Chapter Thirteen #3
I have no idea who Eliza and Tamsin are.
I wish I could just ask where Taran is, but if he has nothing to do with the theatre, I’m going to sound like a right idiot.
Eddie Skipton might never have heard of him.
The only way I can discover if he is, indeed, connected to the theatre, is by waiting until someone uses his name, or find that old programme.
I remember the room at the bottom of the theatre where the costumes are kept and wonder whether I’ll find something there.
‘Do you want to stay here and prompt?’ I ask Nessa.
She beams. ‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course, I don’t. I need to nip down to the costume department.’
‘Thank you, Skippy!’
I can’t imagine why she’s so pleased to do such a boring task.
I make my way downstairs, following my nose. Much of the theatre changed after the fire, but I’m surprised by how much is actually the same. It appears that it was the dressing rooms, foyer and auditorium that were destroyed and rebuilt. As I head into the bowels of the theatre, I could be in 2014.
The room still smells of dusty old costumes.
I half expect to find Leila and Emma in there complaining about the cold.
I switch on the light and am faced with the same rails of clothes, shelves of boxes, trays of accessories and rows of shoes that are present nearly a hundred years from now.
I prepare a story in case I’m disturbed: I’m looking for a dress I donated that I want back.
I’m sure Eddie Skipton has given clothes to the theatre’s wardrobe.
I’m sure they all have. This is amateur dramatics, after all.
I start rummaging about. I know what I’m looking for now and quickly dismiss the things that are unhelpful.
Being in that room is disconcerting, however.
I know I’m in 1923, but I could easily have slipped back to 2014, because this room is exactly the same.
It almost has the same old spider webs in the corners.
Ulysses could be upstairs in the VIP room, keeping watch, while Joseph rehearses the same play that they’re rehearsing here.
That’s obviously no coincidence. Nessa has started menacing Isadora because Isadora reminds her of Gilda, and both women are playing Lady Macbeth, the part Nessa longs to play.
But Gilda doesn’t appear to be difficult.
In fact, Gilda is charming and delightful.
Not at all the diva that Isadora is. There has to be more to it.
Nessa doesn’t remain earthbound simply because she’s jealous of Gilda and wants to play the leading lady.
That’s not enough. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Taran has a part to play too.
As I search the room, I ponder on the technological advances in my time that would make this task so much easier.
I’d be able to find this Taran person very easily on the internet.
He would probably have an Instagram account, or Facebook.
The theatre would have its own website and there would be lists of actors and footage of previous productions.
Nessa herself would have very likely aired her grievances on Twitter.
In short, it’s likely I’d be able to do all my detective work on the internet without getting up from my chair.
The door opens and I spin round guiltily.
It’s Cavill.
I put a hand to my chest. ‘You startled me.’
He chuckles. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘Well …’ I reply and laugh with him. ‘You never know what you’re going to find down here.’
He doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Why would he?
I’m not Pixie Tate, I’m Eddie Skipton and I belong here, in the theatre.
He closes the door behind him and comes towards me with a look of intent.
‘Nessa said I’d find you down here.’ His lips are curled at the corners as if amused by the success of his plan. ‘I was hoping you’d be alone.’
He pulls me into his arms and kisses me deeply.
I forget about my search, it’s yielded nothing anyway, and give in to my impulses.
My entire body aches for him, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from putting my hands inside his shirt so that I can feel the warmth of his naked flesh against my palms. But this is not a private place, and we might be disturbed at any moment.
The thought that I have licence to make love to him, because it seems that’s what Eddie wants, is like a ball of fire in my mind.
It’s obliterating all other thoughts that might cast doubt.
It’s burning up common sense and rationality.
It’s making me reckless. Because as Hermione I had to hold back.
As Constance I wasn’t given time. Now as Eddie I don’t have to hold back, and I do have time.
I’m free to love him and to allow him to love me.
It’s intoxicating and I don’t want to relinquish it, ever.
He cups my face and looks probingly into my eyes.
Into Eddie’s eyes.
I gaze back searching for a sign, however tiny. I wonder, can he see me, Pixie, behind these eyes? Does he have any idea that I’m here? That I’ve come back? Am I a hopeless fool for wishing that he does?
Then he says, ‘I feel as if I’ve waited my whole life for you.’
And I burn with the longing to tell him who I am. It’s in my throat and on my breath, but I can’t quite form the words. They don’t come. I just yield to him again and press my heart against his, and hope that on some deep level, he might feel a memory stir.