Chapter Sixteen #2
The stage is busy. They’re rehearsing. Mr Bentley is standing to the side while Ned as Macbeth goes through one of his scenes with other members of the cast. I notice Nessa at once.
She’s sitting in the chair I sat in, script in hand, watching the play with great focus.
She’s so engrossed, she doesn’t even take her eyes off the performance when I walk down the aisle.
I decide to go backstage and see if I can find a programme.
Surely, they must have already printed them.
And if not, there has to be something with the name Taran on it, if he is in any way involved in the theatre.
I have a gut feeling that he is. After all, Nessa is here every day, and she’s not required to be.
Sure, she’s Gilda’s understudy, but I’m certain even Gilda has other things to do besides rehearse. She doesn’t appear to be here today.
I take the side door and head down the corridor to the back. I come to the dressing rooms. Ned Pollock is written in big letters on his door, Gilda Garrett on hers. I stop suddenly. I can hear the sound of snivelling behind Gilda’s door. I press my ear to the wood. Yes, someone is crying.
I knock and enter without waiting to be invited in.
I find Gilda alone. She looks up at me from her dressing table, her eyes are red and glassy, and there’s a black smudge beneath one of them.
She’s smoking and I notice from the ashtray that this is not her first. ‘Oh, it’s you, Skippy,’ she murmurs, and blows her nose on a handkerchief with the other hand.
‘Are you all right, Gilda?’ I ask. She clearly isn’t.
She sighs, and I sense from her hesitation that she wants to talk about it. ‘I just get down sometimes, you know,’ she replies.
I close the door and shift the costumes that are draped over the armchair and sit down.
Her room is a total mess. There are clothes everywhere, hanging on the back of the door, on a clothes rail and lying discarded on the floor.
For someone so glamorous and beautifully turned out, I’m surprised to see such chaos.
‘I’m sorry you’re feeling low, Gilda. It’s just nerves, probably.’
‘Oh, I don’t get nervous.’ She shakes her head and her golden curls tremble. Her eyes are very green and shiny, and brimming with self-pity. ‘Truth is, Skippy, I know I’m rotten.’
I never expected her to say that. ‘You’re not rotten, Gilda,’ I protest. ‘You’re a fine actress.’ It’s easy to lie when I’m impersonating someone else.
She flicks ash into the tray and then draws on the ebony holder again.
‘No, I’m not. There’s no point pretending otherwise.
I’ve been working with Mr Bentley. He’s so patient with me.
’ She smiles stoically. ‘Really, he goes above and beyond the call of duty. But even he can’t make me into a good actress.
My English accent is dreadful, for a start.
And I’m moderate at best. The only reason anyone applauds me is because I’m beautiful.
Beauty is a currency of its own, you know, and I’m rich in it.
But I really want to be admired for something more meaningful. I know you understand, Skippy.’
I feel sorry for her, and less sorry for Nessa now, who has been unkind. Gilda is just doing her best. ‘If you love acting, you must stick with it,’ I tell her. ‘The more you practise, the better you’ll get. Isn’t that so?’
She turns to the mirror to dab her eyes with the handkerchief.
She really is lovely to look at. Her skin is translucent and flawless.
She has a golden quality to her, like snow in sunshine.
I can’t take my eyes off her. ‘You know, when I met my husband, I was acting in New York. I never got further than the chorus line. I was overlooked in every production. Then Cavill came to the theatre with his cousin Alicia Aldershoff, who was one of our patrons.’ She turns and settles her lovely green gaze onto me.
‘Of course you know this, Skippy. The point is, Cavill believed in me. Enough to buy me a theatre.’ She laughs at the memory and turns back to the mirror to repair her make-up.
‘I know what everyone thinks, that the only way I could get a proper role was to marry a man who loved me enough to buy me a theatre to perform in. Well, they’re probably right.
But I’m living my dream, and Cavill enabled me to do that. Is that so bad?’
I’m not sure what she’s getting at.
She sighs, discards the handkerchief and powders her nose with a big fluffy brush. ‘Cavill told me that Mr Bentley is going to go work in London.’
I fix my face into a mask so as not to expose my ignorance. This must be something Eddie knows about. I nod. ‘He was always going to go on to bigger, better things,’ I reply. ‘The Aphrodite is a big fish in a small pond. He’s an ambitious man.’
Her chin wobbles and her eyes well with tears again. ‘Oh, damn it! Just when I’d repaired the damage. I don’t think I can do without him, Skippy. He’s guided me through every role. If I’m horrible now, imagine what I’ll be without him?’
‘I’m sure Cavill will find another director who is just as good. Maybe even better.’
‘You’re so positive. I love that about you, Skippy.
Everyone loves that about you. You find light in the darkness, always.
But I can’t seem to find much light now.
Without Mr Bentley, I think I’ll have to step off the stage and find something else to do.
Nessa can take my place. Truth is, she’s a better actress than I am. ’
I can’t admit that I haven’t seen Nessa perform. ‘I think you underestimate yourself, Gilda.’
‘You would say that, wouldn’t you? You’re always so nice.
’ I feel guilty now. As Eddie, I’ve just slept with her husband!
Is that something Eddie would have done?
I feel the blood drain from my face as a sick feeling begins to churn in my belly.
Would Eddie have taken it that far? Would she have committed adultery?
Have I done something with her body that she wouldn’t do?
‘Believe in yourself, Gilda,’ I say through a throat tightening with anxiety.
‘Take a deep breath. Dry your eyes. The show goes on. Mr Bentley would not have given you the lead if you weren’t up to it.
He doesn’t want the theatre to suffer, does he?
And you got a roaring applause for your performance the other night. ’
She sits up straighter and lifts her chin. ‘All right, I’ll take your advice. I’ll look at myself in this mirror and tell myself that I can do it. That I’m good enough. And then I’ll go out and kill it.’
She stubs out her cigarette then takes another out of a slim gold cigarette case.
There’s a pretty green oil lamp on her dressing table.
It’s the sort of thing Ulysses would love, being Art Deco, and made of a rather stunning malachite.
The thought of Ulysses shifts my focus out of the moment, and I have to force myself back into the present.
To Gilda, as she lifts the glass and uses the flame to light her cigarette.
‘This is my lucky lamp,’ she says, exhaling the smoke through pouting scarlet lips.
‘I brought it all the way from New York.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ I reply. ‘Do you rub it to summon the genie?’
She laughs prettily. Everything Gilda does is pretty.
‘Ever since I was given it, luck has found me.’ She turns to me and gives me a girlish smile.
‘I mean, let’s be real, I’m no great talent, am I?
And yet, luck has brought me here.’ She turns back to the lamp and puts her elegant white fingers to the malachite with a sigh of resignation.
‘I need to trust that it will still bring me luck. Sometimes you feel as if a door closing is the end of the world, but then another one opens where you least expect it, and life is rosy again. Maybe rosier than before. I guess, you just gotta have faith, and lots of it.’
I leave her in a happier state, but I’m confused and riddled with guilt.
I wish I didn’t like her. I wish she was like Isadora, difficult and demanding and not very nice.
But she’s not. She’s sweet and uncertain, and winning.
I replay the conversations I’ve had with Cavill in a desperate attempt to justify my actions.
It was what Eddie wanted, wasn’t it? Didn’t Cavill say so himself, at lunch?
That he wouldn’t have been so presumptuous and booked a room if she hadn’t told him that she wanted it.
I hope with all my heart that I did what Eddie would have done.
That I’m playing the part, following the script, doing the right thing by her.
This isn’t my life I’m living, it’s hers!
I wander about backstage, but I’m conscious of looking sneaky.
Of course, Eddie Skipton has every right to be prowling about the corridors, but would she really be doing that?
There are too many people around to feel safe snooping in all the rooms. I bump into various people Eddie knows well, for they smile and stop for a quick chat.
I explain that I’ve lost a book and am looking for it, but I hate being dishonest. I don’t make a very good sleuth.
It’s hard enough being the imposter that I am.