by Laura Wood
“And I suppose I’m not?” I throw the words down like a gauntlet, trying to fake a confidence I don’t feel.
“I’m sure that’s not—” Alma begins.
“Well, I don’t think we’re doing her any favours pretending she’s a real talent,” Viola breaks in, tilting her chin up. “It’s ridiculous having someone so inexperienced as an understudy. I can’t understand why Mr Cantwell fusses over her.” She shoots me a look that is not one of dislike so much as one of perplexity. “If you want my advice you should stick to costumes.” She jumps to her feet then and throws some coins on to the table. “I’m going back,” she says. “Some of us have a performance tomorrow.”
We sit in silence while she leaves. Then Kit says awkwardly, “Don’t let her bother you, Freya.” He rubs his forehead in a tired gesture. I notice that his fingers are flecked with black ink stains. “Tensions always start running high this far into the tour.”
The others murmur in agreement, and gently return to a discussion of America and the opportunities it might offer.
I stare down into my drink as they chatter. Maybe Viola just said what they are all thinking. That I’ll never be any good, no matter how hard I work.
I can hear the blood pumping through me, the dull thump of my heartbeat as I wrestle with a feeling that threatens to overwhelm me.
Then I straighten my spine. Viola is wrong. I’ll be onstage one day, and when I am, she’ll eat her words. I’ll make sure of it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I spend the following day trying very hard to stay busy and not to think of Viola’s words, words that struck at some deeply vulnerable part of me. Fortunately, this evening is my dinner with Russ, which provides an excellent distraction. I feel strange about it – a little nervous, a little excited. I have already decided to throw myself into it, the romance of it all. Russ is practically a paper cut-out of the perfect man, and so – for tonight, at least – I will be the perfect girl on his arm. Perhaps I’ll get swept up in the feelings that dominate so many of my favourite stories – the passion, the desire, the soul-searing connection between two people. I can give it a go, at least.
After the performance, my head full of kisses and whirling music, I head to the wardrobe closet to get changed, and I find Nora there waiting for me.
“I hear you have a big evening planned,” she says.
“I don’t know about that,” I reply. “After all, Russ is the one doing the planning.”
She laughs. “I know you don’t need yet another person warning you off, but…”
I hold up my hand to stop her. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. I know who Russ is. I want to take a little risk. I don’t have any stories of my own yet, and you all have so many! Whatever his faults, Russ is a story. I like him, when he’s not taking himself too seriously.”
“Fair enough,” Nora says. “But for what it’s worth, I like the stories you already have. The ones about your family and your friends. Don’t confuse drama with living, Freya. That’s all I’m going to say.” She grins. “Well, that, and if you are going to go out for dinner with Russ for the story, then you should wear something sensational. Something to make him sit up and take notice.”
“I don’t own anything sensational.” It has actually been a bit of a sore point for me, because when one is determined to live out a fantasy, one imagines doing it in something other than an old frock that doesn’t quite fit because two older sisters have worn it first.
“Don’t I know it.” Nora gives me a pained look. “You must start making your own clothes, Freya, you’ve got such a good eye, and these old hand-me-downs you wear do nothing for you.” While she’s talking she’s riffling through the clothes rail and then she pulls something from the rack. It is an evening dress the colour of saffron strands, sleeveless with a trailing bow holding one shoulder together, and falling into a long tulle skirt, embroidered with a design of golden petals.
“Oh, my,” I say.
Nora looks pleased. “I know. It’s one of mine.”
“Nora, you’re so good.” I stroke the material with reverent fingers.
“I know that too. Now, get out of that horrible thing.”
I slip out of my cheap (but quite pretty, I’ll not concede everything to Nora) dress, and stand in my underwear as Nora lowers the frothy golden concoction over my head.
There is the merest sigh of silk as it slips down over my hips, and then Nora begins fussing with the straps and the fall of the dress. It fits beautifully, falling just above my ankles. I peer past Nora into the mirror, admiring my reflection.
“That’s enough of that,” Nora chides. “You and Russ can’t both spend the whole night admiring your own reflections in every shiny surface.” She returns to the clothes rail, and despite her advice, my eyes drift back to the mirror.
“These,” she says firmly, producing a pair of strappy gold sandals. “And these,” a small beaded bag and a winter green wrap follow. “Now, sit.” She pushes me down into the seat by the small dressing table.
“You’re so bossy,” I grumble.
“Save all of us clever, resourceful, confident women from that horrible word,” she replies. She begins brushing out my hair. “I think you should wear it down, actually.”
“It’s not fashionable,” I say doubtfully. “If you’re going full Fairy Godmother you should throw in a haircut too.”
“Don’t cut it,” Nora says. “It suits you this way. Fashion is not something you should follow blindly, Freya. You can make it yourself.” She pulls one side away from my face and pins it, and then she starts on my make-up. More brisk orders. “Look down. Look up. Turn this way. For god’s sake, Freya, stop talking for five seconds so I can do your lipstick.” And so on, and so on.
“Right, then, Cinderella – if that’s who you are – I think you’re ready.”
I jump to my feet, smoothing down my skirt and giving myself another once over in the mirror. I barely recognize myself. Nora has used kohl to make my eyes look enormous, and the gold in the dress makes my hair even lighter than usual, a stream of almost silver. There are butterflies in my stomach, all of a sudden, as though I’m about to go onstage. But then, I suppose this is the perfect costume. If you’re going to have an evening of romance it should really be in a cloud of golden tulle. I feel like the ballerina in the middle of a jewellery box.
“Thank you, Nora,” I say, and she squeezes my arm.
“Just behave,” she says. “Don’t let the dress go to your head.”
I emerge into the corridor and begin making my way through the throngs of performers and crew. Lindsey whistles as I walk past and flashes me a wink, and a girl I don’t know stops me to compliment my dress in awed tones. There are some less polite catcalls from the male crew, but I sweep past them, channelling Eileen Turner at her most regal.
I head towards the stage door where I’ve arranged to meet Russ, and find that my heart is pounding. Surely pounding hearts and sweating palms are all signs of romance. And I suddenly wonder whether he will kiss me. The thought makes me feel tingly. Another good sign.
I step out into the shock of the cold air. Although it’s been a while since the performance finished, there are still a few hopeful audience members waiting with their autograph books in hand. Heads swing to look at me for a moment, clearly thrown by my glamorous appearance, before coming to the conclusion that I am simply a well-dressed nobody.
“Freya?” The word comes from my left, and I turn to see Kit. He’s holding a cigarette in one hand and leaning against the wall. For some reason, nerves probably, my pulse stutters alarmingly.
“Hello,” I say. He is looking at me very oddly. “What are you doing out here?”
He lifts the cigarette. “Just needed some air,” he says.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, unthinkingly taking a step towards him.
“It’s just been a long day,” he says. Then, after a pause, and in a low voice: “Viola and I had a disagreement. I think I upset her. I hat
e that. I don’t…” He trails off, and there’s something in those winter grey eyes of his that looks like pain.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “You look nice,” he says, clearly changing the subject.
I do a little spin. “All Nora, of course.”
“I don’t think she can take quite all of the credit.”
“Just most of it?”
“I don’t know.” His smile is real again now. “I think most of it is just you.”
“There you are!” a voice booms, and the mass fluttering and twittering of the autograph hunters before me tells me that Russ has arrived.
I turn around to face him, and his eyes travel slowly over me. He is devastating in a dinner suit, his dark hair curling over his collar.
“Well, well, well,” he says, looking like the proverbial cat. “Just give me a moment, will you, darling?” He turns the full beam of his charm on to the gathering of fans. They look dazzled and I can see why. When Russ makes his mind up to charm you, it is like nothing else.
Kit stands beside me, watching as Russ signs autographs, smiling his enchanting smile. “Have a good time tonight,” he says.
“Don’t you want to warn me off him?” I ask. “I promise you, everyone else has.”
“I don’t need to warn you off anyone, Freya,” he says lightly. “You should make whatever decisions you want.” He grins at me. “And, anyway, you and I both know you’re not going to get your heart broken by a man as trivial as Russell Whitmore.”
“I’m not?” I say. “That’s a shame. Experiencing heartbreak would probably enrich my performance no end.”
Kit laughs and shakes his head. “Be careful what you wish for. Have fun,” he says, dodging round the group huddled about Russ and heading back inside.
For a second I look after him, wishing that he and I were going out for dinner instead. Everything is so easy with Kit.
Russ appears at my elbow, leaning down to kiss me lightly on the cheek. “Sorry about that,” he murmurs. “Fans.” He says it with a grimace, but he can’t disguise his obvious enjoyment. “And may I say, you look ravishing?”
“You may,” I reply as he touches my elbow, guiding me lightly down the street. “You do too,” I add, because of course he does. His hair falls just right over his forehead, his jacket fits him like a glove, emphasizing his broad shoulders, his white teeth flash, perfect like a toothpaste advert. He is like a collection of beautiful parts: difficult to take him all in at once. The effect is overwhelming.
I feel as though a Hollywood icon has stepped out of the screen and taken me by the arm. And I am enjoying it; of course I am, I’m eighteen and wearing a beautiful dress and there’s a handsome man taking me out for dinner and dancing. My heartbeat accelerates at the thought of it all. I feel, I realize, quite like someone else.
The restaurant Russ takes me to is exactly what I had imagined – white tablecloths, heavy silverware, dim lighting. We’re seated at a table in the corner, and I get the impression that Russ arranged it that way – and not for the first time. He pulls out my chair for me, his hand brushing against the bare skin at the top of my arm, just for a second.
As he sits down opposite me, and orders drinks from the waiter, I look about with interest at the crowd, mostly older, well-dressed, and already on to their desserts – thanks to the play, we’re eating decadently late.
“I like this place,” I say.
“I’m glad,” he smiles, as the waiter returns and hands me a perfectly chilled saucer of champagne with a twist of lemon and a sugar cube in the bottom. Of course the girl in the golden dress drinks cocktails.
Russ lifts his glass, and winks at me over the top. I take a sip, and it is sweet and delicious, melting the tension from my body.
“So, this is where you take all your girls?” I ask, admiring the monogram embroidered on the perfectly pressed tablecloth.
Russ chokes on his drink, and I look up.
“Sorry,” I say. “Is it bad form to mention the other girls?”
“It’s … not typical,” Russ admits, a gleam of laughter in his eye.
I think about that. “I won’t ask about them, then.” I lean my elbows on the table. “I want to be very typical tonight.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for you to be typical, Freya,” he says. “You are unique.”
“How well you turned that around into a compliment.” I look at him admiringly. “That was very smooth, even if being unique is actually true of every girl.”
“Thank you,” Russ manages, taking another swig of his drink.
I turn my attention to the menu which is large and bound in red leather. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.” Russ’s tone is innocent, but the look he gives me is pure Big Bad Wolf eyeing up Red Riding Hood.
I try for a moment to take him seriously, to simmer in a seductive way, but I can’t help bursting into a laugh that rings around the murmuring quiet of the dining room.
Russ’s mouth tugs up in a rueful smile. “All right,” he says. “None of that. How about if I tell you what’s good on the menu?”
“That I would like,” I say.
It is not long until we have the place mostly to ourselves. A discreet waiter appears at my side to top up my wine glass whenever it is getting low.
Russ is charming and attentive, asking me questions about home, and he seems genuinely interested in the answers.
“Seven siblings?” He grimaces in alarm. “What was that like?”
“Complicated,” I admit. “And noisy. I was always a bit of an odd one out.”
“Me too,” he says, taking a sip from his glass. “I think lots of us actors start off as misfits.”
I like that. Us actors. I like to think of Russ as a misfit, like me.
I ask him about his own childhood but he’s evasive, only letting slip that his family don’t approve of his acting work. I get the impression they’re quite well off. He much prefers to talk about his life in London, the performances he’s been in, the people he knows, the parties he goes to.
“You don’t need to impress me, you know,” I say, chasing a morsel of steak around the plate. “After all, we know each other quite well by now.” I smile at him. “Which must put you at quite a disadvantage when it comes to seduction.”
“That’s a disadvantage?” He puts a hand to his chest. “Christ, Freya, you know how to wound a man. Are you suggesting you would like me more if you didn’t know the first thing about me?”
“Well, only that I would be more easily dazzled, you know,” I say, a little apologetically. “Like those girls by the stage door. I expect that’s why you make such quick work of the wardrobe assistants usually.”
A frown briefly mars his perfect brow, and then, reluctantly, he laughs.
“You are direct, Freya,” he says. “I’ll give you that.”
I can see that he has decided to find me amusing, and from then on everything is easy, so easy. The wine we’re drinking is good, red and spicy, warm on my tongue, and it leaves me feeling boneless.
Without knowing exactly when it happened I realize Russ is holding my hand across the white linen tablecloth, toying lightly with my fingers. On the one hand it is sending quite interesting little tingles up my arm, and on the other it is preventing me from being able to properly attack the towering dessert that has been placed in front of me – all thick cream and whisper-light meringue.
“Dessert first,” I say sternly.
Russ’s smile is one of delight.
After we’ve finished eating, he orders brandies. They come in wide glasses, swirling amber and sending a shot of heat right down to my toes. It all feels impossibly grown up. I sit there, twirling my glass and feeling sophisticated.
“So this is what a romantic evening feels like,” I say dreamily.
Russ chuckles. “We’re not done yet, you know.” This time the look he gives me is much more effective, a warm pulse in my belly.
There’s no one
else left in the restaurant now. The waiter hangs back, waiting for the gesture to get the bill. The candles have burned down in their silver candlesticks, and the soft music continues to buzz in the background.
While Russ pays for dinner I slip off to the loo where I touch up my red lipstick. The girl looking back at me in the mirror sparkles, young and alive, and exactly as I imagined I could be. I feel a million miles away from Freya Trevelyan.
When we leave the restaurant, Russ gently places my wrap around my shoulders, his hand sliding down my arm. I watch it with a sort of fascination – how practised he is, how utterly polished.
He “knows a little place” where we go to dance.
It’s nothing like as classy as the restaurant we’ve just been to. A tiny door in an unappealing alley, jazz music, scattered and sultry, rippling through the air in a smoky little bar. We dance close together, and I can feel the heat of his body. It feels intimate, that heat, coming off his skin. I am taut, full of anticipation for … something.
By the time we leave I have no idea what time it is. The sky is pitch black, stars wheeling overhead. The dim light of the street lamps reflect off the road. It must have rained at some point because we skip around oil-slick puddles, hand in hand.
When we reach our digs, Russ doesn’t hesitate. He kisses me.
The kiss is very good. Then again one doesn’t expect a man like Russ to kiss badly. I lean into him, wrapping my arms around his neck. The kiss deepens. I feel again that sense that I am playing a part as I sigh, his hand cupping my cheek. And that that is all wrong – the point was to feel something so that I could act it later. I try to concentrate on the kissing, the breathing, the hands, but part of me feels like I’m not really there at all, like I’m watching a girl in a golden dress being kissed by a handsome man. Finally, I break away.
Russ stares at me, his breathing hard.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” I say, taking a step back.
There’s a beat. Something like disappointment flashes across his face, but it’s quickly replaced by the familiar, charming smile. “You’re very welcome.” He holds the door open for me. We kiss once more, briefly – it feels almost perfunctory at this point – on the landing, and then I slip through the door into my room.