Chapter 11
11
‘What, you mean you’ve not told him, Robyn?’ Julius tutted dramatically, his eyes gleaming, not only with the excess alcohol he’d obviously put away, but the sheer malicious delight at being the one about to spill the beans.
‘Robyn?’ Fabian said once more. ‘What? What is it ?’ He let go of the hand I’d placed in his.
Julius actually laughed out loud now. ‘I suppose telling your barrister boyfriend that you come from murdering stock isn’t the best way to cement a relationship. Oh no! And not great for his career and the Carrington family name. Hmm?’ Julius returned his hand to my backside, patting it lasciviously. ‘And I can see you’ve got your claws well into Fabian… seen where he comes from.’ Julius now moved his hand in the direction of the beautiful house, gardens and swimming pool. ‘Bet you didn’t want to give up on all of this, or the chance it might come your way one day? Yep,’ he added as Fabian started to propel me away, ‘ask her about her murdering grandfather – not one, but two?—’
‘Fuck off, Julius.’ Fabian grabbed my hand, ushering me down to the car, oblivious to friends and guests who put out hands of greeting, wanting him to stop and chat.
‘Get in,’ he snapped.
‘Don’t order me about,’ I retaliated.
‘Why is everything such a fight with you, Robyn?’ Fabian was pale apart from two spots of colour in his cheeks. He turned the ignition and reversed quickly, ignoring a well-dressed middle-aged couple with a beautiful redhead – the newly called to the bar Lucinda? – who were on the point of knocking on the car window to get his attention, scattering them to one side instead. Fabian turned out of the gate and set off at speed before indicating and parking up in a lay-by as soon as he saw the opportunity. He killed the engine.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Out with it.’
‘I think your brother put it very succinctly.’
‘Your grandfather murdered two people?’ Fabian stared. ‘How the hell does Julius know about your grandfather?’
‘He’s obviously done his homework.’
‘So, go on, then, tell me.’
‘Long story, but if you’re hoping I’m going to tell you he was innocent, that it was all a mistake, then sorry, I’m not.’ I suddenly felt utterly bone weary. ‘Look, Fabian, drop me off at the station in Marlow and I’ll get the train back to London.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Robyn – I’ve a table booked for afternoon tea.’
‘I don’t think so, Fabian.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me ?’
Fabian stared. ‘Tell you what?’
‘That you’re going to be defending the Soho Slasher.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it. About him .’
‘Of course I do,’ I snapped crossly. ‘It’s the only thing anyone’s been talking about: you and I have talked about him loads of times – we even had a discussion about how on earth he would ever get anyone to defend him in court?—’
‘No, we didn’t, Robyn,’ Fabian interrupted calmly. ‘You spouted long and hard and I didn’t respond. That’s not a discussion.’
‘No, you didn’t dare, did you? Didn’t dare tell me you’re going to be on the side of the man who, despite his exceptionally privileged upbringing and his education at top public schools, chose as his sport raping and murdering women. You knew I couldn’t stay with you if I learned you’d been engineering a way to get him off.’
‘There’s a long way to go yet. The case is at the early stages.’
‘Fabian, women like me have been terrified to walk the streets at night. The Ritzy Ripper , the papers are now calling him, now they know his background and about the suite his parents kept at The Ritz hotel. Likened him to the Yorkshire Ripper, who preyed on women on my home patch back north.’
‘I didn’t tell you because I knew this would be your reaction; I didn’t want to lose you. And presumably that’s why you chose not to mention to me that your grandfather killed two people?’
‘Let’s not sweeten this with words – he murdered two people. And no, it’s not something I bring up over a cup of tea and a custard cream.’
‘When would you have told me?’
‘I’m sure, if you’d done a bit of googling, you’d soon have come across an article about Jayden Allen and learned that my grandfather murdered my grandmother and her lover when Jayden was just a baby. A double murder in the early seventies by a black man – a reggae singer himself who’d come over from Jamaica on The Windrush – of his white wife and her white lover was the stuff of headlines in the same way that your Rupert Henderson-Smith is now.’
‘He’s not my Rupert Henderson-Smith.’
‘No, but it sounds like he soon will be. How can you, Fabian? How can you do it? Is it for the money? The kudos?’
‘Even when all of the evidence points to the guilt of a client?—’
‘A client?’ I gave a little laugh.
‘When all of the evidence points to the guilt of a client,’ Fabian went on calmly, ‘they are still entitled to a fair trial and representation.’
‘And Julius and your mother are obviously delighted you’ve taken on the case?’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t get it. Why?’ Then I saw the light. ‘Oh, I bet it would be a bit different if he was plain old Roy Smith from Tower Hamlets who’d gone to the local comp? Or my grandfather – yes, why not, now that that little can of worms has been opened? – my grandfather, a black man from Jamaica who’d murdered his white English-born wife? But Rupert Henderson-Smith, Eton educated, whose parents probably mix in the same social circles as your own, well, that’s totally different, isn’t it?’
‘You’re talking about something you know nothing about, Robyn,’ Fabian said stiffly.
‘And you’re telling me that your mother and your brother would welcome the granddaughter of a convicted Jamaican double murderer into your family? Tainting those Anglo-Saxon genes you’re all, oh, so proud of? Can you just picture me, eating cucumber sandwiches on the lawn with Claudia, discussing where, oh, where is the best place to send little Henry and Amelia to nursery school?’ I adopted the Jamaican patois once again: ‘We must enrol them where the little ones can learn Mandarin and Caribbean…’
‘You’re unbelievable, Robyn: you’re prejudiced, proud and full of stereotypes.’ Fabian shook his head.
‘So I’ve been told.’ I turned to Fabian, knowing I should have trusted my gut instinct from the very start, which had told me he was way out of my reach. ‘Look, at the risk of making a habit of jumping out of your car to run for public transport, I’m going back to London. I have to be at the theatre and I need plenty of time warming up, not having danced for almost a week. Just drop me off at the station, Fabian.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m driving you back. You need to change.’
‘You can’t – you’ve a speech to make back there. And—’ I held up my bag ‘—not only do I not want to be held responsible for your not turning up, everything I need’s in here.’ I found myself unable to meet his eyes, didn’t want to see what he must really be thinking: that I was just too much trouble. That his family were right.
‘Robyn…’ Fabian trailed off and I knew I’d lost him. He wasn’t prepared to fight for me and all the fight seemed to have gone out of me as well. He turned the ignition and we drove the five minutes to Marlow station.
‘Your work and your family will always come first: we probably just met at the wrong time.’ I leaned over to kiss him before opening the car door and, although Fabian moved towards me briefly, he didn’t try to stop me.
‘Oh, you’re back? How’s the knee?’ Carl Farmer, the director, crouched on stage with two of the lighting technicians, looked up only briefly to acknowledge my presence.
‘Fighting fit,’ I lied, knowing my knee still wasn’t 100 per cent. ‘I’ve come in early to have a good warm-up.’
‘Good, good, that’s good,’ he said vaguely, obviously more interested in the problem he was having with the lights. ‘Curtain-up’s not for a couple of hours.’
I changed into sweatpants and top and spent the next hour or so stretching, warming up and taking myself through various routines. It was so good to be back doing what I loved and I tried to put Fabian out of my mind.
But every step, every turn, every leap and every jeté was accompanied by his face, his touch, his kiss. What the hell had I been doing not fighting for him? For us? This damned pride of mine that had always stuck its neck out and tripped me up – it had well and truly done its work this time.
Leap and plié.
How could I continue with Fabian when he was on the point of defending that arrogant murdering misogynist, Rupert Henderson-Smith?
Stretch and élancer.
And how could there ever be any future for me with him and the Carringtons now that Julius bloody Carrington would be having a field day telling the world and his wife about Winston Allen, my paternal grandfather, who’d died in HMP Belmarsh while serving a life sentence?
Glissé, step, glissé.
I should have told Fabian myself. Of course I bloody well should have.
Step and tour jeté.
I landed and instantly knew my knee wasn’t quite as good as I’d thought.
‘Everything OK?’ Carl called from down in the footlights. ‘You’ve got one hell of a face on you, Robyn.’
‘Never better,’ I called in his direction. ‘Just off for a five-minute break.’
‘Yo Ming’s more than able to carry on as Arabella Plumpton-Jones, you know!’ he shouted after my departing back.
‘No way!’ I retorted over my shoulder. ‘I’m tip top. Absolutely raring to go.’
I grabbed my towel and phone, desperate for there to be some word from Fabian. Instead, there were six missed calls from Jess. I exited the stage door with my water bottle, needing fresh air and a phone signal. Jess answered immediately.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s Mum. She’s been rushed into hospital again. Had one of her seizures but she actually stopped breathing this time.’
I closed my eyes.
‘She’s very poorly, Robyn. You need to come home.’
‘I’ll get the train tomorrow – I’ll sort it. How’s Sorrel?’
‘I don’t know where she is.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Exactly that. She and Mum had another set-to, apparently. Mum came over to my place in tears, saying she just couldn’t cope with her any more. I went back with her to see what was happening. There was no sign of Sorrel – just a mass of broken crockery – and so I did my best to settle Mum while I tried to ring round and find her.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you stay with her, Jess?’ I snapped crossly.
‘Why on earth don’t you come up and stay with her, Robyn? I can’t do everything here.’ There was panic in my sister’s voice. ‘Dean’s buggered off with the barmaid. Haven’t seen him for weeks, and I was already late picking Lola up from a birthday party at the other side of town.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I realised I’d not been back to Yorkshire since April when I’d gone home for the weekend to help celebrate Jess’s thirtieth birthday. Almost five months ago.
‘Yeah, well, so am I.’
There was silence as we both mulled over the situation.
‘Look, Jess,’ I said eventually, ‘I’ve got the performance tonight, and after that I’ll tell Carl?—’
‘Carl? Is that your posh barrister?’
‘No, Jess, he ’s history.’ I breathed deeply, trying to accept what I’d just vocalised to my sister, as well as to compartmentalise my life. ‘Carl’s the director. I’ll tell him Mum’s poorly, and I’ll be up by tomorrow afternoon. Try everyone you know who might have some idea where Sorrel could be holed up. She’ll come back when she’s hungry?—’
‘Robyn, she’s a bolshy fifteen-year-old, not a dog who’ll come back wagging its tail wanting his Chappie.’ I could hear the frustration in Jess’s voice.
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’ll be with you tomorrow afternoon.’
Phillipe, The Mercury’s deputy stage manager and responsible for the pre-show calls, started the first of his rear-of-house orders: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen of Dance On Company, this is your half-hour call. Thirty minutes, please.’
‘Got to go, Jess, I’m not dressed or made up yet.’
I made my way up to the dressing room where I’d already checked my four changes of costume were good to go. I stopped as I went through the door, seeing my usual spot at the mirror was taken by Yo Ming, while three others from the company were standing round her, chatting, their costumed-backs to me. I caught Yo Ming’s eyes through the mirror and she stood, saying something to the other three, who turned in unison my way.
‘Oh, you’re back?’ One of the girls, a small feisty blonde, sniffed as Yo Ming made to stand, starting to unzip the back of her Arabella Plumpton-Jones costume.
‘Didn’t Carl tell you?’ I asked pleasantly.
‘Must have slipped his mind,’ the blonde replied. ‘Yo has been brilliant in the role.’
‘I bet she has.’ I smiled. ‘Thanks, Yo. I’m really grateful for your stepping in at such short notice.’
The four of them drifted away towards their own places, but not before the blonde – who I knew to be the original pregnant Arabella P-J’s best mate – muttered, but loud enough for me to hear: ‘She must have sucked Carl’s dick to get that part.’
Scarlet-faced, my pulse racing, I slid into my seat and started on my make-up, sweeping pan stick across my cheeks with a shaking hand.
‘She’s a bully.’ Antonio, one of the men in the chorus, laid a hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Just let her bully you until she’s done bullying you,’ he advised. ‘I know that’s not what you want to hear, but you know…’ He patted my arm and moved towards the back of the room where he started to limber up, moving his neck and head in a smoothly hypnotic rotation.
Could this day get any worse? I took a deep breath – there was no way I was going to let any spiteful little upstart upset my equilibrium – but my head was pounding and my knee felt stiff and unwieldy. Once I was dressed, I swallowed a couple of painkillers before moving over to join Antonio and some others ready to go on stage.
Apparently, the day could get worse.
And did so.
Quite spectacularly.
I made my entrance ten minutes after the start of the performance, dancing suggestively around the strategically placed three men in the chorus line-up with whom I was allegedly having flirtatious affairs. I had to smile coquettishly while they turned imploring faces, gesturing their love for me. In response, I turned my own face, instead, to the audience to demonstrate my intention to flee and, taking several quick steps, I launched into the high jeté that would take me off stage.
At the same moment as a whole raft of stage lights in front of me flickered epileptically and, confused, I landed badly, swerving and falling and crashing onto the stage and my already dicky knee with a quite startling ferocity and speed.
And there and then, on the day I had already lost Fabian Mansfield Carrington, I lost my career in musical theatre too.