Chapter Thirty-One
Today we’re leaving Bath on the last leg of our tour and travelling north to Cheshire to visit Lyme Park, used by the BBC as the setting for Pemberley for their Pride and Prejudice adaptation and the famous lake scene with Colin Firth.
Since last night I’ve made three big decisions:
Ten minutes later and I still haven’t sent my email to Mr McKenzie.
Having opened up the mail from Mrs McKenzie and pressed reply, my resolve has failed me and now I’m sitting here, fingers poised on the keyboard, staring at a blank email and a blinking cursor.
I don’t know what to write. I’ve already sent them that email hoping Mr McKenzie gets better soon.
What I really want to write is, ‘Do I still have a job to come back to?’
Immediately my stomach starts churning and I feel a heavy foreboding descending upon me. On second thoughts, maybe I should give biting bullets a miss for the moment.
I press ‘delete’.
‘So that’s where you’ve been hiding!’
With my finger still on the key, I twirl round in my chair to see Rose bearing down upon me in a pungent cloud of perfume.
‘What on earth are you doing tucked away like a little mouse in that corner?’ she’s declaring loudly.
I force myself to sound casual. ‘Oh, I was just sending an email,’ I shrug.
‘To whom?’ she demands, raising her eyebrows. ‘Privacy’ is not a word in Rose’s dictionary.
‘My boss. To see if I’ve still got a job.’
Well, what’s the use of fibbing? Everyone’s going to know soon enough, I think glumly.
Rose looks perplexed. ‘Well, why shouldn’t you, my dear? I’m sure you’re very good at your job. A hard worker.’ She says that with a nod of approval and her diamond earrings rattle agreeably.
I smile gratefully. Rose is being very sweet, but she’s also being very na?ve. Gone are the days when being a ‘hard worker’ guaranteed success. Now it seems to be more about having a famous rock star for a parent.
‘Thanks, but I’m afraid Mr McKenzie, that’s my boss, the owner of the bookstore, hasn’t been very well. He’s been talking about officially retiring for ever, but now I think he’s really going to do it. And that means selling the business.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry,’ she pooh-poohs. ‘A bookshop will always need a manager. Who else is going to do all that tedious paperwork and what-not . . .?’
God love her. Only Rose would think insulting my job description like that will cheer me up. And yet, ironically, it does a bit.
My face creases into a smile. ‘I know, but it won’t be the same.
It won’t be McKenzie’s any more. Some big company will buy it and it’ll get all refurbished and modernised and totally lose its charm.
I can see it now. Espresso machines, wi-fi, loud music .
. .’ I heave a sigh, and sink down in the plastic chair.
‘Everybody wants new these days. No one seems to put any value on age and history.’
‘I know, I know . . .’
I glance up at Rose, who’s nodding pensively, deep in thought.
‘Actresses, bookshops, it’s no different,’ she’s murmuring to herself, and I remember what Rose was saying at the ball, about being invisible.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—’ I begin quickly. I don’t want her to think I’m insulting her. But Rose silences me with the palm of her hand.
‘Emily, dear, you have nothing to be sorry about. It is society that should be sorry.’ And closing her eyes, she rests the back of her hand on her brow and takes a huge, shuddering sigh.
I’m almost tempted to applaud. For the first time I see Rose not as the diamond-clad senior citizen on a Jane Austen book tour, but as the youthful twenty-something who wowed theatre audiences as a leading lady. And I can see why. She’s actually pretty good.
‘Excuse me, Miss Bierly?’ The manager of the hotel pops his head round the wall. Small, with lopsided features like a Picasso painting, he smiles nervously. Stuck to his chin is a piece of pink tissue where he’s cut himself shaving.
‘Yes?’ Rose snaps her eyes open and transforms herself from tragic victim to demanding diva as she rounds on him. ‘Yes?’ she barks even louder.
The manager swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down furiously. ‘I wondered if you’d care to take a look now. I think you’ll find it’s to your exacting standards.’
His brave stab at sarcasm is punished by an icy look.
‘Well, thank you, Mr Geoffries. Let’s hope it is, shall we?’
‘What is?’ I hiss at Rose, as she turns away to follow the manager, who’s disappeared back round the corner. No doubt with relief that his head is still attached to his shoulders.
Smoothing down her bob, Rose flashes me a bright smile. ‘Come and see.’
The woman smiling down at me in the black-and-white photograph on the wall of the lobby has cheekbones like coat-hangers, delicate oval-shaped eyes and rosebud lips.
‘Wow, she’s beautiful,’ I murmur. She looks about the same age as me, but it’s hard to tell from a photograph. I glance across at Rose, about to ask her, when I notice she’s just standing there, staring up at the framed photograph, her face filled with pride.
Of course. How could I not notice the resemblance? OK, the lips are not nearly as full, and the eyes are now heavily crinkled in the corners, but there’s no denying it’s Rose. I peer at the signature in the corner. Yup, there it is: Rose Raphael. Her stage name.
And then I remember her conversation with Spike. His suggestion she put a signed photograph of herself up in the lobby, along with all the other famous actors and how I thought he shouldn’t be teasing her like that.
I feel a beat of regret.
Well, that’s another thing I got wrong, isn’t it?
‘Don’t you think it should be a little higher?’
Rose is looking at me, eyebrows raised.
‘No, I think it looks great there.’ I smile brightly.
The manager, who’s standing behind us, holding a hammer and a box of nails, braced for action, shoots me a grateful look. I get the feeling there’s been more than one nail hammered in the wall this morning, trying to get this hung right.
‘But are you sure I’m not clashing with the other famous actors?’ persists Rose.
‘No, I think you’ve all got plenty of room to breathe,’ soothes the manager.
I shoot back a look of admiration. He’s obviously a professional at this. Judging by the number of photographs on the wall, he’s obviously had to deal with his fair share of demanding luvvies.
‘Hmm, do you think so?’ Rose is saying, but she’s allowing a smile to creep across her face. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to overshadow anyone or anything.’
As she points to a famous star of stage and screen, I have to stifle a smile. Only Rose could worry about overshadowing an Academy Award-winning actress.
‘And she does look rather old next to me, don’t you think?’
Considering that your photograph was taken probably fifty years ago, that’s hardly surprising, I want to say, but of course I don’t.
This is Rose’s moment, and she’s thoroughly enjoying herself.
In fact, this is the happiest I’ve seen her all tour.
The last thing I want to do is spoil it by giving a reality check.
‘Yes, I think she does,’ I reply, and turning to Rose, I wink.
She breaks into the broadest smile. ‘Perfect. Then let’s leave it there, shall we?’ she announces, turning to the manager.
A look of relief floods his lopsided face.
‘And as for you, Mr Geoffries . . .’
Oh, God, what now? scuds across his features.
Grabbing him by the shoulders, she plants a large kiss on his astonished cheek. ‘You are an absolute star!’
Rose’s picture draws quite a crowd. Until now, I think most of the women had secretly thought Rose boastful and her tales of her ‘renowned beauty’ and ‘theatrical prowess’ somewhat exaggerated.
But now, with their memories jogged and the evidence indisputable, they’re full of admiration and questions:
‘Ooh, did you act with Sir John Gielgud?’
‘I thought I recognised you! I saw you on stage at the Old Vic in 1955.’
‘Rose Raphael? You’re the Rose Raphael?’
‘Tell me, what is playing Lady Macbeth like?’
Rose, of course, is utterly delighted. Fielding questions like a seasoned politician, she seems to really come alive, recounting anecdotes from her theatre days to an eager audience.
In fact, it takes all of Miss Steane’s skills as a tour guide to break up the crowd and chivvy everyone out of the lobby to board the waiting coach.
I hang back. The thought of seeing Ernie after everything that’s happened isn’t something I’ve been much looking forward to. After that whole made-up story he told me, all those lies about Spike, what on earth am I going to say? Anything? Nothing? Should I just ignore him? Confront him? What?
Walking across the parking lot, I go backwards and forwards, different scenarios playing in my head: Ernie’s reaction when confronted with the evidence of the newspaper cuttings.
He’s angry, furious— Shit, what if he turns violent?
I flinch at the thought. He might be an old man but he could still pack a punch with those forearms. Then there’s the scenario of us both pretending nothing’s happened, politely greeting each other, yet a silent look passing between us that acknowledges he knows that I know.
But whatever happens I can’t put it off any longer.
I’m the last to board, and as I climb up the steps I brace myself for our confrontation.
Stay calm, Emily, keep your cool, don’t go making a scene in front of everyone.
I reach the top step. Hilary is in front of me, but I can see a peaked cap.
OK, I’ve made a decision. I’m just going to tell him I need to speak to him privately, that there’s something we need to discuss, that—
Hang on a minute—
‘You’re not Ernie,’ I blurt in bewilderment.
The boyish figure in the peaked cap turns to me. ‘Well, I wasn’t the last time I looked,’ he quips, and cocks a smile.
I stare at him blankly. He has a goatee and pimples and looks about twenty-one. Nope, he’s definitely not Ernie.
I laugh awkwardly. ‘It’s just that we . . . um . . . had a different driver before,’ I explain, trying to regain my composure, but I’m bursting with unanswered questions. Where’s Ernie gone? Was he fired? Did he leave of his own accord? What happened exactly?
‘Oh, right, yeah, so I heard,’ nods the new driver. ‘I was called in to cover. Something about him having to leave at short notice, some problem . . .’
‘What problem?’ I demand, dying to know what happened.
‘I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘No one tells me anything round here.’
‘Now if you’d all like to take your seats, please,’ instructs Miss Steane, charging up the aisle towards me, clipboard in hand.
‘That includes you, Miss Albright, if you would be so kind.’ She glances between me and the driver, and I can tell from her expression she knows exactly what’s happened, but she isn’t letting on.
But then I often get the impression that Miss Steane knows more than she’s saying.
I sit down and look out of the window. And for the first time it dawns on me that for someone who sure knows a lot about everyone else, I don’t know the first thing about our enigmatic tour guide. Not one little thing.