Chapter Seven #3
She put a hand on his arm. ‘Well, that explains everything.’ She lowered her voice.
‘You know, if you change your mind, I’m in room 203.
I’ve been known to turn men like you, and we lions must stick together.
’ With that she gave him a wink and then wandered off, a little unsteadily, down the corridor.
‘What was that about lions?’ Pixie asked when Ulysses returned to the bed.
‘Beats me,’ he replied. He grinned mischievously at his friend. ‘I think you’d better stay the night in case she comes back.’
Pixie knew Isadora wasn’t going to come back. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and smiled.
He returned her smile, acknowledging that she saw right through him. He couldn’t hide anything from Pixie. ‘I don’t want you to be alone tonight,’ he said seriously. ‘I want you where I can keep an eye on you.’
The following morning Pixie awoke to the whisper of Ulysses’ soft breathing.
It was a comforting sound and one she wished she heard every morning.
She lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, recalling their conversation of the night before.
Ulysses was her best friend – her only friend – but it was inevitable that he would settle down one day with someone else, and where did that leave her?
Alone. The reality was that if he went to live in New York to be closer to Henry, even if it was just for the odd month here and there, she wouldn’t be able to go with him.
Henry wouldn’t want her hanging around. Nor would it be possible for her to work there.
Inevitably, their relationship would have to change.
She couldn’t bear to think of it. She couldn’t bear to lose him. Without Ulysses she had no one.
Her mother slipped into her mind then, but before she could grab Pixie’s attention, Pixie turned her thoughts to the day ahead and to her mission, thus blocking her out. Pixie had become adept at blocking out her mother.
Pixie had brought with her Cavill’s sketchbook of birds in the hope of sliding back to him.
Could it be true that unless she finished what she had started with Cavill, she’d pull him into every slide?
Was love that powerful? As much as she longed to see him, she didn’t want to meet him as someone else.
If only she could meet him as Pixie. What a cruel fate it was to love a man who lived in another time, she reflected unhappily.
She dragged herself out of bed and padded softly into the bathroom.
It amused her to see Ulysses’ lotions and potions lined up in neat rows by the sink.
He had more pots of cream than she did. She lifted the bottle of cologne to her nose and sniffed it.
Sandalwood, cedarwood and spice. The smell was so Ulysses that it brought him to her in a wave of memories.
She closed her eyes and savoured them. She didn’t want anything to change.
But change was one of the only things in life one could be certain of.
She left him sleeping and went to her own bedroom to shower and dress. When she turned on her telephone she saw she had a message from Emma. Leila has something that might connect you to Nessa Blunt. Meet me at the theatre at 10 a.m.
Pixie was in the dining room enjoying breakfast when Ulysses appeared.
He looked smart in a pair of khaki jeans and a cornflower-blue shirt, a cashmere sweater thrown casually over his shoulders.
He had an effortless style, but he always stood out and drew every eye in the room.
He strode confidently over to her table and sat down.
‘Bom dia, Pix,’ he said, flicking out the napkin and laying it over his lap.
‘I slept like the dead. You? Anything go bump in the night?’
Pixie laughed. She had long learned how to shut out those beings that might disturb her. ‘We have a meeting at the theatre at ten, so you’d better hurry up and eat.’
‘You should have woken me!’ he exclaimed, glancing anxiously at the buffet.
‘You know one should never try and wake the dead,’ she replied dryly.
He pulled a face then made his way to the table of pastries. For a man who did not usually have more than a cup of strong coffee in the morning, the choice of delicious things to eat was too good to resist.
They arrived at the theatre just before ten.
Pixie carried her carpet bag which contained Cavill’s sketchbook in anticipation of her inevitable slide.
As she pushed open the heavy door, she cast her eyes to the stair but there was no spirit to greet her today, only Emma and Leila waiting for them in the foyer.
When Leila was introduced to Pixie, she shook her hand with a firm grip and exclaimed, ‘I’m open-minded, but I’m yet to be convinced of the existence of ghosts! ’
Ulysses laughed. ‘If anyone can convince you, it’s Pixie,’ he said.
Leila might have been elderly, but she was not immune to the charms of a beautiful young man. ‘I’m sure you could convince me of anything,’ she added, giving him a raffish smile.
‘I was just telling Leila about Nessa Blunt …’ said Emma.
‘I’ve heard stories over the years about a resident ghost, but I’ve never seen or heard anything,’ Leila interrupted. ‘And I’ve owned this theatre for over twenty years! But I do know about the fire.’
‘There must be records somewhere,’ said Pixie. ‘In the local library?’
Emma nodded eagerly. ‘Great idea. It would be interesting to compare historical records with what you find out,’ she said.
If they matched, she’d have ammunition for Joseph, who was adamant that Pixie was a fraud and that there were no such things as ghosts.
As it was she who had encouraged him to enlist the help of a medium, she very much wanted to prove that she hadn’t been imprudent.
‘I know something of the history, however,’ Leila continued.
‘The theatre was built in 1901 by a local man called Randolph Brown who built it for the woman he loved, called Aphrodite Allen. She was an English actress whose real name was Jane. It’s a rather romantic story, a man building a theatre so the woman he loved could perform in it.
Naturally, it was amateur dramatics in those days, and nothing came of Aphrodite Allen.
I doubt the theatre ever made much money.
It was a labour of love! It limped on during the Great War and was then sold in 1920 after Randolph died of pneumonia.
I’m not sure what happened to Aphrodite.
Without her sponsor she vanished into thin air, never to be heard of again.
Anyway, you know about the fire in 1923.
Poor old Nessa Blunt. Emma tells me she’s the ghost.’
‘I believe so,’ said Pixie.
‘Gripping!’ Leila exclaimed, giving the gravelly laugh of an erstwhile smoker. ‘Come, let me take you to the costume department. It’s a veritable Aladdin’s cave down there.’
Leila led them downstairs, explaining as they went how, when she bought the theatre, she had inherited all the paraphernalia that went with it.
Not only were there costumes and props, sets, lights and scripts, but also boxes of knick-knacks and trinkets.
‘Everything is kept in the bowels of the building and right at the back. I couldn’t tell you if any of it belonged to Nessa Blunt, but I can tell you that none of it was destroyed by the fire.
As you will see, the room is underground.
Miraculously, it escaped intact. I’m sure, if she did indeed exist, she would most certainly have worn many of the costumes, wigs and jewellery. ’
‘The question is which,’ said Ulysses.
But Pixie wasn’t at all doubtful. She knew that when she saw something of Nessa’s, she would know.