonny Vickers, Helen Mills, Simon and Nick Loveridge and Jono Bond… you’re all incredible and I have all the love in the world for each and every one of you.

  Finally, a HUGE thanks to you reading this book. An author is nothing without readers, so thank you for choosing my book to read and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it!

  Prologue

  A certain kind of magic is born when the curtains rises. Intoxicated by the smell of the greasepaint and powered by the glow of the footlights, lovers successfully run away, villains get their just desserts and people die in epic stunts and yet live to tell the tale. Thousands pay to sit and be fooled by illusions and still jump to their feet to applaud despite their gullibility. It’s an inexplicable, delicious, addictive power that keeps people entranced and coming back for more, again and again. However, for one theatre on one special night of the year, it’s when the curtain falls that a whole different kind of magic takes the stage. Mice scurry through the gaps in the walls, mirror lights flicker in the small hours of the morning and ghosts roam the wings in search of props from productions long past. When the curtain falls in the Southern Cross Theatre, the lonely stage door man wanders the halls checking each door is firmly bolted. All, that is, except one. He turns the key of dressing room four and swings the door open to find the lights already on and a faint scent of tangerine in the air. A high-backed, green velvet armchair faces the mirrors, hiding the woman in the reflection from view. The man doffs his cap to the red-headed lady and her green eyes sparkle at him.

  ‘You’re here,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry, m’love. I didn’t realise you were still here,’ he says with a wry smile.

  ‘That’s more than alright,’ says her reflection. ‘I’m always glad of the company. It’s rare one finds it these days. Come and sit with me a while, won’t you?’

  ‘Always.’ He walks to the green armchair and swivels it around, only to find it empty, just as it is every year, on this day, when he comes to dressing room four. He sits down and faces the mirror where he watches the woman pull her pink silk dressing gown tighter around her shoulders.

  ‘You look beautiful.’ He smiles, stroking his chin, trying to hide the wrinkles beneath his palm.

  ‘Stop hiding,’ she says, reaching out a hand. ‘I know what you look like and you know that I like it. Seeing you is such a rarity. I can’t bear it when you hide yourself away. It’s almost unfair.’ Her eyes glisten in the yellow light, and he is afraid her tears will spill over.

  ‘Sorry.’ He pulls his hands away and places them on the desk, his fingers splayed apart. ‘I know, I know.’ Every day of his life builds up to seeing her on this night each year and every year he feels like he lets her down. He’s grown older, his skin has wrinkled further, his hair has greyed and yet she’s stayed vibrant and sparkling, full of life and full of love for him.

  ‘Please don’t hide,’ she begs, her fingers pressing up against the glass.

  ‘I won’t ever hide from you. Never,’ he promises, pressing the tips of his fingers against hers, tricking himself into believing that he can feel the warmth of her skin.

  ‘It’s almost time.’ Her voice catches in her throat.

  ‘Already?’ He checks his watch. 11:45pm. Fifteen minutes.

  She nods sadly and stands, her limbs carrying her to the reflection of the door. Her body moves slowly, as if through treacle, every muscle fighting against a force she can’t control, a force that is carrying her away from him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobs, a tear trickling down his weathered cheek.

  ‘Don’t be. All I ask is that you come earlier next year. Just a few more minutes, that’s all I need.’

  ‘I hate letting you go,’ he whispers.

  ‘Our time gets so much shorter and shorter and …’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I feel like I’m losing you.’ She clutches the door frame, fighting the invisible tide that’s crashing against her and forcing her back.

  ‘You will never lose me. Not ever.’

  His gaze follows her reflection as she is pulled from the doorway. He gets to his feet and stumbles forward on his aching knees. A line of mirrors, of all different shapes and sizes have been hung in an uneven line along the corridor walls. He catches a glimpse of her hair in one, the hem of her dressing gown in another and then her pleading eyes in the last one. Where he hasn’t been able to hang mirrors, he’s lined them up on the floor and propped them up against the walls so he can follow her stumbling legs. Some years she takes different routes through the corridors, past different dressing rooms and through different wings, desperately trying to cling to the theatre and the man she loved but ultimately, she is always pulled back to the same fateful place: centre stage. He chases her reflection, sometimes losing her and races backwards, retracing his steps which has become harder and harder every year. So each year he sets up more mirrors in order to keep up with her as her body elegantly bends and bows away from him. It was a dance he had never learnt the right steps to and certainly one he never enjoyed.

  She calls his name and her voice echoes through the corridor as he turns the corner to see her silver shoe stepping through the golden frame of a mirror and delicately touching the floor. Despite the click of the shoe against the stone as she pushes her way out of the frame, he can see the end of the corridor through her body. She is transparent and hazy but her green eyes still dazzle him to his very soul and his lips tremble at the sight of her, now in costume, ready for the stage. The train of her burgundy evening gown sweeps along the floor behind her as she is pulled from him once more, her beautifully coiffed, blonde, wigged head twisting reluctantly away. He hobbles after her but with less desperation than before. Now that she is in costume, nothing can stop her and all he can do is watch from the wings just as he has done every year before. She pulls open the double stage doors and a silence falls over the theatre. Mice stop their scurrying and lights cease their humming. His breath catches as he watches her delicately side step props and set pieces, even though were she to come into contact with anything, she would float right through. She turns to face the stage and slowly the warm glow of the lights fades up and he can see the outline of h
er lovely face. It’s all so achingly familiar – the way her cheeks flush at the thought of stepping out in front of an audience, the way she still touches the bridge of her nose even though she isn’t wearing her glasses and the way her eyes swim when she turns to him and whispers, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s me who couldn’t save you.’ He stumbles forwards, steadying himself against the black painted walls but her smile stills him.

  ‘Oh, but you did, my love.’

  She takes a deep breath and makes her entrance onto the stage. He doesn’t want to watch but the force that had dragged her to this place now has a hold of him too. It gently pulls his body to the spot she had just left. He dodges the props with much less grace but eventually he is manoeuvred into the same position that he takes up every year. Her dress ripples around her young, curved frame and her transparent skin still glows in the light but quickly that light turns blue and cold and the floor becomes slick with a thin layer of dry ice.

  ‘You were never supposed to find out this way,’ she says, her voice sultry and low, no longer her own.

  ‘You didn’t do well to hide it,’ snarls a snide voice from the shadows. A figure steps into the blue light, tweed clad around his slight figure and smoke billowing from the cigar in his right hand. His thick, waxed moustache twitches against his powdered cheeks as his pale blue eyes drink in her beauty.

  ‘Leave her be, god damn it.’ Another man appears in a tuxedo, his hair slicked back, jaw chiselled but his eyes are hollow and don’t appear to focus on her or the man in tweed. He isn’t as present as she is, just a recalled memory, destined to rewind and repeat, year after year. He’s on his knees, his lip bleeding. She runs to him and tries to help him up but his body is heavy.

  ‘Please. Go back inside. Go home. Go anywhere but here.’ She looks behind her and lets her eyes settle on the figure in the wings.

  He watches the three of them on stage. This night was meant to have been a night of triumph. A night of life for their love and a night of death for all that stood in their way. The woman he’d met in the dressing room only moments ago had been replaced by the woman from years before and he wishes that he had seen then the signs that something had been so utterly wrong. She, so usually full of light and hope, so young and oblivious, looked like a woman who was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. He didn’t see it then but he could see it now in this cruel memory. He can see it in the way she’s holding herself and the dullness in her eyes. If only he had noticed all those years ago, he may have been able to stop her but his twenty-two year old self had been so blinded by love and the eagerness to escape to a new life with her, he just hadn’t seen it.

  ‘Yes, Larson. Do as she says.’ The man in tweed smiles, taking a long drag on his cigar, the smoke billowing from his lips as he speaks. Larson stays put.

  ‘Please, Lars. Not here.’

  ‘She’s not yours,’ Larson hisses through gritted teeth and he mouths the line along with him.

  ‘Actually, Lars … I am.’ She holds up her left hand and reveals a large engagement ring that sends slivers of light dancing on the black stage floor. The ghosts of the audience gasp and a few let out audible sobs.

  ‘Eliza … no.’ Larson whispers. ‘NO!’ Larson pulls out a gun from his inside jacket pocket and aims it at the man in tweed. She jumps back, out of the way.

  ‘Oh, Larson.’ The man in tweed sighs and taps his cigar, ash falling to the floor. ‘When will you learn? It doesn’t matter how well you scrub up or how many lavish parties you sneak yourself into. It doesn’t matter how many of London’s finest you rub shoulders with or even how many wealthy women’s beds you wheedle your way into. You will never be good enough.’

  ‘Please don’t listen to him, Lars. Just go back inside.’ She is Eliza now, immersed in her role. She puts her hands on Larson’s arm and tries to lower the gun but Larson holds strong and steady.

  ‘Do you love him?’ Larson asks, not daring to glance away from the other man. Eliza looks at Larson, her eyes filling up but her face unchanging. ‘Do you?’ he demands again.

  ‘I fear you’ll kill him either way.’

  ‘Eliza,’ he breathes. ‘If you tell me yes, how could you think that I would kill the man you love and put you through that misery? No, Eliza. Should you say yes, I will turn this gun on myself and the bullet will be destined for me.’

  More sobs erupt from the auditorium.

  ‘Must we have all this drama? It’s terribly dull. We all know you don’t have the gall to shoot a rabbit let alone a man. Just put the gun down, Larson.’

  ‘Do … you … love … him?’

  ‘I …’ She hesitates and, back in the wings, he feels every nerve ending fizz. That wasn’t her line then and it isn’t her line now. He had wondered then if maybe she’d forgotten but she had never forgotten a line in her entire professional life. Was this the moment she was having second thoughts about their plan? He had wondered all those years ago what could possibly have stopped her from saying the line but today he was watching events unfold while knowing exactly what was running through her head. And he was still powerless to stop what was to come.

  ‘I …’ A tear rolls down her flushed cheek. Her chest rises and pushes against the fabric of her dress. ‘I … do not,’ she says and what happens next is a blur.

  The trigger is pulled, the sound of a gunshot rings out, the lights go out and the gasping audience is plunged into darkness. All of this is as it should have been.

  ‘Bring up the lights! The lights!’ shouts the man playing Larson. There is panic in is voice. Real panic.

  Slowly the lights fade up to reveal her body, centre stage. Her limbs are grotesquely twisted underneath her from where she has fallen and blood is starting to pool and trickle down the stage. The audience erupts into screams and people start to push their way out of the aisles, desperation and fear driving them forward. The crew and actors flood the stage but no one goes to her.

  ‘Get out of here, boy.’

  He feels the hot, wet breath of the company manager on the nape of his neck and can smell the cigarette smoke but when he turns his head all he sees is the darkness of the wing.

  ‘Run.’

  He looks back to the stage and he knows exactly why no one had rushed to her aid that night. He knows why there was a perfect circle of people around her and not one of them dared to close the distance. It wasn’t fear or the amount of blood pouring from her. It was the shock and horror of it all and the simple awful truth that there was no helping her. It was too late. He crouches in the wing, his tears falling onto the dusty floor and he can see that the light and delicious vulnerability that used to live in her eyes, the light that she so happily shared when someone happened to glance her way, was gone.

  His muscles relax and she and all of the other ghosts shimmer and fade and the stage is empty and cold once more. His eyes sting and he wills himself to stop crying. He trudges back through the wing, his step heavy, and sighs at the thought of putting all the mirrors away. He has time though, so he walks past the mirrors, leaving them against the walls, useless to him now, and goes to his desk in his small room just inside stage door. Newspaper cuttings cover every wall. Each one contains news and reviews of various productions of When The Curtain Falls, collected over the years, and clippings of the headshots of its ever-changing cast. He opens the laptop sitting on his desk and it springs into life and by the time he has managed to sink into the armchair, several emails have already pinged into his inbox. He scrolls through but one in particular catches his eye. It’s from the production company that owns the Southern Cross Theatre and the subject line reads ‘Next In – CURTAIN FALLS’. His old heart drums against his ribs with more force than he thought it still had and his veins fill with fire. He opens the email with shaking fingers.

  I am very pleased to announce that once Gone With The Wind closes, April brings with it a brand new revival of When The Curtain Falls. An obscure choice, perhaps, but we’ve discovered th
is play has a cult following, largely due to an accident that occurred during its last production which also happened to be at the Southern Cross Theatre. We think the combination of this connection and our new star-studded cast will pull in the punters!

  We hope you will welcome our new family with open arms, as you always do. Attached is a cast list to help you get acquainted with them all. They start rehearsals in East London at the end of January and will be rehearsing in the theatre from February 12th, ready to open on April 1st.

  Sad to say goodbye to such a successful run of Gone With The Wind but we’re all very excited here about this new production and hope you are too.

  Kind Regards,

  Susie Quentin

  Toast Productions LTD

  He sits back in his chair, his breaths coming fast and quick. It’s only when his gaze settles on the pair of eyes looking out at him from the photo on his desk that he calms down.

  ‘Oh, darling. I wonder what you’ll make of this.’ He picks up the frame and looks at the glint of mischief in her eyes. ‘You’ve caused havoc for the shows you do like and pure hell for the ones you don’t. What will you do when you’re watching someone else play Eliza, especially play Eliza and survive each performance?’ His desk lamp flickers. ‘Come now. You have to play nice. When The Curtain Falls is a good show. All casts are family but this one more so because this is your show. OK?’ His desk lamp flickers again. ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ He clicks on the attachment in the email and scrolls down to find the face of the actress who is destined to play Eliza.