Chapter Thirteen
If it has crossed Cavill’s mind that my words are familiar, or the delivery of them at least is reminiscent of Hermione Swift or Constance Fleet, he dismisses the notion as the waitress interrupts us and takes our order.
She returns shortly with my tea and Cavill’s coffee.
Russian tea, I discover, is sweet and spicy, a bit like punch.
It’s quite pleasant. We don’t remain long, however, for we’ll be missed, and I must return to my post.
Cavill pays the bill, and we leave. He puts his hand in the small of my back as we step into the sunshine, and we set off up the pavement at a slow stroll.
Neither of us wants to reach the theatre any faster than we need to.
‘I want to find a way to be alone with you, Eddie,’ he says as we turn the corner.
‘We are always surrounded by people, and it’s killing me. ’
‘I want to be alone with you too,’ I reply keenly, wondering how on earth he’s going to swing it, and praying hard that it’ll be within the next four days.
‘Stolen moments in secret corners are not enough, and you deserve better.’ He glances at me and his rugged face, which exhibits in its lines and shadows the vestiges of loss, softens with tenderness. ‘I want to give you better.’
‘You love me, Cavill,’ I reply. ‘That is enough.’ But it’s not enough, and he knows it too.
He briefly takes my hand and squeezes it. Then he lets it go.
I’ve missed Nessa and Mr Neil’s rehearsal, but Mr Bentley doesn’t seem to mind.
Gilda is sitting in the front row of the stalls, smoking a cigarette and idly flicking through a magazine.
Nessa has disappeared, perhaps backstage.
Lavinia is nowhere to be seen. But the witches are now preparing to go through their scenes, and I need to do my job.
Reluctantly, I return to my chair and to my duty.
I’d like to whizz off to the beach in Cavill’s car and pretend that I’m not on a mission to save Nessa, but here, in this time, living for me.
Cavill goes and says something to his wife, who reaches up and touches him lightly on the arm.
I suffer at the sight of their intimacy and turn my eyes away.
He leaves and the air is sucked out of the auditorium.
It’s as if it’s been plunged into shade.
I find myself in a horribly familiar situation: I must focus on my mission and yet I long with all my heart to be with Cavill.
Once again, I have only days before I slide back.
I’m reminded of the power of my longing which has very likely drawn us together, and the responsibility I have to deactivate it.
I know it’s futile as well as painful to reunite time and again.
I know what is the right thing to do. What I don’t know is, in spite of all the arguments in favour of ending it, whether I can actually bring myself to do it.
I’m like an addict who is aware that she must quit but cannot.
Are my good intentions always going to be followed by a relapse?
The witches perform their scene, and I try to concentrate.
I can see Gilda, beautiful, radiant Gilda, like a glitterball she most certainly is, and my envy smoulders in spite of my knowing that I have no real claim on her husband.
I wonder whether Eddie feels the same as I do, or whether she is so confident in Cavill’s love that she rises above feelings of jealousy because she knows that he really belongs to her, at least in his heart.
I feel sick, suddenly, sick in my soul, because Cavill has never belonged to me.
Mr Bentley no longer requires my assistance, and I go backstage in search of Nessa.
So far, I’ve deduced only a few things about her that are significant: she longs to be the leading lady; she’s jealous of Gilda taking the part of Lady Macbeth; she wishes that her father were proud of her, and he’s coming to the first night on Wednesday, which is four days from today, and she’s intent on having her moment.
There is much I do not know. I have no idea, for example, how she ends up dying in a fire.
I have no idea what she plans to do in order to put Gilda out of action, but I’m sure she and Lavinia are plotting something.
They have almost confessed as much. Nessa is the leader in that relationship, so Lavinia will simply do as she commands. But what will she command?
I have to stick around in order to find out these things.
Without that knowledge, I don’t feel I have enough information to persuade Nessa to move on.
However, I’m in no hurry to complete my mission, because completion will signal the final good-bye, and I can’t bear to leave Cavill.
I can’t bear to think that there will be no encore.
I hear Nessa’s voice rising and falling behind a wooden door.
She sounds as if she’s having another rant.
I enter slowly. She and Lavinia are in a rather shabby sitting room, curled up on green velvet armchairs, hugging mugs of coffee and smoking.
Nessa immediately stops talking and stares at me with startled eyes.
Then her shoulders drop. ‘Oh, it’s only you, Skippy,’ she says, then starts up again.
She’s repetitive, but she loves reiterating what I said last night about Gilda being ‘wooden’.
I wish I hadn’t said it. Having my endorsement seems to have given her licence to really let rip!
I feel rather sorry for Gilda, whose only crime is taking the lead role. Or is there something else?
I’m struck then with an idea. While both girls are here, the house will be clear for me to snoop around Nessa’s bedroom. I decide to grab the opportunity as I don’t know when I’ll get another.
I leave Nessa to her bitching, and head for home. I hurry over the shadows as the sun plays hide and seek with the clouds and hope that I won’t bump into anyone Eddie knows. I’m in complete fear of the ‘stop and chat’ with people who are supposed to be my friends.
I reach Eddie’s pretty house and hurry inside with relief. Mrs Crocker emerges from downstairs, wiping her hands on her white apron. I haven’t yet been down there, but I assume it’s the servants’ quarters with the kitchen and various bedrooms, perhaps. ‘Hello, Crocker,’ I say cheerfully.
‘Can I make you a cup of tea, ma’am,’ she asks.
I do need her out of the way while I search Nessa’s bedroom. I say the first thing that comes into my mind. ‘I would really love some Russian tea,’ I reply, hoping she doesn’t have any.
Mrs Crocker frowns. ‘Oh, we don’t have any of that here, ma’am.’
‘I know, I thought you might be sweet and go out and buy me some. I tasted it in the café this morning and it’s delicious. It’s fun to try something new, don’t you think?’
‘Well, if you don’t need me here …’
‘I don’t. It’s a lovely day. I’m sure you’ll benefit from the sunshine.’
She smiles, surprised. ‘I most certainly will. Thank you.’
‘And take your time. Enjoy the walk. I’m going to do some correspondence.’ I’m sure ladies in Georgian England were always writing letters.
She nods. ‘Nancy is downstairs, should you need her.’
‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘But I won’t need her. I’d really like some peace and quiet. It’s been a busy morning at the Aphrodite.’
Mrs Crocker disappears downstairs, and I head on upstairs.
I don’t stop on the landing where Eddie’s bedroom is but take the next flight to the second floor.
There are various white panelled doors with brass knobs.
After opening a bathroom door, I try the others.
Nessa’s bedroom is easily identified by the scarlet dress she wore the night before which hangs on the wardrobe.
My pulse is throbbing in my neck. I’m terrified of being caught.
I try to think up a credible excuse as to why I’d be in here, but I can’t think of a single thing.
I shrug off my lack of imagination and set about searching the place, even though I don’t know what I’m looking for.
I hope I’ll recognise anything significant when I come across it.
The room is square and decorated with delicate blue-and-yellow floral wallpaper.
There’s a small cast iron fireplace, a long mirror on a stand in one corner, an upholstered chair in a blue striped fabric, a chest of drawers between two sash windows that look out on to the street, and the wardrobe.
The bed is a simple brass one covered in a blue quilt.
The bedside table carries a lamp, a tattered romantic novel, a glass of water and a small clock.
I open the drawer to find postcards – they’re more like playing cards, each one depicting a black-and-white photograph of a film star.
There’s Marion Davies, Gloria Swanson, Bebe Daniels, Alice Terry, Greta Garbo and others.
I’ve never heard of any of them besides Greta Garbo.
How fascinating it is that people pop up and shine brightly for a time, and then disappear into obscurity.
It’s rather amazing that Greta Garbo’s fame has endured well into the twenty-first century.
It’s clear from Nessa’s belongings that she’s mad about film and theatre, for there’s a cardboard box full of theatre tickets and programmes and various editions of Picturegoer magazine stored beneath her bed.
Judging from the novel she’s reading she seems romantic by nature.
I wonder whether she’s ever been in love.
At twenty-eight, and clearly unimpressed by the men her father would like her to marry, I wonder whether anyone has appealed to her.