Julian was preoccupied as he sat back in the uncomfortable cinema seat and waited for the lights to fade.
He was thinking of the other theatre, only a few blocks away, where people would be sitting watching his play. It was Wednesday, matinee day. He wondered how many people would be there. About two dozen, he thought gloomily. It was only three weeks into the season too—another nine whole weeks to go.
David had been quite right. It was better that he was here watching a movie than there dwelling on his own failure. And his second failure at that. The first play he’d written since his split with Alex had been just as ignominiously received. Not that the critics had roasted either of them—that might even have been preferable. Their unanimous opinion had been ‘lacklustre’ and, deep down, Julian had to agree with them.
In fact, life in general was somewhat lacklustre, he thought dismally. Although they never discussed it, both he and David were aware that their relationship was on the wane. And they both knew why. David couldn’t live life openly as a homosexual. ‘I guess I’ve been closet for too long, Jules,’ he said jokingly, when he insisted they keep a low profile. ‘It’s not good for my career if people know,’ was his further justification.
Bullshit, Julian thought. So long as it was kept from the press and the general public, it didn’t matter one iota. The many actors who lived a life of openly admitted homosexuality were closely protected by an industry which looked after its own. As were the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the terminally ill and those who beat up on small dogs, he thought. You can’t adjust to yourself, old buddy, and you’re looking for an excuse. But he didn’t say anything. ‘Sure,’ he agreed.
Within a year, the relationship had been thoroughly undermined by David’s guilt. Added to the guilt of not being ‘straight’ had been the guilt of forcing Julian to live a lie. Julian understood, but then the more understanding Julian was, the more guilt David felt. It was a vicious circle and they both knew it.
Alex didn’t help. Every time they saw him, and they saw him regularly at the theatre and various associated functions, he greeted them with a warmth normally reserved for lovers: ‘Hello, you two!’, invariably loud and invariably in the company of others. Then he’d flash a quick look to Julian, a quirky look which excluded David and which said, ‘We share something special, don’t we, Julian?’
Then, on the way home, it would start. ‘You see, Julian, people know! It’s not good for my career …’ On and on, David painting himself in wimpy, unattractive colours and all because Alex had successfully goaded his guilt. Julian couldn’t tell David that Alex was doing it deliberately. After all, what was he doing? And why? It was far too complex.
Yes, life’s a bastard, Julian thought as the lights faded to black and the screen became a swirl of colour. And one of David’s art films wasn’t going to solve things.
David was a movie buff who subscribed to every film society and attended every film festival Sydney had to offer. Julian enjoyed one in ten of the films he was dragged along to and this wasn’t going to be one of them, he thought as the title flashed up on the screen. But David was genuinely trying to take his mind off the matinee day at the theatre around the corner and Julian was grateful for that.
‘You’ll love it, Julian, honestly,’ David had urged. ‘I’ve seen it three times. Androgyne is one of the best cinéma vérité films ever made.’
Shit, muttered Julian as ‘Rodney Baines and Madeleine Frances’ appeared in tasteful print at the top left-hand corner of the screen. He sank deeper into the seat and let his mind wander.
Alex’s production of Hedda Gabler opens next week, he thought, I wonder how it’ll go? Julian hoped it would do well, mainly for the cast’s sake. Alex had, of course, surrounded himself with his old faithfuls: Susannah playing Hedda, Harold as Judge Brack and Rosie Lee as Mrs Elvsted.
Following two failed productions of new Australian plays, Alex had decided on a safer policy of well-known modern classics. Even so, he was only just scraping by. The critics accused him of egomania when he directed himself as Dr John in his own production of Summer and Smoke. And so they should, admitted Julian. Bloody stupid decision, even though he only did it to save on the budget. Susannah’s superb Alma had rescued the production, though.
In fact Susannah proceeded to rescue all of Alex’s productions as she went from strength to strength. She developed a healthy theatrical following and Alex, quickly recognising this, built his season entirely around her. He now kept himself well out of the acting and directing limelight, concentrating his energies on amassing huge publicity campaigns. He’d employed Roger Kingsley to direct Hedda Gabler, Roger only too willingly accepting a hefty cut in salary, as he’d long since been swept out of The Way In Theatre by the new young brooms.
The only production Susannah had been unable to rescue was Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Her Maggie was criticised as being ‘emaciated and lacking in ripe sensuality’. It was true, Susannah was looking anything but ‘ripe’ lately. She was being shockingly overworked, but then that was the way she wanted it, indeed, demanded it. After her roasting as Maggie she sailed through Blythe Spirit to rave reviews. Now, having played Tennessee Williams and Noel Coward, she was demanding Alex plunge her into the heavier stuff.
She’ll be a superb Hedda, Julian decided as he watched a screen full of figures in masks and period costumes swirling before him. But then she always was a superb actress, even in the old NADA days. She and Maddy were always the pick of the bunch.
Maddy! The youth on the screen lowered his mask and smiled invitingly up at the man in cavalier costume. My God, Julian thought, as the cavalier lowered his own mask and smiled back, that boy looks like Maddy.
He stopped thinking about Alex and Susannah and Hedda and concentrated on the film. David was right, it was a beautifully crafted piece.
When the youth proved to be a young woman Julian leant forward in his seat, which was no longer uncomfortable, and studied the face closely.
It was Maddy. It had to be. How long ago had the film been made? She looked incredibly young. Younger even than she had at NADA, but then the short, dark hair might account for that, and of course the lighting was superb.
‘What’s her name?’ he whispered to David.
‘Madeleine Frances. Isn’t she dynamic?’
‘How long ago was it made?’
‘About five years.’
Julian sat captivated for the next ninety minutes. As soon as the lights came up, he plied David with questions.
‘I don’t know much about her,’ David answered. ‘I think Androgyne was her first film. Well, it was the first one I saw her in. She’s done several others.’ He shrugged. ‘Variable quality, certainly none as good as Androgyne but she’s always great.’
That night Julian rang Harold. ‘What time are you rehearsing tomorrow, Harold?’
‘Not till the evening, dear boy. Full technicaldress. Shudder, shudder! Why, what did you have in mind?’
‘I want you to come to the movies with me in the afternoon. The Roma, downstairs.’
‘But that’s an art cinema! I’m thirty years too old for poignant films—they’re tiring.’
‘I think you’ll like this one.’
‘Oh Lord,’ he grizzled, ‘all those beautiful people wandering around wondering where they are and what they’re doing there … Must I?’
‘Yes, you must. I’ll pick you up at two.’
‘Good grief!’ Harold exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. ‘It’s Maddy!’
‘Ssshh,’ said a male voice behind him. And a woman in front turned and glared.
‘It is! It’s Maddy!’ he said again, ignoring them both.
After the movie they decided on their plan of attack and midnight found Julian waiting at the stage door for Harold as he left rehearsal.
‘Alex will be out in a minute: you sure you don’t want me to ask him back to supper too?’
‘Harold, we agreed!’ Julian couldn’t hide his exasperation. ‘We have to keep quiet about Maddy until we’ve spoken to her. She might not want any contact with Alex.’
‘I know, I know we agreed.’ Harold was obviously undecided. ‘It’s just that …’
As he tailed off Julian leapt in. ‘“Just that” nothing. She had an abortion to the bloke and then disappeared without a trace. I think we can safely assume she doesn’t want to know him, for God’s sake.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Harold agreed peevishly, ‘I know we mustn’t involve him, for goodness sake, but I could have asked him along a little later, just for supper.’ He looked hopefully at Julian. ‘Maybe next week, after the show’s opened? Maybe then the three of us could get together? What do you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s a great shame you two have let such a wonderful friendship drift. Good grief, not to mention partnership. You had the world …’
‘Yes, I know, Harold. It’s only temporary, though, we both wanted to try a couple of solo flights, that’s all.’
‘So you’ll come to supper with Alex next week?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You mustn’t let love affairs destroy your friendships, you know—too many people do that. David’s a lovely fellow, but one needs one’s friends. I often feel that—’
‘I’ll come to supper with Alex next week, I promise.’ Anything to shut him up, Julian thought. Harold was old now, with a tendency to nag and a tendency to forget that they’d had a conversation a dozen times before.
While Harold pottered around his kitchen Julian planted himself in the armchair by the phone and started dialling overseas directory assistance, pen and pencil at the ready.
Twenty minutes later he hung up the receiver and called to Harold. ‘I’m ready. You want to come in while I start?’
‘Coming, dear boy, coming,’ Harold answered and made his entrance carrying a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse and two glasses on a silver tray. ‘How sweet of you to bring my favourite,’ he said, kissing the bottle before he started pouring. ‘Everything’s doing a quiet simmer so we can take as long as we like. To Maddy.’ And they clinked glasses.
Julian had tried to persuade Harold to come back to his place and make the calls from there but he knew it was useless even as he suggested it. Harold could never pass up an opportunity to ‘mother’. ‘Oh no, dear boy, I prefer being in my own nest. Besides you must let me cook you a bit of supper.’
Julian put down his glass and checked his watch as he picked up the receiver again. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘ten in the morning London time. Perfect. Enquiries didn’t have a number for Pentameter Productions so—’
‘Who’re they?’
‘The production company that made Androgyne. So we’ll try Pinewood Studios first, that’s where a lot of the interiors were shot.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I checked the credits when I watched the movie, of course.’
‘Clever. Very clever.’ Harold offered a small white dish. ‘Have a cracked green olive.’
The Androgyne production company was no longer in existence as it turned out, but a helpful girl at Pinewood Studios put Julian onto a French/English production company. Another helpful girl supplied the information that, when Madeleine Frances had worked for them, her postal address had been care of a doctor in Windsor. ‘A Dr Mac something or other. Don’t know if they were on together or just sharing,’ the girl said, enjoying the chat. ‘Madeleine was always sort of private.’
So Maddy was still with her father. The address and phone number of Dr McLaughlan in Windsor were easy to find and of course it was the same address to which both Julian and Harold had previously written. Now, when Julian rang, a female voice answered.
‘Yes?’ Alma said.
Then followed a verbal game of hide and seek as Alma evaded every question Julian flung at her. The only definite information he ended up with was the fact that Miss McLaughlan no longer lived with her father but had moved to London. And Alma promised to pass on a message when next she saw Maddy.
‘When will that be?’ Julian asked.
‘I really couldn’t be sure,’ Alma replied sharply. She found this young man’s persistence suspect. The call was from Australia—he could well be Jenny’s father and Alma knew how strongly Maddy wanted to avoid any contact with Jenny’s father.
‘I’ll tell Miss McLaughlan you rang.’ And she hung up.
Julian heaved an exasperated sigh as he put down the receiver. He was sure the woman wouldn’t give Maddy the message.
For once Harold knew better than to jump in with advice. Telephones really were infuriating instruments and Harold loathed them. Always had. He clucked sympathetically and topped up their glasses.
Julian looked at the next number on his list. British Actors Equity. He was certain he’d be able to get hold of Maddy’s agent via Equity, presuming she had an agent, of course, but he knew full well it was every agent’s strict policy to withhold clients’ addresses and phone numbers.
Sure enough. ‘Sorry, old son, no can do, client details strictly confidential and all that.’ Phil Pendlebury’s voice was honestly apologetic. ‘Tell you what, though. I’ll be speaking to her some time today, I’ll make sure she gets a message.’
‘Thanks. Tell her Julian and Harold called.’ Julian left both their phone numbers. ‘Don’t forget, will you? Please!’
‘Don’t you worry, son, she rings in every day.’ Phil sensed the disappointment in Julian’s voice and felt sorry for him. The call was from Australia—maybe it was Jenny’s father, who could say? But agency policy was agency policy and it was none of his business, after all, and Maddy never spoke about the father of her child so … Yes, you keep your nose well out of it, Phil, he told himself.
Nevertheless he wanted to offer some reassurance, so he said, ‘Tell you what I’ll do. If she doesn’t call today I’ll go around to her place and slip a note under the door, she only lives a couple of blocks away, how does that grab you?’
‘Thanks very much,’ Julian said, ‘I’d appreciate that.’ The man at Actors Equity had told him that Pendlebury’s office was in the West End. So Maddy was living in central London. Knowing where she was somehow gave him more hope. And he believed that Phil Pendlebury would give her his message. Things were looking up.
Julian wasn’t sure why he felt such a strong urge to renew acquaintance with Maddy. Something to do with his disenchantment with Alex and his fading relationship with David, maybe. Perhaps something to do with the fact that those NADA days with Maddy and Alex were among the happiest days of his life. Whatever it was, now that he’d started his enquiries he was damned if he was going to give up.
As Phil Pendlebury replaced the receiver at his end he wondered whether he should have told the young man that Maddy was flying out to Australia with her daughter next week. No, he reminded himself, it was none of his business.
Julian had been wrong about Alma. Alma was always very reliable with messages. In fact, by the time Phil Pendlebury hung up, Maddy already knew of Julian’s contact.
‘I was a little evasive with him, Miss McLaughlan.’ Alma always spoke louder into the phone and her Midlands accent was always more pronounced. ‘After all, I wasn’t sure who he might be.’
Alma wasn’t fishing and Maddy knew it but she felt the need to reassure the woman. ‘It’s all right, Alma, he’s not Jenny’s father, just an old friend.’
‘Oh dear, I do hope he wasn’t insulted.’
‘He wouldn’t have been, I’m sure. Don’t you worry, you did the right thing.’
Maddy received Julian’s message with mixed feelings. She was deeply touched that both he and Harold thought of her as much as they obviously did. Should she contact them when she was in Sydney next week? Was Alex still very much a part of their lives? Yes, she told herself, he was bound to be. Oh hell, Maddy thought, life’s so bloody complicated these days.
The main complication was, of course, Douglas Mackie. Or was it Donald McBride? Or David McGuinness? Or a number of other aliases he admitted to assuming when she’d confronted him about the passport she’d discovered. My God, could that really have been a year ago?
‘It is Douglas Mackie, actually,’ he’d told her, and he was infuriatingly calm. ‘But it doesn’t really matter, does it, whether I’m Douglas, Donald or David? Take your choice, call me what you like.’
‘Right. You’re a bastard.’ And she’d walked to the door of her apartment, opened it and waited for him to leave.
He didn’t. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘For lying to me. For leading me on. For—’
‘I didn’t. I didn’t lie to you and I didn’t lead you on. My name is Douglas Mackie and I care very much for you.’ She stared back at him as he continued, totally unperturbed. ‘I sometimes need to assume a different identity for business purposes, Madeleine.’ He held up his hand as he saw her about to interrupt. ‘And don’t ask me what business-it’s not necessary that you know. Suffice it to say that not everyone leads a life as simple as yours.’
That was when Maddy exploded. ‘Simple!’ Not only was he a two-faced lying con man, he was a smug, pompous shit into the bargain. ‘What the hell makes you think acting is simple! It’s one of the hardest, most competitive professions one can—’
‘I didn’t say it was “easy”.’ There was a slight edge to his voice but he maintained his patience. ‘I said it was “simple”. Your job is simply to learn your part and arrive at the theatre on time. I grant you,’ he admitted, ‘after that it’s a case of whether or not you have the talent …’.
‘And whether or not you can get the job in the first place,’ Maddy muttered rebelliously. And, as she did, she was amazed that he’d managed so successfully to steer her away from the original argument.
‘Exactly.’ It was if he was awarding her points in a debate. ‘A difficult job, certainly, but a “simple” one—one that doesn’t require subterfuge and false identities.’ He smiled winningly as he crossed to her. ‘A job for single-minded, ambitious people with tunnel vision.’
He was being charmingly insulting, probably to distract her even further, but it gave Maddy momentary food for thought. He wasn’t far wrong, was he? She lived, breathed, ate and drank the theatre and she always had.
‘I respect you for it, Madeleine, and I don’t want to change you.’ He kissed her. ‘Just as you don’t want to change me, remember? I’m going now; we’ll only talk around in circles if I don’t. I’ll see you in a couple of months.’ He kissed her once more and then he was gone.
Maddy agonised for a day or two before she realised it was pointless. He was right. Piqued as her curiosity was, she knew she’d have to take him as she found him; he obviously wasn’t going to tell her about himself. Her only other alternative was to finish the relationship and she didn’t think she could do that.
As always, the theatre was a total distraction, and then there was Jenny. Jenny arrived in London for her holidays, they had a special birthday dinner and Maddy presented her with the return tickets to Sydney.
‘First class! Wow!’ Jenny’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Can we afford it, Mum?’
‘Of course we can, darling.’ Maddy crossed her legs, mimed a cigarette holder and blew imaginary smoke into the air. ‘Your mother’s a West End star, don’t you know.’
‘What happens if you have a big offer next April?’ There was no condemnation in the child’s voice, but there was doubt, and it was fearful.
Tears sprang instantly to Maddy’s eyes and she looked down at the food that she’d long since finished eating and pretended to toy with another mouthful. ‘Then I’ll say no, won’t I?’
‘But if it was a really big offer, you wouldn’t be able to.’
A sudden rush of anger quelled Maddy’s tears as quickly as they’d risen. ‘Oh yes I would, Jen. Believe me I would.’ Douglas had been right when he’d accused her of tunnel vision, she thought, and she wondered briefly how many times Jenny must have suffered because of it. She took the girl’s hands in her own. ‘Nothing is going to stop us going to Sydney next April, I can promise you. Nothing!’
It was only a fortnight later that a huge bouquet of flowers arrived backstage at the theatre. The card read: Congratulations on an excellent performance. I look forward to meeting you after the show. And it was in the florist’s handwriting.
‘You could at least have written the card youself,’ she said, as Bob the doorman showed Douglas into her dressing room.
‘Didn’t want to break the tradition, did I?’ he said.
‘It’s been less than three weeks. What happened to the two months?’
Douglas shrugged. ‘I couldn’t stay away. Besides, I wanted to meet Jenny.’
Maddy looked to the sofa in the corner where Jenny sat quietly watching them. ‘Jen, this is Douglas.’
‘Hi. Mum’s told me about you.’
Over the next twelve months Douglas continued to be unforthcoming about his work and his background and his regular ‘business trips’. Maddy tried not to pry. She tried to ‘take him as he was’, but there was a basic mistrust inside her which left her unrelaxed and wary.
Douglas remained touchingly vulnerable in their lovemaking but wore his customary guard up at other times and to Maddy, who loved him deeply, it was very frustrating. They seemed to have reached an emotional stalemate.
Jenny was also confused by Douglas’s nonchalance. She liked the way he treated her as an equal and an adult but she was confused when, for no apparent reason, he’d become distracted and pay her no attention at all. Or when he’d suddenly disappear for weeks on end without even saying goodbye.
It was very confusing for everyone, Maddy thought; much as she knew she would miss Douglas, she was looking forward to the trip to Sydney. Perhaps the distance, being home again, would give her the courage to end the relationship. She felt she should, if only she could find the strength.
And now, with less than a week to go, there was the contact from Julian and Harold. And with it the reminder of Alex. Yes, life was bloody complicated these days, Maddy thought.
Life wasn’t complicated for Alex. It was frustrating, disappointing and downright unfulfilling.
Big changes were called for, he decided. He’d had enough of producing short seasons of established plays and praying that Susannah’s theatre following would pull in sixty per cent houses. He wanted a brand-new smash hit that would run for a year, play to capacity houses, tour the capital cities and make him a fortune. It wasn’t just the money he wanted, although the lifestyle he insisted on maintaining certainly required it. It was the stimulation and the power—above all the power.
But first he needed a play. He needed a bold playwright. He needed Julian Oldfellow. And he knew he’d get him. After all, Julian had taken his year off to spend time with his poofter friend, and that relationship was dying its death, according to Harold. ‘I’ll give it a year at the most,’ Alex could remember himself saying. And he’d been right. Time to come back to the fold, Julian.
It didn’t bother Alex at all that Julian’s last two plays had flopped. He knew that in some strange way he himself was Julian’s inspiration. And he knew for a fact that, as a duo, their work was dynamic. The thought that their relationship was sorely in need of repair also didn’t bother Alex. One evening was all he needed. One evening with Julian would do the trick, and Harold had already extracted Julian’s promise to come to supper next week after Hedda had opened.
Hedda. Oh God! Alex put all thoughts of Julian aside. One thing at a time, he told himself. Hedda Gabler was in a mess. Tonight was their final dress rehearsal, they opened the next day—and Alex had big reasons to worry.
Until three days ago he had kept his customary distance from the company. But when he attended the first full dress rehearsal he decided it was time to interfere. The show wasn’t good enough.
Alex cancelled the three scheduled public previews, called day and night dress rehearsals instead, and had endless rows with Roger Kingsley over the changes he wanted made.
‘For God’s sake, Roger, just shut up and do as you’re told,’ Alex finally snapped.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Roger, looking down his nose with queenly indignation, ‘but I am the director around here.’
‘No you’re not. You’re sacked.’
‘What?’ Roger dropped the queenly act and stared back in disbelief.
‘I said, you’re sacked.’
‘But I have a contract. You can’t—’
‘I can. You’ll be paid out in full.’
Alex hadn’t taken much notice of Susannah’s complaints about Roger over the past several weeks. Susannah always had a whinge about a fellow actor, or a stage manager or a director when she was working. She was such a perfectionist herself that she overreacted to any imperfections in the work of others. Alex had long ago decided it was also her way of letting off steam.
Not this time. This time she’d been right. ‘His blocking and general staging’s up to shit, he’s turning it into a Victorian melodrama and he’s totally confused all of the cast except Harold and me about character relationships and balances. Honestly. You ask Harold.’
Alex had heard complaints along similar lines from Harold already. ‘The man’s doing his own personal rewrite of Hedda Gabler, dear boy. Nothing whatsoever to do with Mr Ibsen.’
Actors, Alex thought, God save me from them. ‘He’s just trying to put his personal stamp on the production, Harold. Give him a chance. God knows we accused him of playing it too safe for years at The Way In.’
‘Well, he’s revenging himself upon us now, I can tell you. He—’
‘Can’t stay, got a meeting with the party booking organisers. You want those bums on seats, don’t you?’
If only he’d listened, Alex now thought as he tried to pick up the production pieces. And if only he hadn’t given Roger so much power. The man’s choice of music was funereal and his lighting was so dismal that even the stills photographs taken for front-of-house were morbid and boring and would have to be reshot. Why signal a tragedy from the beginning?
The biggest worry of the lot, however, was the set. Roger had changed the original design to suit his gloomy and Gothic version of the play. When the set designer argued that he would need the producer’s permission for such a radical change, Roger waved the man aside with the assurance that Alex had granted him full authority in all artistic areas. On phoning Alex, the set designer had found this was indeed the case. ‘Roger’s the boss in that area, Steve, go for it.’
Alex groaned at the memory. It hadn’t occurred to him that Roger was designing a Gothic monster. A few minor set changes, he’d thought. Just another example of Roger wanting to put his personal stamp on things, he’d thought. But you didn’t think, did you, Alex, he now told himself, you just didn’t bloody think.
It was an expensive lesson. Now, three days after Alex had given Steve the order to return the set to its original design, Steve was insisting his team needed a further twenty-four hours to finish it.
Christ! We could all do with a further twenty-four hours, Alex cursed. He still hadn’t found the music he wanted and he wasn’t altogether happy with the new lighting design and, since his changes in blocking and his performance notes, the actors could all do with more rehearsal. How am I going to do it? he wondered. How the hell am I going to buy myself twenty-four hours? That very night, at the end of the dress rehearsal, the answer came to him.
‘Yes, that is what you are looking forward to, isn’t it, Mr Brack?’ Susannah’s voice rang out from behind the curtains of the drawing room alcove, centre stage. ‘You, the only cock in the yard.’
There was a pause while the three actors on stage waited for the gunshot. The stills photographer zoomed in on the alcove to capture the discovery of Hedda’s suicide.
There was no gunshot. A further pause. Still no gunshot. Damn, Harold thought, the props gun must have jammed.
Alex, sitting in the stalls with his notepad and pencil, was thinking exactly the same thing. He added to his list of notes that an ASM was to stand by in the wings with a second props gun in case of emergency. It should have been the duty of the stage manager to start with, he thought, irritated that Susannah had demanded she fire the gun herself.
Harold waited several seconds until the pause started to feel a little uncomfortable. Then he rose from the table and looked upstage to the drawing room alcove. In true tradition, the dress rehearsal was to be played as per performance and any mishaps had to be taken in the actors’ stride. Besides, there were twenty people out front, friends and family of the front-of-house staff.
‘Did you hear a sound, Tesman?’ Harold asked, trying to stay in character. ‘A strangled sort of sound?’ And he crossed to the alcove curtains. The drawing room alcove was mocked up from several wardrobe racks draped with black tabs. It was the major part of the set currently under reconstruction by Steve and his gang.
‘A strangled sound, Judge? Why yes, I believe I did.’ Neville, the actor playing Tesman, picked up his cue admirably and joined Harold at the curtains.
‘Madam Hedda, are you all right?’ Harold called, praying that Susannah was able to find something to strangle herself with. Then he remembered. Of course, she had the sash of her gown. He gave a nod to Neville, a signal that they needed to buy more time for Susannah.
‘Answer us, Hedda,’ Neville called obligingly.
Harold waited two seconds. No answer from Hedda. Plenty of time for the sash around the throat. He drew aside the curtains.
Hedda’s body was not sprawled upon the sofa, the gun by her side and the blood-stained cushion beneath her head as the stage directions dictated. Susannah was lying unconscious in a crumpled heap on the floor.
‘Susannah!’ Harold exclaimed as he knelt beside her. ‘Alex! Quick! She’s fainted.’
The stills photographer, poised to capture the discovery of Hedda’s body, had clicked away the moment Harold drew the curtains. Now he guiltily stepped aside as Alex knelt beside his wife and lifted her head.
Susannah’s face was deathly pale beneath the make-up and there were dark circles of fatigue under her eyes. She looked fragile and beautiful, her head resting on Alex’s knee, her rich auburn hair splayed across his thigh.
It wasn’t a deep faint and she was already stirring. Harold gestured to the ASM for a glass of water.
‘What happened?’ Susannah murmured.
‘You fainted, darling,’ Alex explained and, as he did, he knew with a surge of gratitude and relief that he’d found his way out.
‘Oh God, how embarrassing.’ She struggled to lift her head.
‘No, no, don’t try and get up.’ Alex eased her head back onto his knee and gave a sharp nod to the photographer.
The photographer, incredulous, opened his mouth to speak but Alex’s second nod and his gesture for silence were unmistakable.
Oh well, you’re the boss, the photographer thought, as he surreptitiously raised his camera.
‘Harold, you look after her,’ Alex instructed when he was sure that the photographer had taken at least three shots. ‘I’m going to call an ambulance.’ He got up and Harold immediately took his place.
‘You’ll do no such bloody thing, Alex,’ Susannah snapped. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me—I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘All right, no ambulance, so long as you stay where you are,’ Alex snapped back. ‘I don’t want you fainting again. We’ve got a show to open tomorrow.’ When Susannah got tough the only way to handle her was to get tough back. ‘But I’m calling a doctor in.’
‘Oh, no you’re not.’
‘A doctor or an ambulance: take your choice.’
‘All right, all right.’ Susannah gave in gracelessly. ‘So long as it’s Les.’
Alex nodded agreement. ‘Stay where you are till you get your breath back.’ Then, as he left to make the phone call, he muttered to the photographer. ‘Get some wide shots with the company too.’ The other cast members and stage management crew were gathered around, Rosie Lee protectively preventing them from crowding Susannah.
When Alex returned several minutes later he was irritated to find Susannah comfortably settled on the sofa, but a nod from the photographer assured him that Susannah’s collapse on the stage floor had been well and truly captured on film.
‘Les is on his way,’ Alex announced. ‘Everyone can go home. I’ll be in touch about rehearsal time tomorrow morning.’
Dr Les, as he was affectionately known in the industry, was a ‘tame’ medical practitioner who understood the problems that beset actors and treated and prescribed accordingly. He didn’t do anything illegal but his methods were certainly unorthodox. He could be relied upon to administer a cortisone injection backstage between the opera company’s matinee and evening show to enable an asthmatic singer to get through the night. Or a quick vitamin B shot for an actor suffering from fatigue. Minor fractures could be strapped and pain killers prescribed on the spot to enable performers to struggle through the show.
Unlike many practitioners, Dr Les understood the meaning of that old adage, ‘the show must go on’. Actors were bloody stupid, he thought, but if they were prepared to stagger through performances in agony or in a state of near collapse, who was he to tell them to take two days off work and rest up? They wouldn’t listen anyway, so he might as well be on call to make things easier for them.
‘Pulse and blood pressure normal.’ He lifted Susannah’s eyelids and examined each eye. ‘Have you been eating properly, Susannah?’ he asked.
Susannah nodded and Dr Les looked at Alex for confirmation as he took the thermometer from her mouth.
‘Yes, she has,’ Alex agreed.
‘I’m just tired, that’s all,’ Susannah insisted. ‘A quick vitamin shot and I’ll be fine.’
Dr Les read the thermometer. ‘No temperature. Periods normal?’
‘No, but they never are when I’m working.’
They discussed Susannah’s irregular menstrual cycle and the fact that she was slightly anaemic. Dr Les told her she was suffering from fatigue and that she must remember to eat properly while she was working so hard.
‘I know you performers,’ he scolded. ‘You’re either dieting ridiculously or forgetting to eat altogether—bloody stupid the lot of you.’ Then he gave her a Vitamin B shot, recommended a highprotein diet, left a supply of sleeping pills and departed with the instructions that she should rest up as much as possible before opening night.
‘Christ, that shot hurt,’ Susannah complained, rubbing her left buttock. ‘What time’s rehearsal tomorrow?’
‘There isn’t one,’ Alex replied.
‘What! You’re joking.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m calling a meeting for notes an hour before the half. No rehearsal.’
Nothing Susannah said could dissuade him. ‘Trust me, Susannah, I know what I’m doing.’
‘My God, I feel wonderful,’ Susannah said to Alex when she woke the next day. He had given her a sleeping tablet the night before and she had slept soundly till three in the afternoon. ‘I’m starving too.’
‘Thought you might be. I’ve got the full works standing by: tomatoes, eggs, ham—I’ll even make you a hollandaise sauce if you like.’
‘Yum. I like.’
Alex waited until Susannah had eaten her eggs Benedict before dumping a pile of newspapers on the table in front of her. ‘Now that you have your strength back, take a look at these. And don’t be mad at me, Sooz, it was the only way out and I took it.’
Both morning and afternoon editions carried the story. It was front-page news in the morning editions: ‘STAR COLLAPSES, GALA OPENING CANCELLED’. The story was accompanied by pictures: Susannah’s limp and crumpled body, her eyes closed, her face deathly pale against the black stagecloth floor; a close-up of Susannah and Alex, Susannah’s face a delicate porcelain as Alex cradled her gently in his lap; a shot of the entire company circled around Susannah, Harold at her side smoothing the hair from her brow.
‘God almighty, how did this happen?’ Susannah exclaimed. ‘And what the hell do they mean, “opening cancelled”?’
‘Read on,’ Alex answered.
The articles stated that Susannah had suffered a complete collapse due to nervous exhaustion and was medically unable to perform that night. A press reception had been held that morning by her producer/husband, Alex Rainford, who stated that naturally all tickets for the opening would be refunded or transferred and that he deeply regretted any inconvenience to patrons. He further announced that, against all medical advice, and indeed against his own advice, Miss Wright was insisting that the opening should take place tomorrow.
‘The thought of disappointing her many followers for even twenty-four hours is so devastating to her,’ Alex was quoted as saying, ‘that she simply refuses to rest for any longer than a day.’
‘What a load of horseshit!’ It was difficult to tell whether Susannah was angry or not. She looked stunned more than anything.
‘Exactly, but it’s bought us twenty-four hours.’
‘You held a press conference this morning?’
He nodded. ‘And I rang all the critics and VIPs.’ He picked up a pile of telegrams. ‘These have arrived from the well-wishers.’
‘What about the company? Everyone knows it’s a pack of lies.’
‘I’ve rung them all and said you had a relapse when you got home. All except Harold and Rosie, that is, I told them the truth.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Rosie said it was a disgraceful thing to do. Harold called me a fraud and pissed himself laughing. He said it was a pity we’re not doing La Dame Aux Camelias because you’d get great reviews for the death scene.’ Alex looked thoughtful. ‘He’s not wrong, actually,’ he continued. ‘The fact that you’re soldiering on so bravely can only work in our favour with the critics.’
‘Well, I agree with Rosie,’ Susannah said disapprovingly. ‘It’s a disgraceful thing to do.’ A slow smile spread across her face. ‘But, by God, it’s clever.’
As she embraced him, her lean body felt exciting. Or maybe it was his triumph over the odds that was exciting, Alex thought. Whatever it was, he wanted her.
‘No you don’t,’ Susannah countered, backing off. ‘I want to shower and clean my teeth and feel human first. I’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours.’
As she knelt beside the lavatory bowl, Susannah remembered Dr Les’s comment: ‘You performers, either dieting ridiculously or forgetting to eat altogether’. Well, she had been throwing up a lot lately which probably amounted to the same thing. Most days she threw up; sometimes even twice a day when social dinners or publicity luncheons required her to eat. She knew she should cut back on it. But not now. Not after eggs Benedict? The mere thought of allowing such a calorie-filled dish to digest started to make her feel physically ill. She’d eat an apple and a spoonful of cottage cheese later in the day, she promised herself. And then she’d stick to a low-calorie diet and only throw up when it was really necessary.
Half an hour later, when Susannah had rid herself of the eggs Benedict, scoured her teeth, showered, washed and conditioned her hair, the knob of the bathroom door rattled irritably. ‘Susannah, I’m going to the theatre,’ Alex called.
Susannah opened the door and stood before him naked, bedraggled and rather fetching. ‘Oh. I thought you wanted to fool around.’
‘Too late, sweetheart, you missed your chance.’ Although Alex said it jokingly he was genuinely irritated. Not so much because Susannah had disappeared to the bathroom for half an hour but because she’d locked the door. She always locked the door these days and, for someone as sexually abandoned as she was, Alex found it annoyingly coy. When he’d challenged her about it a year or so ago, she’d countered with equal irritation.
‘For God’s sake, Alex, women like the bathroom to themselves from time to time. I mean, hell, I might have a period, I might be taking a crap, who knows.’
He didn’t point out that such moments of personal hygiene had never been a matter of privacy in their early days. It was yet another sign of the growing distance between them.
‘Steve’s bumping the new set in tonight and I’m giving the cast notes at six-thirty.’
‘I take it you don’t want me to make a miraculous recovery and appear for notes.’
‘No bloody way.’
Alex left and Susannah felt slightly piqued. She knew he’d been irritated, but what right did he have? Now she was faced with an interminable night alone—God knew what time Alex would be home.
She wandered around the house naked, looked at the view across the bay, then decided to have a sauna. That was a productive way to fill in an evening. A long sauna with the thermostat turned up could knock off a good kilo, provided she didn’t replace the fluid loss for a couple of hours.
Susannah wrapped the heavy duty plastic garbage bags around her body and lay back on the wooden bench. She tried to switch her mind off to the peace that surrounded her: the ticking of the electric heating unit in the corner; the mild sizzle of the water she’d just thrown on the stones. But she couldn’t switch off. Thoughts nibbled at her brain like mice at a piece of cheese.
Thoughts about her and Alex. They weren’t really a couple any more. But then had they ever been?
Thoughts about her family. Daddy’s health was worse than ever and Michael wasn’t able to come down for her show. Susannah missed her brother dreadfully but now, with Mummy’s health starting to fail, Michael was needed more than ever to dance attendance on their father.
As the heat took over and sweat trickled around her body, seeking an outlet from the garbage bags, Susannah thought of Hedda Gabler. Whenever her personal life seemed too much to contemplate, Susannah found escape in her work. Thank God Alex had come to Hedda’s rescue, she thought. And thank God for his twenty-four hour plan. She breathed deeply, the hot air scorching her lungs, and smiled to herself. Good old Alex. What right did she have to berate him, or indeed herself, for anything lacking in their relationship? They fulfilled each other’s careers perfectly, didn’t they? And that was, after all, why they’d married in the first place.
She hoped Alex would remember to give Neville the notes from their discussion about the opening scene. The pace needed to be picked up and Neville needed to …
Of course Alex would remember, she told herself. Beads of sweat started to hit the tiles of the sauna floor and Susannah relaxed.
When Susannah finally stirred at ten, Alex had already been on the phone for nearly an hour and had a pot of tea brewing.
‘Breakfast raring to go too,’ he said proudly. ‘You name it. Eggs Benedict?’
‘No thanks, sweetheart,’ Susannah said, remembering her promise to herself.
‘Did you eat last night?’ Alex asked.
‘Oh damn! No, I forgot.’ Of course! She’d meant to have her apple and cottage cheese, she reprimanded herself. But she’d been in the sauna until midnight by which time she was so exhausted she’d taken her tenth quick dip in the cold plunge pool and collapsed into bed. No wonder she’d slept so deeply and no wonder she now had a headache. Better drink some water, she told herself.
‘That’s naughty, Susannah. You heard what Les said. You’re going “to have something to eat right now. What can I get you?’
Susannah looked dutifully chastised. ‘A green apple and some cottage cheese, please.’ She caught his look and added hastily ‘On rye bread.
‘Why the special treatment?’ she asked as she followed him into the kitchen.
‘For my favourite leading lady nothing is too much trouble.’
It was true. Alex always cosseted her just before an opening night. He knew the strain she was under, Susannah thought gratefully. She wasn’t unaware of his ulterior motive, of course, she knew he wanted to get the best possible performance out of her. They understood each other.
As Alex opened the refrigerator door Susannah kissed him deeply and pressed her groin against his, determined to make up for the night before.
But Alex’s sexual response was lukewarm. ‘Just wait till you see the set, Sooz,’ he said eagerly as he broke away from the kiss. ‘Steve’s done a great job and now that they’ve got a whole extra day to dress it he reckons it’ll look fantastic. New drapes to replace that dreary maroon shit.’ He tossed her an apple and slammed the refrigerator door shut. ‘And the bookings! Christ alive, the bookings!’
Far from being insulted by his dismissal of her sexual advances, Susannah found his enthusiasm exciting.
‘The bookings have gone mad!’ he continued. ‘I’ve already told the theatre we’re extending the season and we haven’t even opened!’
‘You’re a genius, my darling.’
‘What a pity we can’t rig a scam like this for every opening night.’
They laughed together like delighted children but they both knew Alex wasn’t really joking at all. Yes, we understand each other, Susannah thought.
They had to quell their frivolity during the full dress rehearsal Alex called for three-thirty that afternoon. Everyone in the company was so concerned about Susannah that she felt like a terrible fraud as she nodded bravely and said she was sure she’d be able to get through the evening performance.
‘We’d better just do a walk-through dress then, hadn’t we, Herr Direktor?’ Harold asked with a cheeky glint in his eye.
‘Only Susannah, thank you, Harold,’ Alex answered warningly. ‘I’ll expect full-level performances from the rest of the company.’
Halfway through Act Two, Mavis from front-of-house crept up to Alex as he scribbled his notes by shielded torchlight in the stalls.
‘Excuse me, Mr Rainford,’ she whispered ‘but Miss Wright’s mother is on the phone. She’s calling from the Gold Coast.’
‘So what?’ Alex hissed. ‘I don’t care if she’s calling from the Arctic wastelands, she can’t interrupt a dress rehearsal.’
‘I’m fully aware of that, Mr Rainford,’ Mavis replied stiffly. She was a stickler for theatrical form herself and, under normal circumstances, would never have approached him until after the rehearsal. ‘But Mrs Wright has heard of her daughter’s illness and is very distressed. I wondered what message you might like me to give her.’
Oh shit, Alex thought. The story couldn’t have made the Queensland papers, surely—that was something he certainly hadn’t contemplated. ‘Of course, Mavis, I’m sorry.’ He knew better than to get offside with Mavis; she was a valuable ally. ‘Tell Mrs Wright that she mustn’t worry. Susannah is fine and she’ll ring during interval in fifteen minutes.’
‘Very well.’ As Mavis turned to go Alex hoped she caught his grateful smile in the dim torchlight.
‘Hell,’ Susannah said when Alex told her. ‘That’s all they need.’ And she hurried off to her dressing room to ring her parents.
When Alex joined her twenty minutes later she was just hanging up the receiver and her face was glowing. ‘Michael’s on his way to Sydney,’ she said. ‘When he heard about the story in the papers he took off straight away.’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘Yes, isn’t he wonderful?’
But Alex was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘That’s amazing. The story made the Queensland papers—I don’t believe it.’
‘No, it didn’t,’ Susannah corrected him. ‘A friend of Daddy’s arrived from Sydney this afternoon and he rang to say he was sorry to hear the news. Daddy sent straight out for the Sydney papers and then rang Michael.’
‘He’ll probably be pissed off when he finds he’s made the trip for nothing. Did you try to stop him?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I rang but Priscilla said he left an hour ago.’ Susannah’s eyes were shining with excitement. ‘He’ll be here just in time for the curtain. Oh Alex, he won’t miss my opening night after all.’ She threw her arms around him. ‘And it’s going to be a magnificent opening night, my darling!’
Who’s she hugging? Alex wondered. Him or me? He didn’t mind. As always, the sibling relationship fascinated him. Susannah and Michael were always giggling and whispering together. More like lovers than brother and sister, Alex often thought. The undivided attention they paid to each other frequently excluded even their own spouses.
Alex didn’t mind at all; he found it very interesting. Not so Priscilla, Michael’s wife. On one of their early meetings, when Alex made a jocular remark about sibling flirtation Priscilla’s attack had been ferocious.
‘How dare you?’ she hissed. ‘What a disgusting thing to say!’ There was a moment’s silence while Alex remained staring at her, then she covered, primly. ‘You television people might find that sort of comment funny but I think it’s smutty and highly unnecessary.’
She’d sailed out of the room, grateful that no one else had witnessed her outburst while Michael and Susannah remained whispering in the corner, oblivious.
Alex wondered whether Priscilla’s obvious jealousy was grounded on more than just their exclusion of her. I wonder if Susannah and Michael have been lovers? he thought. Maybe they still are.
As fascinating as the prospect was, Alex doubted it. Susannah and Michael’s conspiracy obviously sprang from childhood. And childhood in the Wright family would have meant total father dominance aided and abetted by mother, leaving the children with just each other.
Whatever the cause and whatever the extent, the force of their love for each other was impossible to hide and, Alex decided, compelling to watch. And if Michael’s impending arrival spurred Susannah on to greater heights, all the better.
He kissed her, then spanked her bottom lightly. ‘Freshen the make-up, interval’s over.’
As he spoke there was a tap on the door and the ASM’s voice. ‘Stand by for Act Three, Miss Wright.’
Alex had finished giving the cast and stage management their notes and most of them had left the theatre to dine. Susannah, who never ate prior to a performance, was resting in her dressing room.
There was a tap on the production office door and Mavis appeared. ‘A call for Miss Wright has come through on the box office phone, Mr Rainford.’
‘That’s all right, Mavis, you can have it put through to her dressing room. She’s only resting.’ Susannah never slept prior to a performance.
Mavis stepped inside the office and closed the door behind her mysteriously. ‘I thought I’d better check with you before I did,’ she said. ‘We wouldn’t want Miss Wright upset before the opening unless it was absolutely necessary, would we?’
‘No, we certainly wouldn’t.’ Alex rose from his desk and smiled agreeably, glad that he hadn’t alienated the woman with his previous irritation. In her colourless way she reminded him a little of his mother and, just like his mother, she had an underlying strength and tenacity which could be very useful if channelled in his direction.
‘It’s Westmead Hospital on the phone, you see,’ Mavis continued. ‘There’s been some sort of accident involving a member of Miss Wright’s family. They wouldn’t tell me any more than that but I thought you might wish to speak to them.’
‘Thank you, Mavis.’ She handed him a piece of paper with the telephone number on it and left.
The way the sister at the hospital broke the news was quite brutal, Alex thought. A forced landing had gone wrong at Bankstown Airport. Michael had received extensive brain damage and was in a coma.
‘Frankly, Mr Rainford, it would be advisable for your wife to get to the hospital as soon as possible; her brother doesn’t have much time.’
‘But … how did it happen?’ Alex was confused, trying to buy time. ‘He’s an extremely experienced pilot.’
‘Something to do with faulty landing equipment, I believe,’ Sister Tresize replied busily. There was a slight trace of ‘this isn’t part of my job’ in her voice and then she continued efficiently with the part that was. ‘As your wife was the nearest of kin in Sydney I thought it best she be contacted first. Do you want the hospital to inform Mr Wright’s—’
‘No,’ Alex said. His mind was in gear now. What a bastard it all was. These things did happen, of course, but what bloody awful timing. ‘No, we’ll tell his wife and his parents.’
‘Very well.’
‘Will he regain consciousness?’ Alex asked hastily before Sister Tresize hung up.
‘Oh no. I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.’
Alex went straight around to the front-of-house office. Mavis seemed to be expecting him. She put aside the correspondence files she’d been working on and awaited his orders. Her face registered concern when he told her the news but she didn’t utter a word.
‘They say he won’t regain consciousness for a very long time, if ever,’ Alex finished. He neglected to add that they also said he could die at any moment.
‘I see.’ Mavis waited long enough to be sure Alex had nothing further to add. ‘I take it you don’t think we should say anything to Miss Wright until after the performance.’
‘Well …’ He left it hanging.
‘I agree. We can’t afford another cancelled opening.’
Alex had expected Mavis to take some convincing. My God, she’s lethal, he realised, rather taken aback.
He was right. In her own domain Mavis was a force to be reckoned with. She’d been running the theatre’s front of house for nearly twenty years. She’d seen producers, directors, playwrights and actors come and go, and not for one minute had she questioned or interfered with their artistic policies. But when it came to the box office, front of house and general staff management she expected equal consideration. The clockwork running of the theatre was totally her concern.
‘It’s only a matter of several hours, after all,’ she continued, ‘and if her brother is not going to regain consciousness during that time, I think we should delay the news.’
‘Right.’ Alex breathed an inward sigh of relief. ‘If the hospital should ring again …’
‘I’ll have all calls transferred to me here and I’ll keep you informed,’ she nodded. Alex turned to go. ‘That poor young man,’ Mavis said, and there was genuine sympathy in her voice. Then she returned to her desk and picked up her correspondence files. The show must go on.
As Alex passed by the greenroom on the way to Susannah’s dressing room he heard the early edition television news: ‘… Bankstown Airport … steered the aircraft off the runway to avoid a group of maintenance workers.’
‘Evening, boys.’ Alex nodded a greeting to the four stage hands who were eating pizza and watching the news on the greenroom set.
‘… the identity of the heroic young pilot has not yet been released pending notification of his family,’ the newsreader continued. There was a distant shot of an unidentifiable body being carried away on a stretcher by paramedics. ‘… he remains in a critical condition.’
Out of the corner of his eye Alex saw Susannah come out of her dressing room down the corridor. She started walking towards the greenroom.
He rushed to meet her. ‘I thought you were resting,’ he said and he embraced her.
‘I wanted to take my mind off things,’ she answered. ‘I thought I might have a cup of tea with the boys and watch the news.’
‘It’s half over,’ murmured Alex as he kissed her neck, ‘and I know a much better way to take your mind off things.’
One minute later they were on the floor of Susannah’s dressing room. They’d removed only the barest essentials of clothing. In the full-length mirror, Alex watched Susannah’s silk dressing gown billowing about her as she opened her thighs to him.
She moaned as she lifted her pelvis and drew him into her and she continued to moan gently with each thrust. Alex, watching in the mirror, knew she was using him, knew she was luxuriating in the feel of him. It was a sexual massage, her way of relaxing, and the sight of her in the mirror and the awful secret of her brother combined to excite him to the point where he found himself fighting to preserve his control. Susannah’s moans quickened and finally evaporated in a contented sigh of fulfilment. Not a moment too soon, thought Alex, as he let himself go with a strangled cry of relief.
‘Now that’s what I call unwinding,’ Susannah said and she stretched languidly. ‘Maybe we should include that in a regular opening night relaxation routine?’
‘Suits me.’ Alex grinned and zipped up his trousers. ‘And now I’ll get you that cup of tea.’
As Alex stepped out of the shower, he heard Susannah on the telephone. ‘Yes, thank you. As soon as he gets in tell him his sister rang.’
Susannah opened the bathroom door. ‘Michael hasn’t arrived at the Hilton yet.’
‘Well, maybe he’s not staying at the Hilton this time.’ Alex towelled himself vigorously.
‘He always stays at the Hilton. Anyway, Priscilla rang and made a booking.’
‘Do my back for me, will you, sweetheart?’ Alex handed her the towel.
‘He might have thought it was a bit of a rush trying to get to the hotel and then on to the theatre,’ Susannah said thoughtfully as she dried Alex’s back. ‘Maybe he’s decided to come straight from the airport.’
‘Maybe.’ Alex changed as quickly as he could. ‘I’d better get out there and prepare to mingle,’ he said. ‘I can’t come backstage at interval—we’re laying on Dom in the manager’s office for the VIPs. Not that you will need any favours bought from the critics, my darling.’ He kissed her gently. ‘Your Hedda is magnificent.’ Then he kissed her again. ‘Be wonderful and have fun.’
Susannah nodded gratefully and smiled. ‘You too.’ As he was about to close the door she added, ‘You look great in your evening drag.’
It was the biggest, most glamorous, and most important opening night Alex had experienced since I, Me and Us. He was fully aware that the buzz in the air was due to the massive publicity, the sympathy for Susannah and the morbid curiosity about whether she’d be able to make it through the gruelling performance the day after her collapse. But it renewed his taste for the spectacular. Enough middle of the road, he vowed. His next show would be new, dangerous and exciting. It would be a Rainford/Oldfellow blockbuster. He couldn’t wait for his meeting with Julian at Harold’s next week.
‘Excuse me, Mr Rainford.’ Mavis smiled apologetically and Alex excused himself to the wealthy investor, signalling for the waiter to refill the man’s glass. It was interval, the Dom was flowing freely and Acts One and Two had been splendid.
‘Yes, Mavis.’
‘I wouldn’t interrupt if I didn’t think it was absolutely essential, Mr Rainford, I hope you—’
‘Yes, I realise that, Mavis.’
‘The hospital rang during Act One to see where Miss Rainford was and I told them she would be there as soon as she possibly could.’
‘Fine, that’s fine,’ he said encouragingly.
‘But they rang again only a few minutes ago to say that they don’t expect him to last long. Oh dear,’ Mavis fretted, obviously riddled with guilt, ‘we’ll have to tell her, Mr Rainford.’
‘No, we won’t, Mavis.’ He put a steadying hand on her arm.
‘But …’ Mavis left her objection hanging.
And then Alex said the words she wanted to hear. ‘I’ll take full responsibility.’
‘Very well, Mr Rainford.’
As she left Alex made a beeline for Myra Nielson. Myra’s starting to look her age just a little, he thought. Well, hell, who could blame her—she must be close to fifty by now. Still a good-looking woman, though, and more powerful than ever. He wondered whether he should renew their sexual acquaintance—that is, if she wanted to, if she wasn’t sharing her favours exclusively with women these days.
‘Myra, how nice to see you.’ Alex was pleased to note that she was in the company of a young man.
‘Alex! What a triumph. You must be very proud.’ Three years off sixty, Myra was certainly not exclusive in the granting of her sexual favours. She was as rapacious as ever and, while her escort went in search of a waiter to refill her glass, she made an assignation with Alex for the following week. ‘We have so much to catch up on, don’t we?’ Her smile said it all.
The performance continued as triumphantly as it had started. Susannah went from strength to strength, taking the rest of the cast with her as the play built towards its climax.
There was an audible gasp as the gunshot rang out. Neville, Harold and Rosie rushed to the alcove and Neville flung aside the curtains.
TESMAN
Shot herself! Shot herself in the temple! Fancy that!
BRACK
Good God!—People don’t do such things.
Several seconds of silence followed Harold’s final line. Then the applause broke out. It was deafening.
Sections of the audience had already got to their feet during the curtain calls, but when Susannah walked down centre stage to join the cast, there was a complete standing ovation.
As the cries of ‘Bravo’ were at their loudest, Alex felt a hand on his arm and the familiar, ‘Excuse me, Mr Rainford’.
He was standing at the back of the stalls near one of the exits and he silently followed her out into the foyer.
‘They’re on the telephone again,’ Mavis whispered. ‘They want to speak to either you or Miss Wright and they won’t leave a message.’ Her face was white with guilt. ‘I think—’ She couldn’t complete the sentence.
Mavis was right. And Sister Tresize was more brutal than ever. ‘Tell Miss Wright her brother died fifteen minutes ago, in case she’s interested.’ Sister Tresize was good at her job, but public relations wasn’t her strong suit.
Alex instructed her not to move the body, and told her that Susannah would be there within half an hour. Then he mingled with the critics, investors and general well-wishers for ten minutes. Enough time for Susannah to take off her make-up and shower and change. She never accepted visitors to her dressing room, preferring to meet them in the greenroom or bar.
Susannah was ready and waiting for him when he went backstage. The moment he opened the dressing room door her mouth was upon his. The kiss was hungry, demanding. She barely noticed his passive response as she broke the embrace.
‘I told you it’d be a wonderful opening night, darling. It was, wasn’t it? It felt marvellous. Are they all raving about it?’ Susannah babbled in her excitement.
‘Oh yes, they’re all gathered in the bar waiting for you.’
‘Then what are we doing here?’ She grabbed her evening bag.
‘I don’t think you’ll want to see them when you hear the news,’ Alex said.
‘Where’s Michael? Did he get here in time for the Act One curtain? What news?’
‘It’s about Michael, actually.’ Alex took a deep breath. There really was only one way to say it. ‘There’s been a very bad accident, Susannah. Michael’s plane crashed on landing.’
Alex had never seen blood drain from someone’s face so quickly. One minute flushed pink with excitement, the next white as a ghost. Fascinating.
‘He died half an hour ago.’
What followed was a nightmare. The dash to Westmead Hospital, the icy reception from Sister Tresize and her staff, the hysterical telephone calls to Queensland. Only one thing remained clear in Susannah’s mind: the sight of Michael’s dead face upon the crisp, white hospital linen.
His head was covered when they arrived and Sister Tresize had to draw back the sheet. Why did they do that? Susannah wondered. I could have pretended he was asleep. Despair flooded through her whole being. Oh, dear God, just for a few seconds I could have pretended he was asleep. Michael certainly looked as though he was asleep. There wasn’t a mark on him and his face was peaceful in repose. Tears coursed down Susannah’s face as she stroked his cheek and gently kissed him on the lips. ‘I love you, my darling.’ She wasn’t sure whether she whispered it or whether she thought it but it didn’t matter.
Sister Tresize, standing a discreet distance away by the door, watched Susannah kiss her brother. For the first time in many years, she was shocked. The poor woman hadn’t been told, she realised. She looked at the husband who seemed fascinated by the face upon the white sheet. Michael Wright had been in a coma for three hours before he died and the husband hadn’t said anything.
Sister Tresize had seen many strange reactions to death in her twenty-five-year nursing career and she thought she’d inured herself to them all but the cool detachment of this man was something new. It was shocking.
Alex sensed the woman looking at him and glanced briefly in her direction. She certainly wasn’t the waspish creature he’d expected. She was a handsome, healthy, buxom woman in her early forties, actually very attractive. But he returned to the more interesting spectacle of Susannah’s bedside performance and her brother’s dead face.
How beautiful he is in death, Alex marvelled. A boy’s face flashed through his mind: Tim. Yes, Tim had also been beautiful in death. Not as beautiful as Michael, though. Michael’s face was the face of a hero: manly, handsome, gallant. Alex felt a rush of affection for Michael. Michael had died a heroic death, the reports said. He’d knowingly risked his life to save others. Alex felt happy for him.