‘That sucks,’ I say.
She smiles. ‘You take the job because you love the work. But the longer I stay in the business, the more I realize that my narrative, both onstage and off, is being controlled by other people. Sorry, Nettie. You don’t want to hear this. You’re about to go out and take on the world.’
Seeing Steph so disheartened makes me realize what a hard time Fletch must be having. ‘I just wish I could help.’
Steph flips through the sheet music until she finds the song we’re working on today. It’s ‘Astonishing’ from Little Women. ‘You can help,’ she says, ‘by starting out in your career without taking shit from anyone. It’s harder than it looks.’
As the term goes on, it’s clear that Alec still hasn’t got the message that we’re all angry with him. He’s got thicker skin than Gaston these days. I finally get through to him over text one afternoon in February.
14:01
Alec:
Babe, are you walking home tonight? Wanna pop to the shops with me?
Sorry. Got class with Lisa. Then I’m practising my song for the Duke’s Awards. Luca offered to play for me.
That’s not until May!
Yeah, but I’m busy. Want to be prepared
Ugh, I’m so abandoned
Saw this really cute top I wanted to buy Leon. What do you think?
Honestly? I think Leon would rather you just treated him like a proper friend than try to buy his friendship back.
I’ve tried. He’s not interested.
You’ll have to try harder, Alec. And maybe when you do, everyone will want to hang out with you again.
21:10
Leon:
Alec called me.
And????
He apologized. Properly.
How do you feel about that?
idk – I believe that he IS sorry, but I don’t trust that he wouldn’t do it again. So the jury’s out, I guess.
It’s a start, though – right?
Yes. It’s a start.
‘Guess what?’ says Kiki excitedly as we’re walking over to the music hall for rehearsals. It’s nearly March now, the winter chill’s gone from the air and the evenings are starting to get lighter. ‘I told Sam about the collection. She’s going to include it in Triple Threat ! Show some of my designs, film me at work with the team. She was really fired up about it. Nettie, this could be huge for me.’
I’ve seen some of Kiki’s drawings. They’re beautiful. But – ‘Kiki, that’s amazing,’ I say, hugging her. ‘Just – are you sure having Sam involved is a good thing?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be? It’ll only help sell my collection.’
‘Yeah, it’s just—’
Anand calls up the stairs, saving me from a potential argument. ‘Hey, Nettie. Got a sec?’ He looks nervous as he approaches.
‘Er, sure.’ I turn to Kiki. ‘I’ll see you in a bit.’
‘OK.’ She looks as if she wants to stay, but it’s clear Anand is hoping for privacy. ‘See you later.’
‘It’s taken a while to access my usual source –’ his eyes dart around shiftily, making me wonder who or what his ‘usual source’ is, and he lowers his voice – ‘but I did get a chance to go through some old newspaper archives, and I found this.’ He hands me a printout of an old article, dated September 1999. It’s a review of Funny Face at the Prince Edward Theatre.
Funny Face Review: Delaney-Richardson channels Hepburn in Reworked Musical
Your only recollection of this pseudo-sophisticated musical may be the 1957 film of the same name, starring an almost over-the-hill Fred Astaire and a young Audrey Hepburn. This revival of Funny Face, directed by David Hirst at the Prince Edward Theatre, retains much of the film’s original charm, whilst tidying up some of the more feminist elements the original script failed to bring out convincingly.
Anastasia Delaney-Richardson and Peter Russell are reunited after their hugely successful An American in Paris in 1997, and audiences will not be disappointed to see the sparks flying as usual. These two have such chemistry that it’s been hinted they might indeed be a couple, although frustratingly the mystery that surrounds Delaney-Richardson’s private life continues.
After the recent controversies, aficionados will be glad to see her back on form, with a delightful performance of vulnerable-but-assured Jo Stockton, the bookshop assistant who becomes a fashion icon. Notable moments include Jo’s bohemian dance in a Parisian nightclub, and the tenderly sung ‘How Long Has This Been Going On?’ Delaney-Richardson, much like Hepburn, shines most when she dances, and although her singing is sweet enough, it’s the ethereal quality in her movement that continues to hypnotize crowds.
Peter Russell delivers his usual ‘song-and-dance man’ charm, and national treasure Imogen Barker is unsurprisingly sublime as fearsome magazine editor Maggie Prescott.
Funny Face is in preview until 3rd October.
‘Is it . . . helpful?’ asks Anand.
‘Yes – hugely,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
I read over the bit about Mum again. What does it mean – the ‘mystery’ around Mum’s private life? And what controversies? She sounds like some sort of Nineties ‘it girl’. This is so frustrating.
‘Are you OK?’ says Anand tentatively, jolting me out of my daydream.
‘Yeah . . . I – where did you get this, Anand?’
He looks over his shoulder. ‘I went on Sam’s laptop. She’s got subscriptions to all the archives. I only had a second, though, so sorry there’s not more.’
‘Oh my God. Surely that’s dangerous?’ The thought of Sam discovering Anand going through her computer is enough to make me shiver.
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Then why do it? It’s really kind of you to help me like this, but it’s not worth it. You could lose your job.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘I know. I just . . . This job’s not everything I thought it would be. Some of the things Sam does are morally dubious. And sometimes I wonder if she’s . . . Well, let’s just say I hate being a part of it. But what can I do? My flatmate Jay says I should just quit, but it was so difficult to get my foot in the door, and chances like working for Three Ring TV don’t come along often. When I found out where Sam was going with your story, I knew I could at least try to keep your family out of it. What she’s done is bad enough . . .’ He trails off, like he’s just misspoken.
‘Bad enough how?’ I say, my mind leaping to Trunchbull levels of villainy.
He lowers his voice so much that I have to get close to hear what he’s saying. ‘Listen, I can’t change what Sam’s already done, but . . . maybe try to stay away from Luca when the cameras are rolling.’
What?
‘Wait—’
Anand looks really stressed now. ‘I shouldn’t have told you! Please don’t tell anyone we spoke.’
I’m too shocked to even think about asking for more information. ‘I won’t.’
He goes into the office shaking his head, and I head home.
How can I stay away from Luca? We see each other every day. What could Sam possibly say about us? With a horrible jolt, I remember the footage I watched over Sam’s shoulder in the pub. At the time, I couldn’t work out why she’d gone in so close and slowed it down. Now I’m wondering if she was trying to make it look . . .
No. Surely even Sam wouldn’t stoop that low. Would she?
Saturday 3 March
To: Nettie D-R, Luca Viscusi
From: Michael St. John
Hello, my darlings,
I was wondering if you might be able to help me with something. I’ve got to get some bits of set and costume from the Duke’s store tomorrow, and I might need a couple of extra pairs of hands to help me lift stuff. Nettie, I could use your eye, too – a little costume scouting needed! I know it’s short notice, but would you both mind terribly?
Yours,
Michael
There’s barely been time to process what Anand told me yesterday, or nearly told me. Now this email
from Michael, basically asking me to spend more time with Luca. This is a disaster. I should just say I can’t go.
But seriously – how bad could it be? Sam can only film what’s there, and what’s there is Luca and me, working well together, being friends. I can’t stop living my life because of Sam’s agenda. Pushing aside my anxiety, I reply to Michael and Luca to say that I’m in, and send Fletch another text letting him know what I’m doing.
On Sunday morning, after a tube, a bus and a chilly walk up a deserted residential street, I see Luca outside what looks like the small warehouse where Michael’s said he’ll meet us.
‘Cold?’ he says, looking at my jiggling knees.
‘Freezing.’
He leans down and kisses me on the cheek. Despite my decision not to let what Anand said affect me, I immediately look around, paranoid that Sam’s lurking in a doorway with a lens pointing at us. Luca doesn’t seem to notice – I mean, why would he?
‘You OK?’ he says.
Should I tell him about Anand’s warning? Or will that just make things weird between us?
‘Er, yeah – just chilly,’ I say.
Michael parks up in his Mini. He gets out and sets about sliding the metal doors of the warehouse open with many wrenching and grinding sounds. ‘Hello, lovelies. I just need to hit the lights . . .’ His free hand fumbles around on a wall to the right of the door. ‘Here we go.’
I step inside and look around. Strange and wonderful objects protrude from every shelf. A costume cow’s head stares at me from on top of a table. Shelves are piled high with baskets and ropes, silver urns, gramophones, a genie’s lamp . . . I spot what looks like a giant Audrey II behind a silver tree in the corner. There are benches and chairs of all shapes and styles, and about thirty old-fashioned leather suitcases balanced precariously on top of each other. At the very top of the pile sits a pair of striped stockinged legs that someone has artfully crossed, complete with ruby slippers.
‘OK, Nettie, while Luca and I find this butcher’s block, would you mind going up and seeing if you can find some hats? I’m looking for bowlers and fedoras. Two black beaded tutus. Oh, and if you can find the fans— I’m not sure if they’ll be classed as props or costumes, though.’
I give him a nod and head off.
At the top of the metal stairs, I’m greeted by an enormous loft space, cool and quiet, filled with row upon row of meticulously categorized costume rails. The fans are leaning up against the far wall, along with some feather backpacks, which look like they’d be painful to wear. I find a load of hats and balance them against the fans. As I sift through a rail of inside-out ballet costumes, looking for the tutus, it occurs to me that Mum might have worn any of them. The thought makes me ache with missing her and brings a lump to my throat.
Just then, my phone rings. I grab it out of my pocket. ‘Hi, Fletch.’ I can hear my own voice struggling under the weight of the emotion.
‘Hey. Are you OK? You sound upset.’
‘Yeah – sorry. Just having a moment about Mum, that’s all. I’m fine.’
‘I wish I was there to hug you.’ Sometimes, his timing is absolutely perfect. Just when I think I’m about to be swallowed whole by grief, he’s there for me.
‘I wish you were, too.’ I shiver. God, it’s cold in here. ‘How’s it going? I didn’t hear back from you last night.’
‘Yeah, sorry – it was a late one. Finishing off one of the songs for David Hirst to hear today. He can get quite shouty,’ he says. ‘They’re all still hoping it’ll get past workshop stage at Chich, and David’ll take it to the West End – he’s still leaving everyone in suspense about that. Where did you say you were?’
‘At the Duke’s store looking for props. I’m helping Michael find a desk and some fans.’
‘Well, I hope he’s got something bigger than the Mini with him,’ says Fletch, chuckling.
‘We think we’ll get it in Luca’s.’
‘Luca’s there?’
‘Yes – I messaged you last night? Maybe if you actually read your texts . . .’ The line’s gone silent. ‘Fletch?’
‘Sorry. My bad. Tell me how rehearsals are.’
I hesitate. ‘Good – though the extra dance lessons we’re doing with Lisa are starting to take their toll.’
‘The extra lessons with Luca?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure I mentioned?’ I say impatiently.
He’s quiet again. Then he says, ‘Why do you always get defensive about Luca?’
My mood plummets. ‘Because you’re making me!’ I say. ‘You’re making me feel like I can’t even say hi to him in a corridor, Fletch. You’re the one making it into a thing, not me. We’re friends. He’s your best friend. You’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’m –’ He goes to speak but stops himself. ‘It’s just . . .’ He tries again. ‘Sometimes I get the feeling he’s . . . into you.’
‘Fletch, that’s absurd.’ My eyes start to blur a little with angry tears. ‘And even if he was, which he’s definitely not, do you think I’d cheat on you?’
‘No, of course not, but—’
‘Nettie?’ Michael’s voice shocks me, echoing through the store.
‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I say to Fletch. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’
I hang up without waiting for a reply. If Fletch is so insecure that he can’t handle my friendship with Luca, maybe we shouldn’t be together. I’m so angry with him. Why is he making this so hard? And if this is how he’s acting now, what’s he going to be like when Triple Threat comes out next week? Blinking my eyes dry, I shout to Michael that I’m still searching, and I keep looking for the black tutus, which I find about a minute later. I head back down to find Michael and Luca struggling to navigate the prop obstacle course with an old oak desk.
‘Trouble is,’ says Michael as I join them, panting a little, ‘this store hasn’t been cleaned or organized since we moved buildings. All the old office stuff is still stashed here. Student files, timetables . . . It should’ve been chucked out years ago. Even this old desk of Miss Duke’s! Nettie, be a love and move that basket of flowers for me. Thanks.’
Between the three of us, we manage to clear the way and drag the desk to the entrance. Luca and Michael go off to grab some bistro chairs while I start pulling out the desk drawer to get it ready for loading. Surprised at the weight, I drop it with a fartoo-loud crash.
‘Everything all right there, Nettie?’ Michael calls.
‘Yeah, sorry! I’m on it.’
The drawer, weirdly, is full of stuff. Was full, I should say. Now the contents are strewn everywhere: papers and keys and pens and odds and ends, spilt out all over the floor. I scrabble around, trying to pick everything up and stuff it back in before I’m discovered. As I put the first few things back, I notice a brown envelope poking out from the corner, stuck under the drawer floor. I pull at the thin hardboard, and it comes out completely, revealing a stack of papers and photographs. They can’t have got in there by accident – it must be a false bottom?
I start to sift through them. There’s an old rental agreement – it looks like it’s for some studios somewhere – Miss Duke’s signature at the bottom in fountain pen ink; a picture of a pale man with dark hair, all bouffant at the front, wearing a rust-brown jacket with green-and-blue mosaic patterns woven into it (clearly very Nineties); and a sealed A4 manila envelope, which says:
C. Duke
Private and Confidential
I don’t waste a second before ripping it open.
The envelope’s full of photos: some of Miss Duke as a young woman. I can see her with the dark-haired man in several pictures (one looks like a first-night party, a group shot of what looks like a cast line-up, all grinning at the camera in their rehearsal clothes; they’re both in there). There’s a brilliant one of Michael, still with the same unruly mop of hair, only it’s jet black instead of light grey. And a few taken from the outside of the music hall . . .
And another photo. It’s dated 06.06
.99 03:02 in red digital writing across the bottom right-hand corner. There’s a man asleep in bed, facing away from the camera, naked. The patterned jacket from the first photo lies in the foreground, draped over the end of the bed. Behind it, next to the man, lies a woman, asleep on her back, her naked breasts visible where the covers have slipped down, her long dark hair sprawled across the pillow.
It’s my mother.
‘Where have you been?’ Alec demands, coming out of his bedroom in only his boxers.
Since he slept with Taro I’ve been frosty with Alec, but he seems infuriatingly determined not to recognize it. Like, why does he get to demand to know where I’ve been?
‘I found this,’ I say, thrusting the bunch of photos at him unceremoniously.
‘Miss Duke without greys – amazing,’ he says, sifting through. ‘Why have you brought me these?’
‘Who’s that guy with the jacket?’ I demand, without explanation.
He looks at him more closely. ‘I’m not sure. Why?’
I take the other photo out of my pocket.
‘Ooh, what’s this – the big reveal?’ he says in mock-excitement, taking the photo. ‘Wait – Anastasia?’
I nod.
‘Oh my God.’ He clutches the wall for effect, but I can tell he’s actually shocked.
‘I know.’
‘I . . . I need to google something.’ He starts scrolling furiously through his phone.
By the time I get a proper look at his screen, there are several photos of a sixty-something-year-old guy across the top, receding grey hair, fashionable in an older man kind of way. It reads:
Dance Like No One's Watching Page 17