If the name of Clifford Stein made her apprehensive, the mere mention of Finlay Crawford made her feel slightly faint. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I think you’re pulling my leg. How on earth did you get an invitation to Clifford Stein’s house? You’re just chorus, like me.’
Gareth smiled. ‘I also went to Charterhouse with Clifford Stein’s son, Martin. We became very good friends at school and we’ve stayed in touch. Martin wanted to become an actor as well, but his father put his foot down. He said that being an actor is no job for an adult; he insisted that Martin go to Cambridge and then follow him into the business side of showbusiness rather than the show part of it. I don’t think Martin’s ever forgiven him for it, but they rub along fairly well despite that.’
‘He’s probably right,’ Meg said. ‘About acting not being a job for adults. It’s all about dressing up and pretending to be somebody else. I used to love doing that as a child, and I suppose I’ve never really grown out of it.’
‘Me neither,’ Gareth said. ‘Say you’ll come.’
They started to walk back to the guesthouse. ‘If I do, you must promise me that if you see me floundering you’ll leap in and rescue me.’
‘You have my word as a gentleman.’
‘And are you a...’ She looked him closely, nodding slowly. ‘Yes, I think you are. All right, I’ll come.’
They reached the guesthouse and started to climb the steps for the front door. ‘Oh, great Heavens!’ Meg said.
‘What?’
‘What on earth am I going to wear?’
Gareth started to laugh, and he was still laughing when she left him at his room and took the torturous route up to her own.
She pursed her lips and applied her lipstick, red but not too obvious. She blotted her mouth with a handkerchief and studied the effect in the mirror. She was always critical of her own appearance. She considered her nose too long, her mouth too wide and her eyes too close together, but tonight even she had to admit that she looked quite presentable. She’d given her hair a rinse with a bottle of beer to bring out the chestnut highlights of the otherwise ordinary brown, and put it up in a french pleat, which combined with the simple black dress she wore, gave her an almost sophisticated appearance.
She could not believe how nervous she felt. Finlay Crawford! The name kept repeating over and over in her mind like a jukebox record with the needle stuck. Finlay Crawford was probably Britain’s most famous and best loved figures in musical theatre. Even now, in his fifties, he could still pack in the crowds and treat them to a magical performance. She’d only seen him once on stage, in a touring version of Rogers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma, and in the version she saw he took the part of Jud Fry, rather than the lead role of Curly, but his interpretation of the part was astonishing. He stalked the stage with a virility that had many of the women in the audience in a swoon. It was certainly the most powerful performance by an actor she’d ever seen. And his voice! A rich baritone with a slight Scottish burr that sent shivers down her spine.
She shook her head in wonder. There were a hundred butterflies doing a May dance in her stomach, and her knees were trembling. ‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she chided herself. A persistent little voice nagged at her from the back of her mind, reminding her of all the times in her life when she’d either embarrassed or made a fool of herself. It was a very thorough little voice, dragging up moments from her distant childhood she’d thought forgotten.
‘Oh, for goodness’s sake, Meg!’ she said to her reflection. ‘You’ll be fine. You’re an actress. Just act – cool and sophisticated. Think Audrey Hepburn.’ She grinned at herself as the excitement bubbled up inside her again. Whatever happened, this would be a night to remember.
She was still grinning and thinking Audrey Hepburn when her image in the mirror began to change. At first she thought it was her breath, steaming up the glass, and then it appeared that there were fine lines, thin as cobwebs covering her face, aging her, greying and wrinkling her skin. Gradually the greyness became more solid and she could see another face, thin and gauze-like, overlaying her own. As the image gained substance it completely covered her own until it appeared she was looking through the eyes of the superimposed face.
It was the face of a young woman, pretty, but thin, gaunt and indescribably sad. Meg was suddenly overwhelmed by a devastating sense of melancholy, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes and a constricting of her throat as she fought back the urge to cry.
There was a tap at her door. She started and glanced around; when she looked back the grey face was gone. She went to answer the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, convincing herself that the face in the mirror was nothing more than an illusion, a hallucination brought about by an over-active imagination. When she finally opened the door she was smiling but not convinced.
Gareth stood there looking handsome in a dark lounge suit, crisp white shirt and burgundy tie. He’d brushed his unruly, curly hair and flattened it to his head with pomade.
‘Very smart,’ Meg said, and then glanced down at her dress, which to her felt dowdy. ‘Will I do?’
‘You’ll do very nicely. Black suits you.’
‘Not too funereal, then?’
‘Not as you’d notice. The taxi will be here in five minutes. If you’re ready we might as well wait downstairs.’
‘Whatever you say.’ She gathered up her coat from where she’d laid it on the bed, took one last look at the mirror, and closed the door behind her, twisting the key in the lock and slipping it into her clutch bag.
They were halfway down the stairs when Gareth slapped his hand against his forehead. ‘Wallet!’ he said.
‘Jacket pocket?’
He shook his head. ‘Dressing table. I won’t be a moment,’ he said and retraced his steps.
Meg carried on down. She reached the front door and opened it but the street outside was empty. She looked along the road but there was no sign of the taxi.
‘Going out again?’ Mrs Gafney came up behind her.
Meg glanced back and said, ‘Yes,’ in as dismissive a manner as she could manage.
It had no effect on Mrs Gafney. ‘You look very pretty, I must say. Going somewhere nice?’
‘Gareth’s taking me to a party.’
This earned her a frown from the landlady. ‘Is he indeed? And where is this party?’
They’d come back inside the house and were standing at the bottom of the stairs. Meg was straining to hear if Gareth was coming, but the stairs remained silent. Mrs Gafney tapped her foot impatiently, awaiting an answer to her question.
‘Actually, it’s at the house of one of Gareth’s friends, Clifford Stein, the West End impresario. Finlay Crawford’s going to be there.’ It was deliberate name-dropping, designed to impress the woman into shutting up. The response, however, was not what Meg was expecting. Mrs Gafney glanced up at the stairs then leaned forward, grabbing Meg by the arm and pulling her close.
‘Don’t go!’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Pretend you’ve got a headache… pretend you’re ill, but don’t go.’
‘Why ever not?’ Meg said, pulling her arm away from the woman’s grasp.
‘I was an actress like you. I was young once, believe it or not, and I know about Finlay Crawford… I know things about him you wouldn’t want to repeat in polite company. He’s ruined many a promising career has that one.’
Meg was still in shock that this blowsy, battered old woman was once an actress. What she was saying about Finlay Crawford took longer to register. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to the older woman. ‘But I am going. I’ve promised Gareth now and it would be awfully rude to let him down at the last minute.’
‘Let who down?’ Gareth said, appearing at the top of the stairs clutching the wallet triumphantly in his fist. Mrs Gafney glared at Meg again and said, ‘Well don’t say you haven’t been warned.’ She retreated to her room and slammed the door.
‘What was all that about?’ Gareth said as he joined M
eg at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Did you know she used to be an actress?’
‘Who? Old Mother Gafney?’
‘Yes. When she was younger.’
‘Great Heavens! Well, I suppose anything is possible.’
Further conversation was halted by the taxi driver rapping on the letterbox.
‘That’s us,’ Gareth said, grinning as he opened the door. ‘Nervous?’
‘Shaking like a leaf,’ Meg said truthfully.
‘Don’t be,’ Gareth said, ushering her inside the waiting cab. ‘They’re very nice people.’
He leaned forward in his seat, gave the driver the address then sat back, taking a silver cigarette case from his inside pocket. ‘Do you use these?’ he said offering the open case to Meg. She shook her head. ‘Very wise. Filthy habit. You don’t mind if I do?’
‘Go ahead.’ she said. ‘I don’t smoke, but I love the smell.’
He lit the cigarette with a slim gold lighter and blew smoke out through the half-open taxi window. ‘Soon be there.’
Meg was clutching a handkerchief in her sweating palm, moving it from hand to hand. ‘Good,’ she said with an enthusiasm she, curiously, didn’t feel.
June Gafney poured herself another schooner of sherry and went into the bedroom. She put the glass on the dressing table and knelt down, stretching her arm out under the bed. Her fingers closed around the handle of the suitcase and she pulled it out. The leather was starting to decay, rotting to a fine powder at the corners despite the metal reinforcements. The case was tan and covered in a thick coating of dust, bearing testimony to the years it had lain there undisturbed. She brushed off the worst of the dust and got to her feet. Picking up her glass and taking another mouthful of Amontillado, she carried the suitcase through to the kitchen, setting it down on the red Formica-covered table.
She pulled up a kitchen chair and sat down before the case, prising the catches back with her thumbs. The clasps flicked up and she lifted the lid. She hadn’t seen the contents of the case for more than ten years, and as she lifted out a baby’s bonnet and Christening shawl emotion caught at the back of her throat and she felt the pricking of tears in her eyes. She laid the garments down carefully, almost reverently on the garish tabletop and moved on to the next layer.
There was a bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon, an old battered, one-eyed teddy bear, a few schoolbooks filled with stories and poems, all written in a careful but child-like hand. Beneath these was a pair of pink ballet shoes and a pair of black patent leather taps. The case was an entire history of a life. Her daughter’s life.
At the bottom of the case was a scrapbook, bulging with photographs, press cuttings and theatre programmes. A record of that same life in show business – a business that would ultimately destroy her and leave June Gafney with a gaping chasm in her soul, that only a steady stream of casual men friends and copious amounts of sherry could bridge.
They could see the house from the road. Standing high upon the cliff overlooking the sea, Clifford Stein’s home was a structure of concrete and glass, very much in the deco mould of the 1930’s but with a twist that gave it a very contemporary, almost futuristic, look. Every room in the place seemed to be lit and from its perch on the cliff-top the house seemed to glow like a beacon.
‘Is that it?’ the taxi driver asked.
‘That’s it,’ Gareth said and then turned to Meg. ‘Well? What do you think?’
She bit her lip pensively. ‘Daunting,’ she said.
‘Take a right here,’ Gareth said to the driver. ‘The lane takes you right to the door.’
The lane was steep and winding and seemed to go on forever. When the taxi finally drew to a halt outside the house Meg gave an audible sigh of relief.
They got out and Gareth paid the driver, giving him a hefty trip, then, entwining her arm in his, led Meg up the path to the house.
Their ring was answered almost at once by a butler who took their name and ushered them inside. As they walked into the sumptuous entrance hall they could hear music and laughter and it was obvious the party was in full swing. Meg was preoccupied taking in her surroundings. There were works of art on the wall; modern abstracts that defied understanding, and placed at various intervals were spindly bronze sculptures that she found quite ugly and intimidating.
The butler took their coats and led them through the house. The party, it seemed, was at the rear of the massive house.
‘Gareth!’
They both spun round to see a young man running down a flight of stairs towards them. Gareth’s face split into a grin and he stepped forward, spreading his arms wide. ‘Martin! You old...’
‘Watch it’ Martin said as they embraced. ‘Ladies present. And, if I might say, a very pretty one.’
Meg lowered her eyes, embarrassed.
‘She’s with me,’ Gareth said.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Martin held his old friend at arms length. ‘What are you telling me here?’
Gareth smiled. ‘I’m telling you nothing of the sort. We’re both appearing at the Palace and staying at the same digs. I knew you wouldn’t mind if I brought her along.’
‘No. Not at all. But an introduction would be nice... not to say courteous.’
‘Of course. Forgetting my manners,’ Gareth said and made the formal introductions.
‘Right,’ Martin said. ‘Now that’s out the way, come and join the party.’ He put his arm around the both of them and led them through the house.
The room containing the party was huge and filled with people standing in small groups deep in conversation, drinking champagne from elegant crystal flutes, whilst waiters drifted amongst them filling glasses and offering trays of delicious looking canapés. Large french doors were open and the party had spilled out of the room with more people congregating on the veranda. In the corner of the room was a white grand piano and a young man in a dinner suit was playing a medley of show tunes. A man Meg recognised from the television and two women she didn’t, were standing at the piano, singing along to the music with fine, trained voices, whilst still more people stood encircling them, an avid and appreciative audience.
‘I don’t know where the old man is,’ Martin said. ‘But let me get you a drink. Champagne all right for you both?’
Meg was hesitant. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, live a little,’ Gareth said with a hint of exasperation in his voice.
‘All right then,’ Meg said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Is he here?’ Gareth asked Martin.
‘Who? Finlay? Yes, he’s here.’ He glanced quickly about the room. ‘Don’t know where though. Probably with the old man discussing business. That’s why he’s here. He’s got it in mind to mount a series of musicals in the West End and wants the Stein Organization to back him. Anyway, those drinks...’ He collared a passing waiter and took two glasses from his tray and handed them to Gareth and Meg.
The trio at the piano were singing songs from High Society. Meg sipped her champagne and looked about the room. It seemed to contain half of London’s theatre world. She recognised actors, singers, costumiers, at least two choreographers, and standing by the french doors, a woman who she’d never seen before but whose beauty and presence eclipsed all those around her.
The woman was holding court, surrounded by a small crowd who seemed hungry for her attention. She was tall and slender with hair so close cropped it fitted her head like a helmet, dark and sleek. Meg couldn’t drag her eyes away from the woman’s startling beauty, and, as if aware she was being observed, the woman looked slowly about the room before fixing Meg with a curious stare.
Meg averted her eyes instantly but it was too late. Eye contact couldn’t be avoided and the woman was now aware that Meg had been watching her. Feeling flustered and blushing with embarrassment she sipped her champagne and tried to concentrate on the conversation Gareth was having with Martin. She soon realized that they were reliving their glory days at Charterhouse and were speaking about peop
le she didn’t know.
She moved away from them, going back out to the hall. She needed the bathroom but was not sure where to start looking. The problem was solved when she saw the butler emerge from one of the rooms leading from the entrance area. He was polite and helpful, directing her upstairs.
The staircase was wide and plushly carpeted, leading up through the centre of the house. The banisters swooped down in graceful arcs, polished mahogany, supported by a lattice of black wrought iron. A huge crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling at the top of the stairs, and lining the walls were more of the abstract paintings that hung in the hall. It was a curious mixture of old and new, of the classic and the starkly modern.
The bathroom, in contrast to the hall was simple and functional. The tiles were plain white, as was the suite, and the taps were modern chromium. She washed her hands in the sink and dried them on towels warmed on a heated rail.
As she stepped out onto the landing a movement at the far end attracted her attention. A young woman turned the corner at the end of the landing and stood watching Meg. Her long fair hair was parted in the centre and framed a porcelain mask of a face – so much like the face that gazed back at her from the mirror earlier that evening. The young woman raised her hand and beckoned to her, and then moved quickly out of sight. Meg, her thoughts spinning, ran to catch up with her, turning the corner at the end of the landing and finding herself in a long corridor, lined with doors. There was a slight movement at the end of the corridor, a flutter of pale material.
‘Wait!’ she called, and ran the length of the corridor.
She turned the corner and almost pitched headlong down a flight of stairs. She managed to grab the banister rail, but lost her shoe. It bounced and clattered down the stairs and skidded across the lino-covered floor at the bottom.
She paused to catch her breath, took off her other shoe to carry it, and walked down the stairs. At the bottom she found herself in another corridor, but this one painted a deep burgundy, and poorly lit by a single unshaded bulb. At the far end was a large door, oak, heavily panelled and imposing. A shiver passed down her spine. There was something unsettling about that door. She felt that behind it there were secrets she had no desire to discover. But it was the only place the young woman could have gone and she desperately wanted to talk to her, to find out who she was.
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