Chapter Twelve #2
I watch her as she spoons porridge into her mouth and sips her coffee, and hope that I manage to find out what it is that later prevents her from returning home to spirit. The limbo between worlds is a dark place to be, even though she claims to like it there.
We walk to the theatre, which is only ten minutes away.
I’m now getting my bearings, but it’s lucky the girls are with me to show the way.
The outside of the Aphrodite hasn’t changed at all.
It stands majestically with its grey stone facade, twin domed towers and lofty windows.
I half expect to meet Emma and Leila in the foyer.
But no sooner do we walk through those heavy wooden doors than I realise that it’s changed a great deal.
The fire that happens in just over four days’ time guts the place and sometime in the future they will renovate it in the Art Deco style that Ulysses loves so much.
But right now, it’s the original Edwardian theatre, built in 1901 by Randolph Brown for the woman he loved, Aphrodite Allen.
The floor is black-and-white chequerboard, the walls panelled in dark, shiny wood.
The ceiling is mock Tudor, divided into squares, each of which contains a fleur-de-lis motif painted in gold.
The effect is lavish but heavy and I reflect on the Art Deco interior of the future and consider it superior.
We walk through the foyer and on into the auditorium.
There are various people milling about. I recognise Mr Bentley immediately.
He’s on stage in a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, holding a clipboard, a pencil lodged behind his ear and his steel-framed round glasses giving him a professional air.
He’s deep in conversation with Gilda, who wears a slim-fitting ivory-coloured dress to mid-calf with a thin black belt around her tiny waist. Her short blonde hair, cut in a fashionable bob, is so luscious, it shines like silk.
I feel a pang of envy. It doesn’t surprise me at all that Cavill married her, but really, I’ve got no business being envious.
It’s of no consequence to me, Pixie, if he’s married or not.
Maybe the fact that he’s attached will make it easier for me to sever our connection.
As for Eddie Skipton, she will continue on once I have slid back to my time, and the manner in which she conducts her relationship with Cavill will have nothing to do with me.
I remind myself that this has already been played out.
I’m simply rewinding the tape and playing it again.
It sounds simple in theory, but even I can’t get my head around that.
We approach, and they break off their conversation. ‘Skippy!’ Gilda exclaims in a voice as sweet as honey. Her smile is dazzling. Really, her energy lights up the stage. It’s just a shame she can’t act.
I wonder where her husband is, and my eyes stray in search of him.
‘And there’s my understudy,’ Gilda adds, turning her radiance onto Nessa like a golden spotlight.
I watch the two women closely. There seems to be no animosity from Gilda.
If she’s aware of Nessa’s jealousy, she does a great job of ignoring it.
Nessa pulls her energy inwards and her whole body stiffens.
It’s subtle and I doubt Gilda notices for she’s blinded by her own luminosity.
But I sense the resentment beneath Nessa’s outward politeness.
It fumes like embers at the base of a wooden pyre.
Mr Bentley is brisk. He’s got a job to do, and he doesn’t waste any time with pleasantries.
He declares that he wants to rehearse Act 1 scene 7 with Gilda and Ned.
Not being familiar with the play, I haven’t a clue what this scene is about.
Mr Bentley summons Nessa and a young man with floppy brown hair and a long, earnest face who’s sitting in the front row of the stalls.
He jumps up on stage with the agility of a big cat.
‘Miss Blunt, Mr Neil, I want you both to watch closely. Then I’d like to see you perform it.
If for any reason Miss Garrett and Mr Pollock are unable to act, you will take their places. I need you to be sure of your parts.’
‘Right-oh,’ says Mr Neil, giving a comical salute.
He’s clearly a character. He grins at Nessa, exposing crooked teeth, and gives her a jaunty wink.
‘Come on, Miss Blunt. We’re going to have our moment in the spotlight, at last!
’ He laughs cheerfully. He doesn’t appear to be at all put out that he’s not playing the lead himself.
The two of them go and sit on wooden chairs at the edge of the stage. Mr Neil pops a cigarette between his lips and strikes a match to light it.
‘Mrs Skipton, can you prompt, please,’ Mr Bentley adds. ‘We might as well do this properly. We’ve only four full days until the first night, and a limited time in which to rehearse. Did you bring your copy?’
I did not. He looks at my hands, then flicks his fingers as if summoning a waiter. ‘Mrs Gladstone, a script, please.’
A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and glasses who’s been sitting in the front row of the stalls gets up and passes me hers. I take one of the chairs on the other side of the stage to Mr Neil and Nessa, and flick through the pages to find the right place.
I glance at the stalls. There are various people dotted about.
I search their faces for Cavill and feel my spirits sink when I don’t find him.
I have a terrible sense of urgency, for I know the sand in the hourglass is running out for me.
But Cavill will have no such pressure. I wish I could tell him who I really am so that these precious hours would not be wasted.
Gilda and Ned begin their scene, and I turn my attention to the script, which is lucky because Ned hasn’t learned all his lines, and I have to prompt him quite regularly.
He’s a talented actor, however, and I’m impressed with his interpretation of Macbeth.
He commands the stage with his baritone voice and confidence.
Gilda, on the other hand, is terrible. No wonder Cavill had to buy the theatre in order for her to perform.
If she had auditioned in the ordinary way, I doubt very much she’d have got the chance to step onto the stage at all.
I wonder then whether she had failed in her attempts to become an actress in America and believed she had more of a chance over here.
Certainly, with Cavill’s wealth, and perhaps his keenness to make her happy, the probability of realising her dream was more likely in the UK – especially in provincial Cornwall.
It’s hardly the West End. As I watch Gilda’s lacklustre performance, I conclude that she will not be hitting the London stage, as Nessa hopes.
However, that will not matter to Nessa. I look at her watching her nemesis with dismay, and suffer a pang of sorrow, for tragically, she will not live to see what becomes of Gilda Garrett.
Something pulls at me then, and I turn absentmindedly to the stalls.
There, in the front row, is Cavill. He must have slipped in while I was absorbed in the script.
My spirits ignite and I feel full of vigour again, as if my very soul is on fire.
We catch eyes and he nods and smiles, and I revel in that smile which is specifically for me.
It’s intimate and knowing, the smile of a man in secret collusion with a woman he trusts.
I can barely tear my gaze away. I can scarcely remain on my chair.
It takes every ounce of resolve to turn my attention back to my job and not give in to my impulses.