Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

Fleming felt a sudden stab of anger that God should allow these people to parade their filthy, fickle love in the street while seeming to punish him and his wife for their devotion. If he were to lose the only woman he had ever spoken to of love, the only woman he had taken to his bed, he knew he could never replace her with another.

In that instant, he felt vindicated for the decision he had taken during one of those long nocturnal vigils, a decision which went 64

entirely against his character – or at least what his character had once been. Cancer had a habit of eroding morally as well as physically, and everything he loved was under threat. He should not be ashamed of his actions. After all, what had he left to lose?

The dressing room smelt of scent and an electric fire. Outside, a steady stream of traffic passed along the corridor and, whenever the door opened, Lydia could hear the muffled tramp of scene shifters up above and catch a faint whiff of size from the paint dock. Apart from a small chintz sofa, its extent carefully chosen to limit the number of admirers who could be comfortably accommodated at any one sitting, the room contained very little unnecessary furniture but, after fourteen months of occupation, it felt as much like home as her rented lodgings down the road. However perfectly she rehearsed the lines about professional challenges and resisting complacency, no actress was immune to the advantages of a long run: praise and financial security were its obvious accessories, but just as valuable was the sense of belonging. In becoming someone else for more than six weeks at a time, she had discovered that she was also better at being herself.

The layers of familiarity had built up gradually during the many hours spent at the New, manifesting themselves in hundreds of letters and personal items which formed a living scrapbook of the present moment, a flamboyant index of everything that was most precious in her life. One wall was now completely covered in press cuttings, in pages from Theatre World ’s photographic celebration of the play and in the hundreds of reviews which had offered virtually every positive adjective in the book to her performance. Along another, a rail held the three attractive costumes and numerous accessories which transformed her simply and elegantly into Richard II’s consort: the gold dress with peaspod collar and garland of lilies – so strange and exotic when she had first put them on, even to an actress used to playing historical roles – now felt as natural a part of her wardrobe as anything she could find in Kensington.

Her dressing table was reserved for more intimate things: pictures of her father at the height of his musical career before it was 65

ruined by illness and depression; long and loving letters from her mother, with whom she corresponded weekly; and a rare photograph of Marta, taken on a bracing Sunday walk through Regent’s Park not long after they had met. Her normally camera-shy lover looked out from the picture through tears of laughter, much to the astonishment of a young man who stood in the background of the photograph, watching as Marta tried and failed not to be amused by the misfortunes of an elderly couple who had taken boldly to the boating lake. She smiled now at the blurred image, remembering how she, too, had been laughing too helplessly to hold the camera steady.

Idly, Lydia removed another chocolate from the box of Prestat which Marta – along with some innuendo about taking sweets from the lap of the Queen – had playfully arranged under the skirts of the lifelike souvenir doll that stood at the back of the dressing table. It was odd, she thought, that the only thing in the room which did not now carry a comfortable sense of the familiar was the face looking back at her from the mirror. She had not yet grown accustomed to the subtle lines of age that were beginning their inevitable dance around her eyes and mouth, nor to the implications that they carried for her career. At forty-three, as Bernard Aubrey had made abundantly clear to her less than a fortnight ago, she was fast approaching the age dreaded by all actresses, those difficult mid-life years which were played out to the tune of too old for Ophelia, too young for Gertrude. She had been lucky with Anne, and was fortunate to have persuaded Josephine to immortalise for her the tiresome, glamorous Queen of Scots but, after that, she was well aware that there could be some lean years ahead, that the cushion of Aubrey’s approval might not always rest with her.

Lost in her thoughts, Lydia did not notice that the dressing-room door had opened until she caught sight of Marta’s reflection in the glass. Such visits were rare, as Marta preferred to keep out of a theatre circle which she regarded as Lydia’s world, and the actress smiled with pleasure, her fears instantly forgotten. ‘How long have you been there?’ she asked.

66

‘Long enough to know you’ve got chocolate on your lips,’ said Marta, laughing as she bent down to kiss the back of Lydia’s neck where it had been authentically shaved to accommodate Anne’s elaborate headwear.

‘I don’t mind if you don’t.’ Lydia turned round in the chair and took Marta’s face in her hands, tasting the coffee on her mouth as she drew her into a long, intense kiss. ‘Do you feel any better?’

‘I think I’ve drunk enough coffee to kill or cure the headache once and for all, but this place is hardly likely to lift a girl’s spirits.

That Lewis chap was in the Corner House looking as miserable as sin, John Terry’s upstairs at the stage door shouting at someone, and that young boy who does all the work while your Chekhovian stage manager scribbles away at her next masterpiece nearly jumped out of his skin when I said hello to him. I can see why I don’t venture down here very often.’

‘Don’t take it personally. Hedley’s in terrible trouble with Bernard over something; he’s been summoned to his office after the matinee for a dressing down. And Lewis has been miserable for weeks now. Rumour has it that his wife’s left him and Johnny says he’s hit the bottle, but he and Lewis have always hated each other so that might just be the bitch in him talking. Who was Johnny shouting at, anyway?’

‘I don’t know – he was on the telephone. Just one of the many unfortunates who are less godlike than him, I suppose. But I didn’t come here to talk about them,’ Marta said, dropping her sarcasm and sliding her hand inside Lydia’s silk robe. ‘How quickly can you get from here to the stage these days?’

Suddenly the door was thrown open and Ronnie appeared, staggering under the weight of an extraordinary horned head-dress.

‘Oh we are interrupting something, I hope,’ she said wickedly.

‘We’ve come to let out your seams, although a little more exercise before each show might save us the trouble.’ The twinkle in her eye brought a deep flush to Marta’s face and a pink tinge to Lydia’s, and elicited a long-suffering smile of apology from Lettice, who followed closely on her heels. ‘Where would you like us to start?’

*

67

Normally, Hedley White would have been looking forward to his night off but, as he placed the furniture for the opening scene and moved to the side of the stage to run through the list of properties for each successive change, his mind was otherwise occupied. He knew he had behaved frightfully, and cursed himself again for such a rash act of stupidity, one that no amount of wishing or hoping could undo. The deed was done; Aubrey knew about it; and later he would face the consequences when he was called to the producer’s office.

Although he had only worked for him for six months, Hedley already looked up to Aubrey as the father he had never known, respecting him as someone who, through sheer hard work, had made a practical success of a profession which liked to make itself as esoteric as possible. Hedley was well aware that working-class boys like himself did not naturally enter the theatre but, in offering him a job as an assistant stage manager, Aubrey had dispelled all notions of Masonic exclusion by showing him that there was an alternative to universities and drama schools and being born into the right family, an alternative which made use of his talents and gave him the experience he craved. Working at both Wyndham’s and the New, he spent his days making tea, painting flats, sweep-ing the stage and walking around sets while electricians focused lamps. It was hard work, physically, which suited his strength and energy, and extra responsibilities built his confidence faster than he would have believed possible. If anybody had told him this time last year that he would be taking walk-on parts in front of hundreds of people and enjoying it, he would have laughed in their face.