Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

Wryly, Josephine raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure she’d say much the same about you. She’s right, of course – about the fawning, I mean; I can’t speak for the tongue. Actresses live on goodwill.’

By the time they reached the dressing room, Lydia had returned to the wings ready for her brief appearance in the second act but Josephine felt none of the awkwardness that often comes when mutual friends are thrown together in the absence of the common link. In contrast to their first brief meeting, Marta made conversation easily, avoiding the small change to which strangers often limit themselves and talking animatedly about the last couple of months, but her concerns about Lydia’s future were never far away and Josephine realised that she was genuinely troubled.

‘Is her work a problem for you?’ she asked almost brutally, real-127

ising that Lydia would be back with them in a few moments’ time and the opportunity for confidences would be lost.

‘No, it’s not that. It’s been her life and I’d never ask her to give that up – just the opposite, in fact. What worries me is how she’ll cope if – when – it all dries up. She’s had a couple of knock-backs lately and the harder she pretends to take it all in her stride, the more I know it’s hurting her.’

‘She’s bound to feel unsettled when something like this comes to an end. Long runs are a luxury, but they lull you into a false sense of security and get you out of the habit of moving on. It’ll pass as soon as she gets out on tour and into rehearsals for something new.’

‘Perhaps.’ Marta looked at her as if assessing how direct she could be. ‘Tell me – would you have written a play about Mary Queen of Scots if Lydia hadn’t asked you to?’

‘No, I don’t think I would. I can see why the idea of playing her on stage is attractive, but I’ve never had any real sympathy for the woman.’

Marta nodded. ‘You know, I almost wish you hadn’t done it. We all need something to work towards, and the idea that someone could bring that creature to life has been a dream of hers for years.

Now it’s become a reality and she’ll have done it before the year’s out, and I’m not sure that leaves her anywhere to go. As it is, I keep catching her looking over her shoulder, thinking that the best is behind her.’

Josephine said nothing, wondering if she should warn Marta that another blow was coming Lydia’s way if Aubrey’s film ever got off the ground. She decided against it. There was enough unrest for everyone at the moment and it might never happen but, if it did, the more time they had to cement their relationship against outside anxieties the better. ‘Of course, Lydia’s never had anything meaningful outside the theatre until now,’ she said instead. ‘Having a life with you must count as something to look forward to, surely?’

‘Oh come off it,’ Marta said scornfully. ‘Women need both –

love and work – and these days they can have it. Lydia’s got a right to expect both. Would you seriously put your pen down if you fell 128

in love?’ Josephine was silent, taken aback by the question. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude and I shouldn’t be speaking like this to someone I don’t know,’ Marta continued, ‘but I can see so much sorrow ahead for Lydia and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. You won’t tell her I’m worried, will you? I’ve spent all this time being so bloody reassuring.’

‘No, I won’t say anything. But in answer to your question: yes, I think there are times when I would give all this up for a different life. Or, at least, there are times when having someone in particular would make this life a little less lonely, so don’t underestimate what you mean to her.’

Marta was silent, seeming to consider how much of what Josephine said was sincere and how much was designed to make her feel better. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said eventually. ‘Thank you.’

‘And perhaps you’re right about Queen of Scots . I think what you meant but were too polite to say is that my indifference to the woman has made for rather an average play?’ Marta blushed a little and Josephine continued. ‘It’s all right – you can be honest, and it’s nothing I don’t already know. My affection for Lydia made me say yes when I should have said no. You can’t write to order – at least I can’t. I neither love nor loathe Mary Stuart, so she’s a character rather than a person. The best we can hope for, I suppose, is that she’ll be popular.’

‘It’s funny how our ideas of people change. I was telling Lydia earlier today – the people I valued when I was younger and the stories I wrote about them bear no resemblance to what I feel now.’

‘Have you always written, then?’

‘On and off. Actually, more off than on until a year or so ago. I started during the war when my husband was away. My mother-in-law was a friend of May Gaskell – have you heard of her?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, she started a war library for soldiers abroad. Her son-in-law was wounded in the South African War and she sent him books and magazines in hospital to distract him from the misery of it all. Apparently, it’s what got him through, so May decided on 129

the first day of war that British soldiers in France would never be without stories to take their minds off the suffering. She was in her sixties by then, but she was a remarkable woman and well connected enough to make it happen. She persuaded somebody to lend her a house in Marble Arch and turned it into a book ware-house. People sent things in from all over the country. One day we’d get dirty packets of rubbish from Finchley; the next, thirty thousand volumes from a country estate would turn up.’

‘How extraordinary! And you worked there?’

‘Yes, for a couple of years before the Red Cross took it over. The response was better than May could have hoped for, so she needed volunteers. People were donating entire libraries. On a good day, the vans bringing in the books blocked the traffic all around Marble Arch. We sent them to hospitals all over the world, not just France, but whenever I knew there was a consignment going to my husband’s regiment, I’d send stories of my own to make it more personal. You couldn’t always rely on their getting to the right person, but it was a way of keeping some sort of connection alive.’

‘And your husband?’

‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It wasn’t the happiest of marriages and it seems a lifetime away now.’ The sound of applause drifted down from the stage and Marta stood up to look for a corkscrew. ‘Talking of dying, it sounds like she’s gone again. That’s our cue for a drink.’

By now, Josephine had revised her earlier opinion of Lydia’s lover, not dropping the ‘nice’ which had so disappointed Ronnie but adding some more interesting qualities, passionate and engag-ing being top of the list. Instead of trying to avoid the subject of Marta’s own book, she found herself rather intrigued at the prospect of reading it.

‘Lydia says you’ve finished the first draft of your novel, and she asked me to look at it,’ she said, accepting the glass that Marta held out to her. ‘There’s nothing worse than someone chipping in with helpful advice you don’t need, but I’d be happy to read it if you want an outside opinion.’

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‘That’s very sweet of you both but you really don’t have to, you know. You must get hundreds of people asking for your time and it’s hideous to have to be tactful to someone you know.’

‘I wouldn’t be. If I didn’t like it I’d say so, but even then it would just be the comments of a friend. It’s your novel.’

‘Yes, it is. For better or worse, it’s certainly that.’