by Kiley Dunbar
‘Well, OK. Jonathan’s mum was an actress here in town and some guy in the company got her pregnant and ditched her. She went back to Oklahoma and raised Jonathan on her own, never had a penny or a sniff of fatherly interest from whoever he was. Anyway, Blythe fell pregnant to some guy in the company too! And she said he was really handsome, like… irresistibly.’
They both turned their eyes back to the book lying open at the portrait as though the spine had been flexed there many times. It was so patently like Jonathan’s image staring back at them, even in the heavy stage make-up – though Jonathan’s features were more refined, his mouth more delicate and curving and he had the unmistakable ruddy health of an actor who spends a lot of time in LA and even more time in the gym.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Kelsey had noticeably paled.
‘Look, it’s a grainy picture, and all these guys look the same in that ridiculous stage make-up with their floppy wigs, pointy-toed shoes and their codpieces… and there must have been hundreds of hot male actors passing through town. One guy can’t be responsible for every surprise baby.’ Even as she spoke Mirren was already on her phone, Googling. ‘Let’s see where this guy is now before we jump to conclusions. He’s probably been happily married to his husband for the last twenty years and living in some luvvies’ retirement community. Oh, Jesus!’ She turned the search results to Kelsey. ‘It’s him. John Wagstaff is the barfly from the Yorick. I know this guy.’
‘He lives in town?’ Kelsey gasped.
‘Yeah, and he’s always talking about how he drank champagne from a satin slipper with Dickie Attenborough or danced a conga at Princess Margaret’s birthday party with John Gielgud and Elizabeth Taylor. I always thought he was lying but…’ Mirren paused, struck with sudden understanding.
‘What?’ Kelsey’s eyes bulged.
Mirren’s mind flitted to Adrian. ‘Somebody told me his stories were all true. He’s a proper celeb around here and he was a big star in eighties sci-fi. Your wee brother would definitely know all about him. But how old is Jonathan?’ Her thoughts raced.
‘He’ll be thirty-three this year.’
‘OK, so it’s feasible Wagstaff was still hot as hell and seducing every young actress in town in the late eighties, right? He’d be in his late forties by then…’
‘And in his twenties when he acted alongside Blythe?’
‘You’d think he’d have learned a thing or two about destroying girls’ lives by the time he met Jonathan’s mum though,’ Mirren added, bitterly. Her mind ticked on. It would be easy enough to do a bit of digging and find out more. With the right help from a local, an insider who knew the town and its people… someone like Adrian Armadale.
‘What are you thinking?’ Kelsey’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘Nothing. Do you really think this could be Jonathan’s dad? You have to tell him.’
‘No. No, I don’t. Not without some proof. You can’t spring something like that on a person.’ Kelsey swigged at her wine, her eyes darting as she thought. ‘I can’t possibly ask Blythe if there were other actresses after her… I mean, she did mention girls leaving their jobs at the theatre in the sixties because of unplanned pregnancies; she told me some of them disappeared entirely…’
‘Like Jonathan’s mum going back to Oklahoma?’ Mirren cut in.
Kelsey worried her bottom lip. ‘I could never ask Blythe about any of that. That would be unforgivable.’
‘We have to do something… Jonathan could meet his real dad as early as Christmas! And old Wagstaff’s not exactly getting any younger – the way he can put away those glasses of sack and ale he’s probably approaching his sell-by date—’
Kelsey interrupted, her cutlery now abandoned by her half-eaten meal. ‘His step-father, Art, is his real dad. That’s what Jonathan says. If Wagstaff is his father, and it’s a big if, he was nothing but the sperm donor.’
‘You said Blythe had a son, and she mentioned having grandsons?’ Mirren’s eyes were aflame now. ‘Jonathan could gain a dad and a half-brother and nephews…’
Kelsey tamped down Mirren’s excitement, feeling the panic rise in her own chest. ‘No, don’t. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Jonathan would be devastated if he thought we’d been snooping into his mum’s secrets. She left England to get away from them. Neither of them would appreciate us throwing this in her face… and we’re most likely wrong anyway. I haven’t even met her yet, for goodness’ sake.’ Kelsey mimed a handshake. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hathaway. Remember that actor who knocked you up in the eighties and abandoned you both, is it this guy by any chance?’ She held up the book. ‘It’s not exactly the best plan for a meeting-your-boyfriend’s-mum scenario, is it? Besides, maybe some dads aren’t worth finding?’
These last words rocked Mirren like a gunshot near her ear, but she tried to hide the flinching feeling. She took a long drink, trying to swallow the memories of her own dad walking out when she was so tiny, and all the waiting and worrying, watching her mum sinking deeper into the bottle. Yes, maybe some dads weren’t worth looking for. It had been almost two decades since she last saw her own father. He hadn’t even called on her birthday this year, even though she had been careful to always keep the same number and to have her phone charged on the day in case she somehow missed him. Her brain dredged up deeply buried memories of his calls on her childhood birthdays – the dread of the phone ringing, then the stilted conversation with the stranger. He’d always phone so late at night that she’d have to wait all day, the nerves spoiling her appetite for jelly and cake and making her little parties with the neighbourhood kids fraught, unhappy, tearful things. No child should hate their own birthdays.
Mirren’s tone had cooled considerably. ‘OK. I promise I won’t say anything to Jonathan, but if we uncovered the truth, you’d have to let him know, right?’
‘He doesn’t want to know or else he’d ask his mum. This is a sleeping dog that really needs to be left well alone.’ Finding she couldn’t sit still any longer, Kelsey scraped the plates into the little kitchen bin, keeping her back turned to Mirren. She didn’t want to admit she simply couldn’t guess how Jonathan might react if she told him their theory; she didn’t know him well enough to be sure, and that irked her. He might be relieved. Maybe his mysterious paternity had been a weight on his mind for a lifetime and now it had become one of those silent sore points he couldn’t discuss at home anymore, too risky to bring up.
Maybe he was just hoping his father would reveal himself to him one day like those adult children you see on Long Lost Family where they meet for the first time and fall into each other’s arms? No. Jonathan was too proud and protective of his mother for that, surely? That’s the impression Kelsey had from the few times he’d spoken of her anyway. The only thing Kelsey was certain of was that he could get hurt, and the thought of causing him a moment’s pain nearly winded her.
‘Let’s leave it,’ Kelsey said, meeting Mirren’s upturned face. ‘We need to get rid of that book, make sure he never sees it.’
Mirren picked it up from the bed, slipping it in her jacket pocket. ‘Consider it gone.’
Kelsey tried to focus on the wine and Mirren’s company for the rest of the evening but everything felt burdened and heavy now. Soon they were saying their goodnights and Mirren was telling Kelsey not to let it worry her and promising again she’d keep quiet about the whole thing. Zipping her jacket, she walked out into the chilly darkness for her journey towards her cosy bed in the back of Kelsey’s exhibition barge, planning to read the Wagstaff biography from cover to cover as soon as she climbed aboard. It couldn’t hurt to find out a little more about the old actor, and as a reporter, the mystery was irresistibly attractive, even if she would have to keep any findings to herself, for now.
Chapter Twenty-One
‘At Christmas I no more desire a rose
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled mirth;
But like of each thing that in season grows’
(Love’s Labour’
s Lost)
Advent. The days passed in quick succession like colourful paper doors opened each morning, every day revealing a different charming scene.
Stratford assumed a new shining mood during these increasingly cold and dark days as midwinter drew nearer. The Christmas tree on the roundabout by the bank towered and glittered, the streets were strung with jewel-like lights; hoar frosts turned the mornings sparkling white, and the water in the marina slowly became frigid and slushy.
Christmas markets lined the riverside weekly, chestnuts were roasted at smart braziers under striped canopies on street corners, and the theatres burst into life each afternoon and evening with sell-out Christmas shows.
Every restaurant window was aglow with happy revellers celebrating the season huddled up close to family and friends. The streets bustled with shoppers shoulder-to-shoulder, with peppermint hot chocolates conveyed in paper cups. Kelsey took delight in every second of Stratford-upon-Avon in its December finery even if she was too busy to stop to admire it for very long.
Her Christmas party nights at the Osprey Hotel were in full swing and Kelsey had been glad to find William Greville’s father – just as redheaded and suave as his son – waiting for her on the first night with her empty tables already set up for her beside the bar and DJ booth, just as Will had promised.
She had quickly learned the knack of letting the corporate party-goers part with their Christmas bonuses: let them drink and dance until they’ve lost their inhibitions and simply wait until they come to her, stumbling and grinning, only too happy to Velcro themselves into Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn costumes and pose for drunken, grinning shots, handing over their credit cards and paying upfront, generously springing for five or six images in one fell swoop, all to arrive by morning in their inboxes and on their doormats within a week.
Each December Monday morning she’d call in to see Myrtle and Valeria to refresh the costumes, sorting out the ones that wanted dry-cleaning or repairing – the revellers weren’t careful with their dressing-up games – and each Monday she’d find the women blasting Bing Crosby and enjoying a busy first rental season.
‘Who knew there were so many am-dram pantos and fancy dress parties in town?’ Myrtle had said, showing Kelsey their ledger with a grin.
They weren’t the only ones finding themselves suddenly in demand. Kelsey’s weekdays were livened up with a few festive photoshoots in her studio as she discovered the family Christmas card shoot was very much A Thing in Warwickshire. Like the Christmas parties, those shoots had been nothing but fun and her heart swelled with pride every time she entered her profits on her spreadsheet.
As the days passed and Jonathan’s visit grew closer Kelsey found herself less and less preoccupied with the John Wagstaff theory – whenever she did think back to that night at her bedsit with Mirren she felt increasingly sure they’d both overreacted. What with the wine and the excitement of her exhibition taking shape she’d got carried away. Her mind must have been playing tricks. Of course she would see Jonathan’s handsome features – which she’d only moments before been poring over in his headshot – replicated in the romantic old images of the older classical actor. She’d been mistaken. Didn’t she see Jonathan everywhere? His presence was like a ghost in all their old romantic haunts, places they’d shared a kiss or intense, longing looks. She often imagined she heard his voice in the crowds and caught a hint of his scent – peppermint gum, fabric softener on cotton and soap – on the air, and she’d torture herself by turning her head to look for him, knowing he was far away overseas. Of course she saw Jonathan in Wagstaff’s book images.
She had by now firmly resolved never to mention her overheated, flighty ideas about Wagstaff – stupid, hurtful, dangerous ideas. Instead, she smothered them until they were almost gone and told herself nothing was going to spoil her precious few days with Jonathan.
This resolution gave way to a little pang of anxiety. She may well have spotted spectral glimpses of him all over town but could she remember what it was like to be near him? Not even in her most vivid daydreams could she conjure up that feeling of true proximity. They’d only spend four days close together before he left town. What would it be like to touch him again? Would it feel the same? Would it be awkward to reach up on tiptoes to kiss him once more? Was Jonathan thinking these things too?
His run of Hamlet would be over soon and he’d be getting on the plane ahead of four days of rediscovering one another, and now that Mirren was happily installed at the barge – albeit a little more cramped in there, what with the exhibition photographs in their frames lined up and ready to hang in the new year – they’d at least have some privacy.
Something else niggled at her though. She should be happier than this. There was something more causing her discomfort and it had begun when she’d called home recently and Calum had joked with her when he answered the phone that their mum had bought a red lipstick and was walking around with a smile on her face. Mari had laughed and snatched the phone and Kelsey could imagine her pretending to smack her cheeky son around the head for teasing her, but when Kelsey had asked about her mysterious nights out at the Bonnie Prince Charlie she’d found Mari reluctant to talk and she’d wished herself there in her mum’s little grey house by the even greyer sea so they could drink tea and talk it over.
If she hadn’t been feeling the miles between them in her very bones and blood at that moment she truly internalised the great distance when her grandad took the phone and asked in a shaky voice whether she was coming home for Christmas and she’d not known how to break it to him that no, she wasn’t. He’d been told umpteen times but had forgotten again. She felt each of the three hundred and thirty miles of motorway that separated them and she gulped to hold back the tears.
Just as her business was starting to take shape she was losing her grip over the other parts of her life and feeling more untethered from home than she ever had. Even Mirren wasn’t around for a hug and a cuppa, she’d been so busy working Christmas shifts at the Yorick.
That wasn’t all Mirren had been up to. Unknown to Kelsey, she’d followed in her footsteps up the stairs at the Examiner office recently for an audience with Mr Ferdinand.
* * *
Mirren hadn’t wanted to mention the interview for two very good reasons. Firstly, Kelsey would roll her eyes and remind her that getting money out of Mr Ferdinand was like dowsing for water in the Atacama Desert; and secondly, she didn’t want Kelsey to think her single-girl resolve was weakening just because a gorgeous model-like journalist with a wolfish grin had done her a favour by setting up the interview, especially when Kelsey had, not so long ago, teased her about her apparent imperviousness to his good looks.
Climbing those stairs in her best black suit and red silk blouse Mirren told herself Adrian may as well be as fusty and grey as Mr Angus for all she was interested in men these days, and she believed it too, until she caught sight of Adrian at his desk through the door on the second floor landing and she froze, staring at him.
His dark eyes reflected the intense blue of the computer screen he was glaring at, his hand moving the mouse on the desk. He was in a crisp white shirt open at the neck, its textured cotton stretching beautifully over muscled shoulders, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow revealing the kind of forearms that usually made her bite her lip, and worst of all, Mirren gulped, he was wearing chunky black-rimmed glasses she hadn’t seen him in before and they looked so good with his wild black hair. The whole effect screamed smart, elegant, and sexy – as if she didn’t already know that about him. Dammit.
She slipped past the door and carried on her ascent to Mr Ferdinand’s office, all the while having a serious word with herself. I definitely do not fancy Adrian Armadale – not even one iota, nope, not one ounce of attraction. I’m totally not thinking about him wrapping his arms around me or him wearing those specs while he kisses me. Argh! Nope. This is fine. I’ve got this.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts she found herself committing the
huge faux pas of knocking on Mr Ferdinand’s door and walking straight in, just as she’d used to do at the Broadsheet.
The horror of realising what she’d done was compounded by the look of shock and ire on Mr Ferdinand’s face as his head snapped round and he yelled a fierce ‘Get out!’ from the corner of the room.
She found herself red-faced and cringing behind the door again, shouting her apologies through the smoked glass, replaying what had just happened.
He’d been hunched over a small safe, stuffing notes inside, his back curved and his hands busy, and when he noticed her intrusion he’d snatched the money to his chest and shielded it like a child protecting a prized toy.
From the look on his face and the anger in his voice Mirren already knew the interview would come to nothing. He called her back in after a few moments of clattering about and muttering curses and was surprisingly accommodating, listening to her talk about her experience and her qualifications but his smile was that of a man not used to smiling, forced and unnatural, and behind his eyes and in the twitch at his cheek there smouldered a little livid streak that confirmed her fears that he’d dismiss her in a minute or two once this perfunctory chat was over, and that’s just what happened.
‘Thank you for coming in. There’s nothing for you at the moment, but I’ll keep your CV on file in case anything comes up.’ He stood up in his beige cardigan and brown tie, the colours doing nothing for the pallor of his skin, a pale sickly green like last week’s lettuce.
Mirren tried to stall her dismissal but it was no use. He offered her his hand and they shook limply, and that was it.
She didn’t stop by Adrian’s office to show her gratitude for his help or to tell him how she’d blown it; she didn’t even glance in at the door as she bounded down the stairs thanking her lucky stars for her shifts at the Yorick.
The Examiner had been the only interview she’d managed to line up since her epic resignation in Mr Angus’s office – which she’d come to think of as being less like the triumphant clarion call for feminism in journalism that she’d hoped it was and more like an embarrassing, irrational rant and a catastrophic, career-ending error in judgement. She couldn’t think about it without wincing and every time she did, Mr Angus’s words rang louder in her mind. ‘You need to ask yourself if you’re really cut out for a career in journalism,’ he’d said, and she’d gone and proven him right by screeching in his face like an angry teenager.