Chapter Three #3
gestured them inside. He followed them upstairs. Sasha had gone
ahead, and by the time they reached the kitchen, was busying
himself quietly in the background with kettle and teacups. He
paused to smile at Paul, who gave him a friendly nod and subtly
indicated his reluctant catch, now trying her best to hide behind
his shoulder. “Thank you, Sasha. Could it be coffee for Alison,
please? Nice and strong?”
“Of course. Milk and two sugars, isn’t it, Allie?”
Alison
sobbed. She was green to the gills, her eyes raw with tears.
Something—perhaps having her coffee details remembered in this
house where she hadn’t been sure of finding admittance—pushed her
over the edge. The sullen cloud around her vanished and she
stumbled out from her shelter behind Paul. “Laurie,” she rasped. “I
didn’t know what I was doing. I was drunk, and I’d had a bit of E,
and... this guy in the club just started talking to me about you. I
wanted to talk about you.” She sniffed loudly, and seized the
handkerchief Paul produced from his jacket. “And I don’t remember
the rest. I swear.”
Laurie
looked at her. He didn’t get it. There she was—the same sweet girl
who’d come running after him on a cold winter’s day at Rayne’s End
to tell him he was hired. “Okay. Why, though, Allie?”
“I was mad with you.”
“Yeah, I remember you leaving. But what did I do?”
Alison looked around her, a painful blush spreading. But Sasha
was discreetly deaf at the other end of the kitchen and, having
thrown herself on Paul Jacobs’ mercy at six in the morning when
the Star had first
hit the newsstands, she couldn’t very well ask him to leave. “It
was Bertram,” she muttered. “I think you were still being Bertram.
Your manager told me to leave you alone, but I was excited, and...”
She paused, a bitter chuckle shaking her. “It just occurred to me.
I could have been bloody Helena, couldn’t I? I asked you for a
kiss, and you—you pushed me away.”
“Oh, Allie. I was distracted, that’s all. I—”
“You don’t understand.” The floodgates opened. “You never
understood, did you? Did you think I was following you around every
theatre in London because of your acting skills?”
“No, of course not. You’re a great house manager. I thought...”
The penny dropped. Laurie pulled out the chair behind him and sank
into it. “Oh, for God’s sake. No.”
“I know. I’m nobody. I just chivvy people around backstage. Why
should you even notice me?”
“Who said you were nobody?” Laurie shoved a hand into his
fringe. “Of course I bloody noticed you. But—I’m gay, Allie. Pretty
much wrapped around my boyfriend from the first day you met me.
Didn’t it occur to you how much this might have hurt
Sasha?”
Alison
shot an anguished glance across the kitchen. Sasha tried for a
reassuring smile, but to no avail: guilt and unrequited love
combined explosively in Alison’s breast and she flung herself at
Laurie, whose reflexes kicked in fast enough to catch her before
she hit the floor. “I just bloody love you,” she choked out, her
face buried against his knee. “I just love you. I just love
you.”
Paul
Jacobs accepted his tea from Sasha. “The thing is,” he said
conversationally, as if giving Laurie some advice about stagecraft
or Equity, “a young male actor, especially a gay one, can sometimes
have a funny effect on girls. They don’t want anything particularly
of him, you see—they get that he’s not available. They usually just
want him to be kind.”
Laurie
had lifted Alison into his arms. His eyes were full of tears. “And
I wasn’t.”
“Very unlike you, sweet prince. Very like Bertram, though.”
Paul sipped his coffee, shook his head over the newspaper spread
out on the table. “Who ever thought that any actor
I’d ever had dealings
with would be starting to pay the price of fame? Be careful,
Laurie. It often seems strange to me that Shakespeare put his best
advice into the mouth of such an annoying old man,
but...”
Laurie met his gaze. He didn’t need to go on.
To thine own self be true... Laurie’s self, that mutable entity which had found and
fixed its compass north on Sasha, was restless as a half-tamed
falcon. Laurie knew it. Sometimes this flat was his whole world,
and sometimes all the open skies of heaven didn’t feel like half
enough. He kissed Alison’s wet cheek. Sasha came to stand behind
them, leaning over to caress them both, and Laurie grabbed his arm
like a lifeline.
He must have left the front door on the catch. It flew back,
heavy brass knocker impacting hard enough to knock out plaster.
Sasha snatched his arm free and darted round to get between the
kitchen door and Laurie, his move so fast that Laurie barely saw
it. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and Arnold Hamlin’s
massive shadow fell across the room. He too had his copy of
the Star, of
course, upheld like a banner of doom over his head. He swept an
anguished gaze over the odd tableau in front of him—the Romanian
boy en garde,
partially blocking his view of Fitzroy, who for some reason was
holding a girl more or less on his lap. At the table, Paul Jacobs,
cradling his cup and watching him in amusement. “Damage control,”
Arnold gasped, flapping the paper at all of them. “Damage
control!”
“I think,” Paul said mildly, “that the worst of it’s in
hand.”
“What? Did you contact the paper? Did they issue a
retraction?”
“No, but Laurence and Alison are a good deal less
upset.”
“Laurence and...” Suddenly Arnold recognised the crumpled form
in Laurie’s arms. He swung round, making a noise like a surfacing
whale, Sasha promptly taking a dancer’s step—really, Arnold would
have hired the boy if he could, except that he was so damn serious
and proper he’d never have set foot on a stage—to block him.
“Alison? Alison Kiss-and-Tell Jones, could that possibly
be?”
Alison
got up. She was tear-stained and shaking but had recovered some of
her dignity. “I’ve apologised to Laurie,” she said. “I owe an
apology to you, Mr Hamlin, and most particularly I owe one to
Sasha.” She put out a hand, which Sasha caught and held. “I was
drunk, and I let the journalist manipulate me. I’ll call the paper
myself and tell them so.”
Laurie
glanced up at Sasha long enough to receive his quick signal. “No.
Don’t do that. You know what they’re like—we don’t want them trying
to sue you, and it’ll die down faster if we just let it
alone.”
“Spoken like a true courtly gentleman,” Paul said approvingly.
“Come along, Alison. You’re welcome at my house, and Mrs J will
ward off any more nosy newshounds, I can guarantee you
that.”
“Now, just hang on a minute.” Arnold glared at Paul. “You may
have had the honour of discovering young Fitzroy, but there your
influence stopped. As his manager, I recommend that—”
“For God’s sake, Hamlin.” Paul waved a weary hand at him,
escorting Alison to the door. “I’m not your competition. I
didn’t discover Laurie—he walked into my theatre one day and took it by storm.
He’s in your hands now, if he wants to be. Can I suggest you treat
that privilege well?”