Chapter Seventeen #2
Leila laughed with her. ‘You can have the proof, Emma, and then tell me about it. I’ll believe you.’
They reached the Aphrodite to find Isadora and her assistant Lezli in the foyer.
When Isadora saw them, her eyes lit up like those of a greedy gannet.
‘Where’s Ulysses?’ she demanded, striding across the carpet to meet them.
‘And what’s her name, Pinkie … or Pixie,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘They haven’t left, have they?’
‘No, they’re doing their job,’ Emma replied.
Isadora laughed scornfully. ‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ said Emma. ‘But I’ve given them a private room, and Pixie is hopefully getting rid of the ghost.’
‘Here?’ Isadora asked. When Emma nodded, Isadora wanted to know how long they would take.
‘I’m not sure,’ Emma answered. ‘How long is a piece of string?’
Leila took in Isadora’s painted face and blow-dried hair and deduced that she had tarted up especially for Ulysses. She felt sorry for her. It wasn’t likely to get her anywhere. ‘Can we help you with anything?’ Leila asked.
‘Yes,’ said Isadora. ‘You can come and have coffee with me while we wait. They won’t be much longer, will they? How long have they been in there?’
‘Since about half ten,’ said Leila.
‘God! How long does it take to get rid of ghost?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Emma, finding Isadora’s impatience grating. She wondered what the woman wanted with Ulysses.
‘Okay, so let’s go to a coffee shop and wait it out together.’ Isadora rolled her eyes at Lezli. ‘Ghost, my ass! Still, as long as nothing disturbs my performance tonight, I don’t care what you all want to call it. My money is still on those witches, though. It really is quite simple.’
They settled around a table in a small café which was a few streets down from the theatre.
It was warm in there, out of the fog, and smelt pleasantly of freshly ground coffee and baked bread.
Isadora insisted on sitting in her big white coat until she warmed up.
It took only a few seconds for people to recognise her.
Emma noticed the ripple effect as customers sitting at the other tables lowered their voices to excited whispers or stopped their conversations altogether.
Everyone stared at her. Isadora ordered an oat milk flat white from the waiter, who was the only person in the place who seemed not to know who she was, and ignored the attention.
It was what she had signed up for, after all, and she liked it.
‘So, do you both believe in ghosts, too?’ Isadora asked. She put up her hands, revealing long tapering fingers and buffed nails. ‘I’m doing my best to keep an open mind, but boy is it a challenge!’ She laughed.
‘I’m keeping an open mind, too,’ said Leila. ‘Emma is more accepting of things we can’t see.’
Isadora looked at Emma expectantly, and a little condescendingly, as if she pitied her for being so unworldly.
Emma, being a natural people-pleaser, felt the need to win her over. ‘We’ve just been to the office of the Seacombe Gazette, to read about the fire that destroyed the theatre in 1923.’
‘Really? Was there a fire?’ Isadora asked, only mildly interested.
‘It gutted the place and one of the actresses was killed.’
‘She was called Nessa Blunt,’ said Leila.
‘She’s our ghost,’ Emma added.
Isadora said nothing and looked bored.
Lezli, on the other hand, was thrilled. ‘Gripping!’ she exclaimed. ‘That would make a good film, wouldn’t it? A woman who died tragically in a theatre fire, haunting it years later.’
‘How do you know she’s haunting the theatre?’ Isadora asked.
The waiter brought their coffees, and they suspended their conversation while he handed them out.
He blushed when he gave Isadora hers, which suggested someone had alerted him to the identity of their famous customer.
He lingered a moment, asked her if she wanted anything else, and appeared visibly disappointed when she said she didn’t.
Emma continued the story once the waiter had reluctantly left the table. ‘Madge’s father worked in the Aphrodite when he was a young man, and apparently everyone knew of Nessa Blunt’s ghost,’ she said. ‘There were many sightings.’
‘They could have made it up,’ said Isadora, putting her coffee cup to her lips. ‘If it was in the newspapers that she had died, then everyone would have known about her.’
‘The fascinating thing is that the fire happened in May 1923, on the opening night of Macbeth,’ said Leila.
Isadora perked up a little, but it might have been the coffee. ‘Interesting,’ she said.
‘What I want to know is, why she went quiet for so many years, and then came back,’ Leila mused. ‘If, indeed, she is haunting the theatre, why is it that in the last twenty years, which is as long as I’ve been involved with the place, no one has ever seen her or even mentioned a ghost?’
Emma thought it obvious. ‘Because we’re putting on Macbeth.’
‘Do you think that’s relevant?’ Isadora asked.
‘Seems a little coincidental,’ Emma replied.
‘How did the fire happen?’ Lezli asked. ‘Was it arson?’
‘Apparently not,’ said Emma. ‘It was started in the dressing room of the leading lady Gilda Garrett. We tried to find her on the internet, but there’s no mention of her anywhere.’
Isadora sat up with a start, as if she’d previously been asleep and was now fully awake. ‘Did you just say Gilda Garrett?’ she demanded.
Emma nodded. ‘Yes, she was playing the part of Lady Macbeth.’
‘Gilda Garrett?’ Isadora repeated. She gave her head a vigorous shake. ‘No, must be another one.’
‘Why, do you know a Gilda Garrett?’ Leila asked. ‘I’ve been trying to remember where I’ve heard her name before and it’s driving me mad.’
‘My great-grandmother was called Gilda Garrett,’ said Isadora.
The three women stared at her in astonishment.
Isadora waved her hand as if flicking away a fly. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s not the same one. My great-grandmother was American. She lived in New York. She was married to a man called Taran Bentley …’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘Taran Bentley was named in the article as director of the play.’
‘Get out of here!’ Isadora exclaimed. Then she frowned. ‘No, that can’t be right. But my great-grandfather was English, I suppose. But no, they lived in New York. My great-grandmother tried to be an actress but failed. It’s in my genes, clearly.’ She gave a flippant laugh.
‘Hold on,’ said Lezli eagerly. ‘Your great-grandmother was an actress called Gilda Garrett, who was married to Taran Bentley, and you don’t believe she was ever here?’
‘I would know, wouldn’t I?’ said Isadora in her little-girl-lost voice. ‘I mean, if she was here, as in, here in the Aphrodite! Wouldn’t I know?’
‘When did she die?’ asked Leila.
‘It’s a sad story. She died of an overdose of sleeping pills when she was in her forties. My grandmother, her daughter, was a small child.’
‘Was it deliberate?’ Leila asked.
Isadora shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She was on all sorts of uppers and downers, I think. Most likely an alcoholic too. She was messed up.’ She frowned. ‘It can’t be the same person. I mean, I didn’t even know she’d been to England.’
‘Why would you?’ said Emma. ‘You never knew her, and your grandmother was a child when she died.’
Isadora put her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
‘Oh my God! Do you think the ghost has it in for me, because my great-grandmother had something to do with her death?’ Her face paled at the thought.
‘This is creeping me out!’ She flicked her fingers, and the waiter glided swiftly to their table where he hovered with eager anticipation.
‘I need another coffee, make it a double shot, and fast.’ Isadora was loving the drama.
She was now riding high on it. This was even better than theatre.
This was real. ‘I think I’m going to faint.
’ She started fanning herself with the menu.
Lezli put an arm around her shoulder. ‘It’s okay, Isadora,’ she soothed, patting her coat. ‘Take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.’
‘Of course, it isn’t,’ Isadora snapped. ‘It’s too coincidental to be a coincidence. It’s crazy. I mean, proper fucking crazy!’
Leila caught Emma’s eye and grinned. ‘It is proper fucking crazy,’ she agreed.