Chapter Ten #2
I laugh to mask the mistake and hastily think up a reason for making it. ‘I’m trying to be nice,’ I explain.
She chortles. ‘That’s novel.’
‘The way to win him over is not by being brutish, but by being so wonderfully sweet that he can’t help but give in.’
‘Was that in the article you read too?’
‘Very likely,’ I reply with a grin.
She hangs her head and looks at the letter forlornly. ‘I do so want him to be proud of me.’
‘May I read it?’ I ask.
She sighs in defeat and holds it out.
My dear Nessa, I will not waste ink in repeating what I have already made perfectly clear numerous times, so I will be brief.
I do not condone your choices and do not understand why you have wilfully made them when you know very well how I feel.
But for the sake of your mamma, this froideur between us must come to an end.
I have been persuaded to attend the first night of Macbeth and hope you do not put me , or your mother, to shame.
You cannot live off your aunt indefinitely and I am ready and willing to welcome you back into the fold. Do be sensible, Nessa, and consider your future.
Your father
‘What do you make of it?’ I ask.
She takes the letter back and scrunches it up crossly. ‘He’s coming under duress. Make no mistake, he still expects me to step off the stage and come home.’
‘While threatening to cut you off financially if you don’t,’ I add.
‘Of course,’ she replies. She looks at me longingly.
‘Seeing the tiny part I will be playing will simply give him more ammunition. He will tell me it’s hardly worth it, damaging my reputation for that!
If only I could play Lady Macbeth and impress him with my talent, then he might change his mind.
’ She throws the ball of paper towards the grate, but misses. ‘Damned Gilda Garrett!’
‘I really don’t understand why he’s so against it,’ I argue. ‘It’s 1923, after all.’ I’m hoping she’ll expand a little more on her father, but she assumes I know him.
‘That’s why I’m here, Skippy. Because you understand.’
‘And your poor mamma?’
She sighs and drops her shoulders in defeat. ‘Always been compliant, that one. No help at all.’
I’m now extremely curious about Nessa’s parents. What sort of people are they? Why is her father so against his daughter treading the boards? But I cannot ask what Eddie would most certainly know.
‘Tell me about Gilda, your nemesis,’ I ask instead.
‘But you know Gilda, Skippy!’
I laugh. ‘Of course I do, but this is all part of the therapy. You must talk it out.’
‘Talk it out?’
‘A problem shared is a problem halved.’
‘Very well,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Gilda Garrett.’ She almost spits the words out. ‘She married her husband for his money and then made him buy the theatre so she could be an actress. She’s so much younger than him and spends like it’s going out of fashion.’
‘There’s nothing new about that,’ I interrupt. Even in my own time marriages are not always founded on love.
‘Of course not. The point is that she pretends she loves him, but she’s as cunning as a fox.
She’s devious. She’s an avaricious fraud.
I know she loathes provincial life because Lavinia overheard her telling Bentley that her ambition is to eventually act on the London stage.
She thinks very highly of herself, doesn’t she, but anyone can see that she doesn’t have what it takes.
She’s just beautiful, that’s all, but without talent beauty will only carry one so far.
And beauty fades as one gets older. It won’t last forever.
’ That thought appears to give her comfort, for her lips twitch at the corners.
‘And Mr Garrett?’ I ask, trying to find out a bit about him.
At that Nessa laughs. Her hilarity takes me by surprise, and I wonder what I’ve said that’s so amusing.
‘Oh, that’s so funny, Skippy! I’m going to call him that now behind his back.
Mr Garrett! Well, you’re not wrong. Poor Mr Garrett.
I bet he wishes he wasn’t married to her.
He sometimes has the look of a beaten dog, I think.
Gilda craves the bright lights and he, poor dear, probably just wants a cosy armchair, a warm fire and a good book.
He’s only interested in the Aphrodite because he has to be, to keep her happy.
’ She looks at me with narrowed eyes. ‘I think he would rather be married to you.’
‘Oh, surely not!’ I exclaim, hoping that’s the correct response considering I don’t know who any of these people are.
She smiles knowingly. ‘I think he comes to the theatre to spend time with you.’
‘What nonsense!’
‘You should marry again, Skippy. It’s been seven years since Uncle Tom died.’
‘My dear Nessa, if I ever do marry again, it will be with a man who is not himself married.’
She shrugs. ‘A man who is married can quite easily unmarry, you know. Goodness, you sound like my sisters. The word divorce horrifies them to their marrow!’
‘I’m sorry you’re Gilda’s understudy,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘And an apparition. Not even a witch! It’s just horrendous. I wish Gilda would break a leg then I could perform.’
‘I don’t imagine that’s likely.’
She sighs loudly. ‘And as long as she’s here, in Seacombe, she’ll take every leading role. I have the talent, but she has the face. What can I do?’
‘You’re a pretty girl, Nessa.’ Indeed, she is pretty.
I haven’t seen Gilda, so I can’t compare, but Nessa, with her soft brown hair, aquiline nose, sensual lips and smooth olive skin has the sort of face that would be considered beautiful in my time.
Maybe her strong eyebrows are not fashionable now, and perhaps her expression reveals too much character, I don’t know, but if she were alive in 2014 she’d probably be on the cover of Vogue.
‘I cannot compete with Gilda,’ Nessa says dispiritedly.
‘How long have you been living here with me?’ I ask, hoping she doesn’t reply a week, in which case I’ll look very stupid.
She sighs and lifts her eyes to the ceiling as she works it out.
‘Fourteen months,’ she answers. Before I can comment, she adds, ‘I know what you’re going to say, and I’ve told you not to in the past because I believed I had to prove my worth.
But maybe you can talk to Mr Bentley now on my behalf.
After all, it’s in his power to give me better parts. ’
‘Of course, I will,’ I reply.
She gives a small smile. ‘Thank you.’ She uncurls her legs and gets up off the chair. I follow her lead. ‘I wish you still ran the theatre, Skippy,’ she says sadly. ‘Then I’d be the leading lady, and ghastly Gilda would be in America.’
‘If it’s her ambition to be on the London stage, perhaps we need to make that happen,’ I suggest.
Nessa is delighted by that idea. ‘We need to persuade Mr Garrett to buy her a theatre in the West End,’ she replies, arching an eyebrow. ‘At the ripe old age of thirty-four, I’m not sure she’ll make it on her own, and I dare say he’s rich enough – if he doesn’t allow her to spend it all first.’
As we walk through the drawing room and out onto the landing, another young woman is hurrying up the stairs. She’s breathless and flushed. ‘Lavinia!’ Nessa cries out.
‘I’m not late, am I?’ the young woman replies, an anxious look on her freckled face. She has long curly red hair that reminds me of Botticelli’s Venus, and hazel eyes.
‘We were just going to dress for the party,’ says Nessa.
‘Oh, good!’ Lavinia exclaims.
‘But we had better hurry,’ Nessa adds. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
‘No,’ I agree blindly. ‘We don’t want to miss a moment.’
‘Gilda’s moment,’ Nessa sneers.
‘You need not worry about that,’ Lavinia adds, meeting us on the landing. ‘She won’t begin until everyone is present to see her in her glory, and you can bet on it being exceedingly glorious.’
The two young women catch eyes and smile shrewdly. I’m more than curious now to meet this infamous Gilda Garrett.
I glance at the clock on the drawing room mantelpiece. It’s four thirty. I’m not sure what time the party starts. ‘Shall we meet in the hall at …’ I hesitate on purpose, knowing that Nessa will probably interrupt me. I’m right. She does.
‘It starts at six, so let’s meet in the hall at a quarter to the hour,’ she says briskly.
‘Perfect,’ I reply and watch the girls head on up the stairs.
I open the door to my bedroom and find Crocker running me a bath.
How luxurious it is to have someone to look after my every need, although I don’t think I could live like this permanently.
When would I get any privacy? But Eddie Skipton is used to it, so therefore I must not look like a bewildered sheep.
I affect nonchalance and allow her to fuss about me, folding my clothes as I shed them, and hanging my dress in the wardrobe.
As I wallow in the warm, scented water, I remind myself of the characters I’m likely to meet tonight: Mr Bentley, the manager or director of the theatre – perhaps he’s both as it’s am-dram, after all.
I doubt they have the funds to splash out on positions they don’t desperately need; straight-talking Wallie, whoever she is, and the woman in knickerbockers who accosted me in the street on her way to meet Wallie for lunch and called me ‘Girlie’.
There’s also the lady in the car who waved at me as she drove past.