Chapter Twenty #2
‘I do so want to go and see The Rainbow,’ says Gilda. ‘Lady Faversham says it’s splendid.’
I have no idea what she’s talking about but have to pretend that I do. ‘I gather it is wonderful,’ I add gamely.
‘If one enjoys musical theatre,’ Mr Bentley says, puffing on his pipe. The smell of his smoke is pleasantly sweet. ‘Personally, I think songs get in the way of a good story. I’m afraid I am not a fan of Gershwin.’
‘I am not familiar with Gershwin, but I did love Funny Face,’ I add, remembering the 1950s film with Audrey Hepburn that Ulysses made me watch.
Mr Bentley frowns. ‘I’m not familiar with that one,’ he says, puffing on his pipe again. ‘But it’s a snappy title.’ I wonder then whether Gershwin has even written it yet.
‘We should go to London to see a show,’ says Gilda, smiling at him excitedly. ‘I know how you love trains, Mr Bentley.’
‘I think that’s a marvellous idea,’ I add, for something to say.
‘We should make a party of it,’ says Gilda excitedly, looking from me to Mr Bentley like a child wanting approval. ‘Wouldn’t it be a scream to go all together?’
‘Capital idea,’ Mr Bentley agrees. ‘London Calling! is on at the Duke of York. I believe that’s rather good.’
‘We could stay at Claridge’s, or the Ritz,’ Gilda suggests, eyes gleaming with longing. ‘Oh, how I miss the bright lights of a city!’
Mr Bentley chortles. ‘I’m not sure the idea of an excursion to London will appeal to your husband, Miss Garrett. I do believe he prefers provincial life to city life. Isn’t that why he left New York?’
‘Oh, boo!’ she exclaims, pushing out her bottom lip.
‘Trust him to be a killjoy!’ She turns to me and grins.
‘Then the three of us can go together and leave the old curmudgeon behind. If you come, Skippy, it will all be good and proper.’ She pops another square of Turkish Delight into her mouth. ‘Isn’t life bonny!’
I glance out of the window and see a pair of blue tits fluttering about a wooden bird feeder. I think of Cavill and I wonder where he is.
I put my teacup on the table beside my armchair. ‘I must be going,’ I say and stand up.
Mr Bentley stands up too, and I assume that he is leaving with me, but he remains beside the fire. ‘Thank you for coming to see me, Skippy,’ says Gilda. I notice she has nearly devoured all the Turkish Delight.
Neither she nor Mr Bentley have been poisoned by it.
‘I hope you feel better by this evening,’ I tell her.
‘It’s most strange. It came over me suddenly. Nausea, terrible. I don’t believe it’s nerves, but one never knows. And now I feel tired.’ She sighs despairingly. ‘Anyhow, you have cheered me up, Skippy.’
‘I’m so glad,’ I reply, then turn to Mr Bentley. ‘I will see you later.’
He nods and puts the stem of his pipe between his lips again. ‘It’s going to be a triumph,’ he says. ‘Everyone has worked devilishly hard to make it so.’
I leave, knowing what I know and feeling miserable on account of it. It would be better for Gilda if she doesn’t manage to get to the theatre tonight. I wish I could stop Nessa from going, but I can’t. I have to stand back, observe, and try not to let it break me.
It’s still raining, but not quite as heavily as when I left home.
I cower under the umbrella and walk over wet pavements and slippery cobblestones, at one point narrowly missing a steaming pile of horse manure.
I feel an urgent need to speak to Cavill, to come clean, but I don’t know where to find him.
On a day like this he’s hardly likely to be outside, and I don’t imagine there’s anything for him at the theatre.
I decide to turn up mid-afternoon and hope that he’ll be there.
I imagine the place will be teeming with people by then, preparing for the first night.
When I arrive home, Nessa has given up playing the piano and is in the drawing room reading a book by the fire. In spite of the warmth it gives off, the place still feels chilly and damp. Nessa puts down her book when she sees me. ‘Is Gilda better?’ she asks eagerly.
I can see the dread on her face. ‘It’s hard to tell,’ I reply. ‘She’s pale, but in good spirits. She says the nausea came over her suddenly.’ I go and sit down on one of the upholstered chairs near the fire.
Nessa bites her bottom lip. ‘Did you give her the Turkish Delight?’
‘She loved it.’
Nessa grins. ‘It’s her favourite. I hope she eats all of it and then feels sick again.’
‘Oh, Nessa. I don’t think eating a box of Turkish Delight is going to prevent her from playing Lady Macbeth tonight. But,’ I add, and she stares at me with hopeful eyes, ‘whatever it was she had yesterday has really knocked her out. She’s very tired.’
‘Then she must rest,’ she says. ‘She can play Lady Macbeth every night after, for the entire run.’
I turn my eyes to the flames and watch them dancing merrily about the logs.
It’s agony having a conversation about the future, when I know Nessa doesn’t have a future.
I recall her spirit on the stage, playing the part of Lady Macbeth alongside Rebecca, and remind myself that what I’m living now, has already been lived.
It’s in the past. Nessa has already died.
It’s like playing a film again and slipping into the narrative. It’s all happened already.
But right now, talking to Nessa is very real.
‘Mr Bentley was there,’ I tell her and watch her face darken.
‘He prefers my rendition of Lady Macbeth to hers. He pretty much told me so. I think he knows she’s a shocking actress, but as they are lovers, he cannot say no to her.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘You know, Skippy, he wants me to go to London.’
I feign ignorance. ‘Does he?’
‘He told me last night that I have talent and that he can help me.’
‘Really?’
She nods enthusiastically. ‘He doesn’t love Gilda. If I can prove to Papa that I am not some foolish girl with dreams of being in a chorus line, but a serious actress, then perhaps he will support me. You would come with me to London, wouldn’t you, Skippy?
‘Well, I …’
‘We could stay with Rose. She invited us on numerous occasions. She’s lonely in London and would adore to have us to stay. Oh, say you will, Skippy?’
It doesn’t matter what I say, because tomorrow Nessa will be dead, and I will be gone. I suppress my distress and tell her what she wants to hear. ‘Perhaps.’
Nessa grins triumphantly. She believes she has won me over. ‘I will go to London and become a big star, and then Taran will love me. He doesn’t love her. He’s using her like a toy. And she’s so gullible she’s believing it. But she’s married, so she can’t have him anyhow.’
I want to tell her that Taran is leaving Seacombe and heading to London, but what would be the point? Besides, there’s plenty of time for her to use that information and expose my indiscretion in the process. I must think of Eddie and not let her down more than I have let her down already.
I put my hand to my throat and rub the skin there, which is prickling with guilt. That beautiful afternoon at the inn is something else I have stolen from her. A memory which I will treasure but which she will never remember.
I turn my attention back to Nessa. I’d like to have another opportunity to read her journal, to see if she did indeed poison Gilda yesterday, but she appears pretty stuck in here. I’m not sure I’m going to get the chance.
‘What time would you like to get to the theatre?’ I ask, getting up.
‘Five,’ she replies. ‘We can go together. Lavinia will meet us there.’
I sigh, dread causing my very bones to ache. ‘Very well. We shall walk together.’
I turn to the window to find that the rain has stopped.
To my surprise a sudden beam of sunshine breaks through the cloud and lights up the cherry tree, as if it’s taken centre stage.
Strangely, that sight encourages me. I take it as a sign.
A positive sign. That although we all face death, it’s never the end, just the beginning of a new cycle.
Tonight, Nessa will leave this world, but she will not die in her essence. There is no such thing.