Chapter Eighteen
Nessa and I stand in the street outside the theatre.
Nessa is in tears. She’s trembling with shock, and I’m feeling pretty stunned myself.
I never saw that coming, and I’m meant to be intuitive.
Of course, it all makes sense now. Nessa is in love with Taran Bentley, which is why she’s at the theatre from dawn to dusk.
But Gilda Garrett is sleeping with him. If Nessa was jealous of Gilda before, she’s absolutely beside herself now.
And I don’t feel guilty anymore for that afternoon in the inn with Cavill.
I suspect that Gilda loves Taran. But she’s married and cannot have him.
Plus, he’s about to leave Seacombe for London.
No wonder Gilda was crying in her dressing room.
But what kind of revenge will Nessa plan now?
Is this the reason Nessa dies in the fire?
Does she plot a revenge that goes badly wrong?
I draw Nessa into my arms and hold her close.
She’s in complete despair and allows herself to be gathered up and comforted without protest. I recall her journal and the obsessional way she’s written the name Taran over all the pages, and begin to understand the depth of her infatuation and the degree of her pain.
A nervous anticipation takes hold of me then as I realise where this is all headed.
I feel as if my path is narrowing, as if I’m reaching a point, like the tip of a triangle.
A point beyond which I cannot go. Something will happen between Gilda and Nessa on Wednesday night that will result in the fire and Nessa’s death.
I need to find out what that is before I slide back and finish the job in the present.
And what of Cavill?
I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of leaving him, and sick with the sinking feeling of having failed.
For that is what I’ve done. I’ve failed.
It’s no coincidence that Cavill is here on this slide.
I’ve drawn him into my experience. I know that I must release him, release us both.
But I tried at the inn, and I bailed. Do I have the courage to give it another go?
Is the problem, really, that I don’t want to?
We find a bench in a quiet corner of the town, beneath a beech tree, and sit down.
No one is around. It’s quiet. The light is fading, the stars twinkling through the deepening blue, the evening giving way to night.
It’s chilly too. A cold, damp wind foretells rain.
Nessa is calmer now and she’s no longer trembling.
She knits her fingers in her lap. ‘I hate that woman,’ she hisses. ‘I wish she were dead.’
‘Oh, Nessa. Don’t wish anyone dead.’
‘You don’t understand, Skippy. I love him.’ Her shoulders quiver and she drops her chin and starts crying again.
I put my arm around her and draw her close. ‘I know you do. And I know what it is to love.’ I want to add that I know what it is to love a man one cannot have.
‘Papa wants me to marry dull George Cavendish, but I love Taran. I’ll never love anyone else. Now Gilda has stolen him from me, and she’s married! What right does she have to claim him?’
I’m not sure Taran Bentley has ever belonged to Nessa.
‘Does he know how you feel?’ I ask.
She shakes her head sorrowfully.
‘Does anyone know?’
‘No. Just you. But I’ll tell everyone what I saw. I’ll ruin her.’ Nessa’s eyes blaze feverishly through the dwindling light.
I think I can see now where this is headed. ‘Is that wise?’ I ask. ‘You won’t win Taran that way.’
‘Then what should I do?’
I give her the only sensible advice there is, even though I know she won’t take it. ‘Let him go.’
As I say those words, the irony is not lost on me, and I feel a sharp stab of pain beneath my ribcage.
Nessa stares at me in horror, as if I’ve just told her to jump off a cliff. ‘I can’t do that.’ She puts a hand against her breast. ‘I love him, Skippy. I really love him. I can’t live without him.’
I comfort her as best as I can while she lets her sorrow out in sobs and gasps, and many many tears. It’s late when we arrive back at the house. Lavinia has been anxiously waiting for us, and Cook and Mrs Crocker are worried.
Nessa takes Lavinia by the hand, and they run up the stairs.
I know they’re going to plot, but I can’t stop them.
And I mustn’t. I have to allow events to unfold without intervention or influence from me.
Cook arches an enquiring eyebrow but Mrs Crocker suggests I eat, or the food will get cold.
She tells Cook to leave the girls’ dinner on the stove for them to have later.
I’m agitated. I can’t relax. I pace the floor of the dining room as the clock ticks loudly on the mantelpiece, reminding me of the seconds lost, never to be regained.
Of the time that is running out for Nessa, and for me and Cavill too.
I’m overwhelmed suddenly by a suffocating feeling of helplessness.
A great weight presses against my chest, and I sit down at the table and stare desolately into space.
I eat alone and my thoughts become ever more convoluted in my head.
They’re like the threads in a tangled ball of string that I’ve spent days trying to untangle.
They’re repetitive, frustrating and seemingly impossible to unpick.
How can I tell Nessa to let Taran go, when I can’t let Cavill go myself?
I’m a horrible hypocrite. Weak and selfish.
I can barely swallow the soup for the tension in my throat. I’m filled with self-loathing.
The girls do not appear, and I go to bed.
But I’m as restless as a wolf at full moon.
I’m wide awake, anticipating what is to come.
I lie with my head on the pillow, and every time I close my eyes I see Cavill; I see Nessa burning; I see the Aphrodite in flames, and I foresee my return to 2014 on a wave of despair, having failed to end it with Cavill.
I have a terrible sense of doom that I have never had before.
It lies heavy and sticky in the pit of my stomach like tar, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.
The following morning the girls are already at the breakfast table when I come down.
To my surprise they are both in a cheerful mood.
Nessa acts as if nothing happened at the theatre.
I realise then what an accomplished actor she is.
It’s hard to reconcile the devastated young woman of last night with the carefree person sitting beside me now.
She comments on the beautiful day. It has rained in the night but now the skies are a clear, dazzling blue.
A blackbird has been singing outside her bedroom window, and the prospect of the dress rehearsal tonight fills her with excitement.
My anxiety only increases, because I know that they have been plotting something, and I don’t know what it is.
After breakfast Lavinia goes to work, and Nessa and I head to the theatre.
The place is teeming with people. Besides the actors, there are sound and lighting technicians, stagehands, seamstresses working on the costumes, carpenters tinkering with the sets, and in the midst of them all is Taran Bentley, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
He has no clue that Nessa and I saw him in flagrante delicto with Gilda.
I watch Nessa closely as she greets him, but she holds her nerve and gives nothing away.
I wonder what terrible revenge she has planned.
Gilda wanders in at midday. She’s not radiating her usual glow.
Her eyes are red and her face pale. She’s been crying.
I wonder whether she and Cavill have had a row.
More likely, she’s still upset at the prospect of her lover leaving.
I wait for Cavill to come in after her, but he doesn’t.
I wonder where he is. I ache to see him.
I tear my eyes away from the door and meet Gilda halfway down the aisle. ‘Is everything all right, Gilda?’ I ask, in the hope that she might confide in me. I sense that everyone confides in Skippy. I only wish I could tap into her memory.
Gilda gives a wan smile and her eyes shine. ‘As all right as it can possibly be.’ She sniffs forlornly, like a pitiful child.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
She shakes her golden curls that look unusually lacklustre in the electric lighting of the theatre. ‘No, I have a job to do, and do it, I will. Chin up. Isn’t that what you English say?’
I smile with encouragement. ‘You’re a trooper, Gilda.’
She shrugs. ‘I have no choice. Everything is out of my hands. I’m as helpless as a dandelion ball on the breeze.’
I wonder what she means. Is she referring to Taran Bentley leaving?
I accompany her to her dressing room. Coming towards us up the corridor is Nessa.
She takes one look at Gilda’s unhappy face and feigns sympathy.
Truly, she is a stunningly good actress.
She reveals not the smallest hint of resentment.
‘Can I get you anything, Miss Garrett?’ she asks.
Her voice is soft and kind. ‘You look as if you could do with a cup of strong tea.’
Gilda nods. ‘Oh, bless you, Nessa. That’s exactly what I need.’
Nessa doesn’t catch my eye. She turns round and heads purposefully towards the kitchen.
I follow Gilda into her dressing room where she sinks into the armchair with a sigh. ‘I don’t have a happy marriage, Skippy.’
I’m stunned that she’s just come out with that. I’m at a loss of what to say. I take the chair and sit down slowly. She fills the silence with what feels like an attempt to justify her affair, more to herself than to me, who is not supposed to be aware of it.
‘Oh, I know what it looks like to everyone else. Loves young dream.’ She chuckles cynically and holds my eyes steadily with her shiny green gaze.
‘I suppose in that respect, I’m a pretty decent actress, after all.
Isn’t that ironic? I can’t seem to manage it on the stage, but off the stage I’m swell. ’