‘I wish we could just stay like this,’ I say. ‘Forever.’
Fletch looks down at me. ‘What about snacks?’
He knows me too well. ‘OK, with snack breaks.’
‘Talking of snacks,’ says Fletch, ‘do you want to go and get breakfast somewhere?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Oh, wait.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got a photoshoot at the Prince Edward. For Triple Threat.’
‘Ooh, get you. Well, can I come?’
‘Of course!’
‘I want to be involved in any way I can. Hey, I watched Triple Threat last night.’
It’s pretty surprising he left it this long to watch the first episode. I wonder if he’s being entirely honest with me about when he watched it. He never mentioned seeing it, and I was always reluctant to ask him, for obvious reasons . . . But he’s done it now. I wait with bated breath . . .
‘You were beautiful.’
‘Oh – thanks.’ I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t, so I fill the silence with explanations that I hope don’t sound like excuses. ‘Sam’s really over-edited it. Like, made up narratives out of nothing.’
‘Yeah – I thought that, too.’ He knows what I’m talking about. But neither of us actually wants to say it.
I sit up next to him and rest my head on his shoulder. ‘I’m going to stay away from the cameras as much as possible from now on.’
‘Nettie, you shouldn’t worry about that. Just keep being normal. Who cares what some TV exec thinks is good telly? As long as we know what’s real and what isn’t . . .’
‘And we do, don’t we?’
He strokes my hair. ‘Yes.’ There’s a hint of an apology in his voice. He kisses me, his hand on my cheek now, like it’s cradling a precious thing. ‘I love you, Nettie. That’s all that matters.’
I’m almost shaking with relief. The more of Triple Threat that’s been aired, the worse the storyline has got, and I’d convinced myself that as soon as Fletch watched it, we’d be over. Sam’s edited it so cleverly that I can’t imagine a single person out there who wouldn’t get the impression that Luca and I were an item. Well, fuck her. Even she can’t stand in the way of Fletch and me.
‘I love you too,’ I say, and kiss him back.
‘Well, who knew photoshoots would be so boring?’ complains Alec.
To be fair, we’ve been hanging around for two hours waiting to be called. They spent the first hour looking for a missing skull to photograph with one of the actors (I know, original ). Now they’re messing around with stage lighting while Kiki does various poses as we watch her on the monitor in the foyer. She’s wearing a prototype of one of her designs, a baby pink and blue ensemble. I’m standing by a merchandise stall with Fletch, who’s got his head down, busy checking ‘very important’ documents on his phone. It’s not exactly the romantic day I’d hoped for when he turned up this morning.
Alec’s sitting a few feet away with Leon – they are playing a game on Leon’s phone together. Taro comes up the stairs.
‘You’re up next, Alec,’ he says, glancing nervously down at Leon.
After everything that happened at the ball, he’s lucky Leon’s still speaking to him. It’s not just Alec who behaved badly. I know they weren’t official, but to sleep with his best friend without even having a conversation with Leon is a pretty shitty move.
‘Thanks.’ Alec doesn’t make eye contact with Taro. I’ve noticed he avoids Taro at college these days – I guess it’s awkward. He jumps up off the floor, whacks his legs up a couple of times in place of a warm-up, and goes down to the stalls. Taro follows him down the stairs with a strange look in his eyes. What does he expect?
Luca’s been at the other end of the foyer talking to some of the students from the actors course, but now he comes over to where Fletch and I are standing.
‘Hey, mate,’ says Fletch.
‘Hey – it’s great to see you,’ replies Luca. I watch nervously as they hug. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Oh, you know –’ Fletch rolls his eyes – ‘more changes. Everyone stressed. Two more months of it . . . I never realized how much pressure there was.’
‘I thought you just wrote it and then took it to someone,’ says Luca. ‘Then it was kind of plain sailing.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ says Fletch. ‘I think if you’re already successful as a writing team and someone commissions you, it really turns the heat up. They’re being paid to deliver.’
‘I’d rather just work at home in my bedroom,’ says Luca.
Fletch laughs. This is good. All fine so far.
Just then, one of the front-of-house staff, who’s been watching us for several minutes, bounds over. He’s a young white guy with ginger hair. ‘Hey, I know you,’ he says. ‘You’re the girl from Triple Threat, right?’
‘Er, yeah, that’s me.’ This is weird.
He claps his hands. ‘Oh my God, you’re Nettie ! I’m Liam. I love you! You sang the solo in the show last year, too, right? I’ve seen the clip. When those girls kidnapped you and forced you to sing for them? That was like a total Cinderella moment. Was it real?’
‘All real,’ I say. ‘That part, anyway.’ I glance at Fletch and Luca.
‘Sometimes I imagine it’s me,’ says Liam. ‘I’ve recreated “the moment” so many times in my bedroom. At first, I’m, like, really shy when that hot boy drags me on to the stage – like, so nervous. Then the principal comes onstage, I sing the song amazingly, and everyone loves me, and the other hot guy kisses me – Oh . . . is that you?’ He points at Fletch next to me.
Fletch grins awkwardly. ‘Er, yeah.’
‘And now you two. . .’ He flits his finger between Luca and me.
‘No!’ we reply in unison.
‘Oh, it was just that on Triple Threat—’
‘Yeah, we know. All made up,’ says Luca. ‘Not by us,’ he adds, looking at Fletch worriedly.
Fletch seems to be taking it surprisingly well – on the outside, anyway.
Liam shrugs, like he doesn’t care if it’s real or not. ‘So can I get a picture?’
‘Er, sure,’ I say.
‘Amazing.’ He pulls me in clumsily. ‘Thanks.’ He immediately applies a filter and puts it on Instagram. ‘Can’t tag you, though. I think your account’s private – I’ve tried following you before.’
‘Yeah – I just . . . didn’t want the hassle.’
Liam waits for a second as if deciding what to do, then spontaneously hugs me and heads down the stairs. I stare after him, partly because what just happened was so bizarre, and partly because that way I don’t have to look at Fletch or Luca.
Fletch’s phone rings. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this. It’s the boss . . . Hello? Hi, Jules—’ He walks over to the entrance.
Luca sighs through his nose. ‘Well, that was . . .’
‘Interesting,’ I finish. ‘Come on, let’s go and watch Kiki.’
We go through to the dress circle. The theatre’s an art deco palace of red and gold, grand and vast, each level edged with scalloped lighting that trims each tier like seashells clinging to a cliffside. It’s stunning. Looking down, I can only imagine what it feels like to perform here. Kiki’s onstage in a tilt, looking stunning in her pastel two-piece, her leg lifted over one-eighty, her body on the side. People are moving lights around her as a photographer prepares to shoot.
Sam pauses everyone while she takes Kiki aside to say something. Whatever it is causes Kiki to run offstage and return a minute later wearing an old Nike set she’s had for ages. That’s a shame – her original outfit was gorgeous and it was part of her collection – it would have been great publicity for the range. Maybe it didn’t work with the lights or something.
They finish shortly after that. Alec leaps around the stage while the photographer snaps him mid-jump. He looks disappointed when, ten minutes later, Sam declares that she’s got what she needs.
Anand pops his head through the curtain at the bac
k. ‘Nettie, Luca! You’re up.’
Luca rolls his eyes as Anand disappears.
‘What was that for?’ I ask as we head up the stairs to go backstage.
‘Just . . . not keen, that’s all.’
‘He’s lovely!’
Luca snorts. ‘He works for Sam. I don’t trust him.’
Bemused by Luca’s comments, I follow him to the stage. Anand’s always been really kind to me. What’s made Luca react to him like that? Does he know something I don’t?
We do the lifts. Some of them aren’t fully there yet and we collapse, laughing. Fletch slips in at the back of the theatre stalls. He stands there completely still, watching us work together. The auditorium’s too dark to see his face. I wish I knew what he was thinking right now. Is he proud? Or . . .
After several more lifts and a couple of poses that can only be described as clinches, Sam lets us go. I jump off the stage and head up the aisle to Fletch. He’s clutching a handful of his hair, which is never a good thing.
‘Fletch—’
‘Nettie, I’m really sorry, but they’ve called me back.’
‘You’re going now?’
‘They need me,’ he says. His face looks conflicted, impatient to go but reluctant at the same time.
I try stalling him. ‘Can you at least wait and grab some food before you go? We’ve nearly finished.’
‘I’ll eat when I’m back in Chich. I’m so sorry.’ He puts his hand on my shoulder. As a gesture it feels final, like both an apology and an end to the conversation all in one.
Luca joins us at the back of the stalls.
‘Nice moves,’ says Fletch. He smiles awkwardly, like he’s trying really hard to be supportive.
‘Thanks.’ Luca grins. ‘Not really what I expected for my third year as a music student.’
‘It’s not really what any of us expected.’ Fletch’s smile drops for a second.
No one speaks.
‘Oh,’ says Fletch. ‘I forgot to say – I asked David if he knew your mum, Nettie. He said he didn’t.’
‘That’s weird,’ I say. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No,’ says Fletch. ‘He moved on to another subject. I couldn’t quiz him about it. He’s quite a ferocious man.’
Luca frowns. ‘But they worked together. Twice.’
‘I thought it was just the one show?’ says Fletch.
‘Funny Face, too,’ I say. ‘We found out a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Right,’ says Fletch, and I feel like the slow nod he gives us is at my use of the word ‘we’.
‘But why would he lie?’ says Luca. ‘He has no reason to.’
‘Is it possible you’re mistaken, and they didn’t work together?’ says Fletch.
‘They definitely knew each other.’ I can’t hide my irritation. Why is he taking the word of a random old guy over his girlfriend?
‘Maybe he just didn’t remember her,’ says Fletch, clearly also irritated.
‘No,’ says Luca. ‘She was the star. He’d remember her. You need to ask him again.’
‘I’m not pestering David Hirst with questions he’s already given me the answer to.’ Fletch’s voice is raised now, and a nearby front-of-house worker looks at him, alarmed. ‘It’s not like college, Luca. Everyone’s not there to attend to your every whim. David Hirst is a world-renowned director with a vision and a very busy schedule and I can’t just go up to him saying I’m not satisfied with what he told me.’
Luca looks shocked. ‘All right, mate. I’m sorry – I was just saying—’
‘Well, don’t,’ snaps Fletch. ‘You don’t understand.’ His tone is so sharp that neither Luca nor I know how to respond. Fletch’s face softens. ‘Look, I’m sorry, OK? It’s really hard going down there, and I just wanted to come back and spend the day with my girlfriend. I feel like I never get away from them. I’m sorry I took it out on you.’ He puts his hands up in admittance, and Luca nods.
‘Can’t you tell them you need a break?’ I say, putting my hand on his shoulder.
‘They really like what I’m doing, how I’m helping,’ says Fletch. ‘They said that if it goes to town next year, they’d like me to come and be assistant MD. I can’t pass up an opportunity like that, Nettie – I just can’t. People would kill for that kind of position straight out of college. Listen, I’ll call you when I get there.’ He pulls me in for a hug.
‘When will I see you again?’
‘If I can’t get back before, I’ll be at the Duke’s Awards. I wouldn’t miss seeing you sing for anything.’
‘I might not even get to the finals.’
He kisses my nose. ‘You’re amazing. Of course you will.’
‘Drive safely,’ I say. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you, too. See you, guys.’ He hugs Luca briefly, gives me one last kiss, and disappears through a curtain at the back.
‘You OK?’ says Luca.
We sit down together on the back row.
‘Yeah – it’s just really hard to watch him go through such a tough time. I hope he gets a break soon . . .’
Five minutes later, another call goes out for us, this time for us to get into costume. Luca and I go our separate ways to get changed. We can’t use backstage because the cast of the current show are using all the rooms, so they’ve set up the girls dressing room in a reception room on the ground floor called ‘The Julie Andrews Room’. Similar in décor to the bar, it’s where the producers bring the VIPs to schmooze.
Kiki’s already in there, getting changed into her Chicago costume.
‘Hey,’ she says.
‘Hey – great tilt earlier,’ I say. ‘Why did Sam get you to change?’
Kiki’s face clouds over. ‘She said it would be better to keep the actual clothes a secret until the line launches. Make more of an impact when it finally drops, which should line up with the season finale of Triple Threat.’
‘Oh.’ I can sort of see that it makes sense, but it seems like Sam’s missing a trick. Why not get people interested early?
I’m about to say as much when my attention’s grabbed by the walls, which are lined with photographs, mostly of celebrities from decades past meeting various cast members of shows. My heart quickening, I cross the room to scan them. Kiki, realizing what I’m doing, comes to join me. A couple of minutes pass while we both search.
Then I see something that makes my heart come up into my throat.
Among the many photos of Julie Andrews, there’s a photo of Mum. It could be me in that picture, except for the fact that she’s got her long hair scraped back in a bun. She’s dressed in a white ballgown, in front of a group of cast members and crew, all smiling at someone opposite. That ‘someone’ is Princess Margaret, who is shaking hands with Mum, mid-conversation. The caption underneath reads:
HRH Princess Margaret meets Anastasia Delaney-Richardson
‘You’re really like her,’ says Kiki.
‘I guess I am,’ I say. It’s strange, the echo of Mum that follows me everywhere. I see it in Michael’s eyes sometimes when he talks to me, or when I’m performing. Like this nostalgia about who Mum was, mixed in with . . . I don’t know – pride in me, at what I’ve overcome? There’s a similar recognition from Miss Duke, and Miss Moore, although it’s mostly hatred on her part. It’s frustrating to be on the receiving end of it without really knowing the person they’re remembering.
‘When do you think it’s from?’ says Kiki.
‘Mum’s wearing a 1950s wedding dress, so it’s probably from when she did Funny Face.’
Kiki drapes her arms around my shoulders and gives them a squeeze. I take two pictures on my phone, one of the group and a close-up of Mum. It hurts to think that the girl in the picture would become my mum and I don’t know anything about her.
Later in my room, I study the photos on my phone. Who else is there? I zoom in. Princess Margaret, but I’m pretty sure Mum didn’t know her. I don’t recognize the other cast members, apart from Peter Russell, who’s
grinning on Mum’s right, and one other man on her left, also smiling and chatting with Princess Margaret . . .
I type ‘David Hirst’ into Google Images. Several pictures come up of a balding elderly man with a posh-looking mouth, turned down at the edges like he’s sneering at the camera. Going back to the original photo, the man here is younger, slimmer, less lined, has more hair – but it’s definitely him. It’s David Hirst. I knew it. I knew he was lying when he told Fletch he’d never met her. But why?
Then I spot something else. Zooming in on Mum’s left hand (the one that isn’t shaking hands with the Princess), I can see that it’s next to David Hirst’s hand. Although it’s difficult to see through the top layer of Mum’s net skirt, what I can make out is that the backs of their hands are touching, and David’s forefinger is entwined loosely around Mum’s. Maybe that was accidental? I turn the photo sideways, trying to get a better view. They’re all crowded together – maybe their hands just happened to be touching.
But then I look again at how his finger’s curled around hers. So intimate. And not fully holding hands, which would’ve been a public gesture of affection. There’s no denying it – it’s the body language of two people who are shagging.
Which would be fine, except that I know from just googling him that David Hirst has been married to Lucinda Hartley for the last forty years, which means they were together when this photo was taken. What was Mum doing with all these married men? Was she OK? It’s like she was out of control. And her eyes in this picture . . .
My fingers are shaking as I type in something else. Seeing the words appear in the search box shocks me, despite them coming from my own head.
Anastasia Delaney-Richardson drug problem
As usual, nothing. Mostly stuff about the Russian princess, missing the words ‘drug problem’. I scroll down to the second page. Underneath ‘Some results may have been removed due to data protection in Europe’ is a headline from The Times along with the first few words of the article.
Star Collapses Onstage – Are Drink and Drugs to Blame?
Dance Like No One's Watching Page 19