Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 18

The curtain came down on the kind of applause every actor hopes and prays for and is ineluctably sustained and nourished by. Thunderous. Slowly, it rose again and the performers returned to the stage one by one, the bit players first, then the character actors, the second male lead, and the leading man. The clapping spiralled markedly upwards for him, but became a tumultuous crescendo that was deafening when finally Katharine Tempest swept on to join the two male stars in the centre of the stage. The entire cast linked hands and bowed and smiled and bowed again.

As the heavy gold-trimmed red velvet curtain fell and rose for a second time, Katharine stepped forward to ringing cheers, and ‘Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!’ reverberated throughout the proscenium. Her face was radiant, wreathed in smiles and she bowed low and blew kisses from her fingertips and mouthed, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

Against the backdrop of the giant-sized scenery, depicting ancient Greece in all its glory, she seemed such a small, frail figure as she stood alone before the audience at the edge of the stage, graciously accepting their adulation. Yet she did not feel alone or lonely but, rather, more like the favourite member of a large and adoring family. Her family. Her only family. She belonged to them, and they to her, and nothing could ever change this fact.

Katharine’s heart crested with joy, and euphoria swarmed through her as she felt the waves of love washing over her from beyond the glittering footlights. And mingled with the joy was a marvellous sense of fulfilment, and the reaffirmation of her talent. And then it came, as it always did, the surge of relief that she had succeeded yet again. All of the dedication and discipline, hard work and straining for perfection was worth it just for this intoxicating and uplifting feeling. It was the ultimate reward.

She longed to stand there indefinitely, savouring the triumph of her victory, basking in the fervour of their approbation, but Katharine was conscious of her stage manners, and considerate of the rest of the cast, and she knew she had to give way, to permit the other stars of the play to take their individual bows. To receive their hard-won dues.

With a grand theatrical flourish she proffered a last handful of heartfelt kisses to the audience and bestowed a final luminous smile on them, before she turned to Terrence Ogden, her leading man, and stretched out her hand. He took it and moved closer to her, bowing first to Katharine and next to the audience, who were wildly ecstatic. Katharine half turned once more, this time to her left, and John Layton, the second male lead, came forward to complete the magnetic trio, who seemingly this night had surpassed themselves. There were four more rousing curtain calls before the red velvet finally rose and fell for the last time, and the cast slowly dispersed.

Katharine hurried off stage without exchanging a few words with her fellow actors as she usually did, anxious to return to her dressing room without delay. She felt uncomfortably hot, her costume was soaked and clinging to her clammy body, and the flowing red wig was heavier and more constricting than ever; it had begun to make her head itch to such an extent that it was an unbearable irritation.

In the last act she had perspired profusely and somewhat unnaturally for her, and she wondered dismally if she was coming down with a cold. Certainly her throat ached and felt scratchy, but she was fully aware she had overworked it, both at the matinee and this last performance. The effort to project her voice effectively into the cavernous depths of the St James’s Theatre had apparently taken its toll for once. This bothered her not a little, and she resolved to increase her lessons with Sonia Modelle, London’s foremost vocal coach. She would also make a point of doing her breathing exercises more regularly and diligently, since breathing correctly was the key to a good voice, as Sonia had instilled in her. For the past four years Katharine had worked extremely hard in the cultivation of voice technique. Through assiduousness and single-minded concentration she had developed tone, pitch, pace, range and rhythm to a remarkable degree, and had most effectively obliterated the American Midwest inflection so easily distinguishable in her speech patterns when she had first arrived in England. Sonia was amazed and gratified by her exceptional progress, and although the respected coach was usually scant with her praise, she had told Katharine only a few weeks before that there was now a peerless musicality to her voice, a quality few actresses ever attained. Nonetheless, Katharine recognized she must continue to work on her voice to strengthen it. Only absolute perfection would satisfy her.

Terry Ogden caught up with her in the wings. ‘Hey, Puss, you’re in a tearing hurry tonight, aren’t you?’

Katharine paused and swung around quickly. She half smiled, half grimaced. ‘I feel pretty done in, Terry. Giving two entirely different performances in one day doesn’t usually disturb me at all, but for some reason I’m exhausted this evening.’

Terry nodded sympathetically. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But they were great performances, darling,’ he exclaimed. ‘And you do adjust to the mood of the audience quite instinctively, and quicker and more expertly than anyone I know. That’s a rare talent indeed, Puss, and especially in one so young.’

‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ Katharine said. ‘You’re also very adept yourself.’ She looked up at him and smiled.

It was a smile of such genuine sweetness, and her eyes reflected such wonderment and innocence, Terry felt his heart clenching. He always experienced this feeling when she regarded him in this particular way, for the gaze held an indefinable quality unique to her. There was also a curious vulnerability about Katharine that touched him, a frailty mixed in with the tenacity he suspected lurked beneath the surface, and he often found himself wanting to shield and protect her, as one would a defenceless child.

Becoming aware of her eyes concentrated on his face, he said, ‘I’m pretty agile most of the time, Puss, but I was certainly a bit off my mark tonight. Thanks for coming to my rescue. I can’t believe I almost fluffed that line in the second act. And such a crucial line!’

Neither could Katharine. Terrence Ogden was one of England’s greatest stage actors, comparable only to Laurence Olivier in his youth, according to the critics, who judged Terry to be an impressive and gifted performer. Matchless in declamation, he had immense depth and range, these qualities strengthened by enormous intelligence and insight. Another prince among players, he was an idol to the public, being blessed with a boyish charm and rather striking blond good looks; and his singular flair for romantic entanglements of a decidedly flamboyant nature had done nothing to diminish his professional reputation. If anything, this penchant had enhanced it to a formidable degree, endowing him with the image of the great lover. His private life aside, everyone predicted that one day he, too, would be knighted by the Queen, as Olivier had been. In essence, he was the heir apparent to the reigning king of the English-speaking theatre, and Larry himself fondly regarded him as such, was his mentor, benefactor and close friend. At the age of thirty, Terrence Ogden, the coal miner’s son from Sheffield, was, as he liked to pronounce in his native North Country dialect, ‘Cock of t’heap, by gum!’ having relentlessly nudged aside most of his rivals, the famed Richard Burton included.

Katharine leaned against a piece of scenery and her eyes narrowed, rested on him thoughtfully as she remembered how he had unaccountably dried up on stage, and had flashed her a look that bespoke his horror and his panic. ‘What did happen?’ she asked at last. ‘It’s not like you, Terry.’

He frowned and shook his head and his irritation with himself flared, brought an irate gleam to his eyes. ‘I’m damned if I know, Puss darling. It’s not occurred since I was a kid in rep, and I can assure you it will never happen again. Anyway, you saved the old bacon with that swift and inspired prompt. I shall be eternally grateful. I must tell you, Katharine my love, you’re one of the most unselfish actresses it’s ever been my pleasure to work with. Really, I mean that.’

Katharine glowed and murmured her thanks, but nevertheless she began to edge slowly towards the fire door that led off stage. They were standing in an awkward spot, were being jostled by the other actors leaving the stage and straggling back to their dressing rooms, and by the numerous stage hands who were milling around, busily shifting scenery and joking amongst themselves. The noise, the bustle and the heat were enervating, and that peculiar fusty smell, so indigenous to every back stage, seemed suddenly malodorous and suffocating. It was a strange odour compounded of dry dust and damp, the resinous vapours emanating from the varnished sets, the grease paint, the hair spray, the mingled stale perfumes and the effluvium of the actors and the stage hands. Usually it sent a thrill tingling through Katharine’s veins, as it always had since the first day she had stepped on to a stage as a child. But at this precise moment she was filled with an immense aversion to it. And then, quite unexpectedly, she started to cough.

Terry, who was now talking about one of the other actresses in the play, stopped in the middle of his sentence. He looked down at her in alarm as she spluttered and choked and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Hey, Puss, are you all right?’ he asked worriedly.

Katharine was quite unable to utter a word. The coughing and the gasping for breath continued. She shook her head, motioned to the fire door and moved with swiftness out of the wings. Terry helped her down the stone steps to the corridor where the dressing rooms were located. When they reached his, which was one of the first, he flung open the door unceremoniously and called to his dresser, ‘Quick, Norman, get a glass of water for Katharine, please.’ The dresser ran to the basin with a glass, and Terry pressed Katharine down on to the sofa, worry and concern flooding his face. The paroxysms eventually subsided and she leaned back and gratefully took the water, sipping it slowly, breathing deeply between sips. Terry handed her a tissue to wipe her watering eyes.

Continuing to regard her with anxiety, he said, ‘My God, I thought you were choking, Puss. Whatever brought that on? Are you sure you’re all right now?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Terry. And I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it was the dust, and my throat was very dry. The combination of the two might explain it, but it was strange.’ Katharine stood up purposefully. ‘I know I’ll feel much better when I get out of my costume, and this rotten wig.’

He nodded, and stared hard at her, as if to satisfy himself she was completely recovered, and then said, ‘What are you doing tonight? I’ve invited a few chums to the Buxton Club for supper. Care to join us, Puss?’

Katharine declined, choosing her words with care, not wanting to offend him. An invitation from Terry was rare, and was something in the nature of a royal command when it was extended. ‘But it’s sweet of you to include me,’ she added. ‘Unfortunately, I have a long-standing supper date with Kim Cunningham and his sister.’

‘And Victor Mason perhaps?’ The look he focused on her was full of speculation.

Although she was rather taken aback by this comment, Katharine chose not to show it. She merely nodded. ‘Yes, Victor’s coming along. But why do you assume he would be? I don’t know him all that well.’

Terry shrugged and half turned away. ‘I heard he was paying court. You know what this business is like. You can’t keep anything quiet.’

Katharine’s eyebrows shot up. ‘There’s nothing to keep quiet. We’re just friends, that’s all,’ she said lightly. She moved nearer to the door and smiled at Terry’s dresser. ‘Thanks for helping the maiden in distress, love.’

‘Any time, Katharine.’ Norman grinned, and picked up Terry’s towelling robe. ‘Sorry it was only London corporation champagne, and not the genuine thing.’

Terry said, ‘Well, have a good time tonight.’ He sat down on the sofa, adjusted the short Grecian tunic over his knees and started to remove his sandals. His tone had been coolly dismissive and now Katharine thought he appeared to be angry for some reason, although she could not imagine why. ‘Thanks. You too, Terry,’ she replied in a low voice, and slipped out.

It was with a great sense of relief that Katharine entered her own dressing room and closed the door firmly behind her. She exhaled deeply and rested against the closed door for a moment. Unlike the cluttered and untidy quarters she had just left, here absolute order reigned supreme. Everything was meticulously in its given place. The costumes hung side by side on a metal clothes rack Katharine herself had purchased, considering the regulation wardrobe to be undersized. The collection of sandals was lined up neatly on the floor underneath it, the red wigs reposed on their wig stands on a small card table, and the theatrical make-up and creams and lotions, powders and a variety of other toilet articles were arranged with a military-like precision on the dressing table.

There was a paucity of clutter in the room: indeed it was sterile in appearance, being devoid of the usual theatrical mementos and memorabilia. Even the mandatory congratulatory telegrams, notes and cards from family and friends, which were always taped to a performer’s mirror in fluttering profusion, were noticeably missing. Actually, Katharine had received only three telegrams on opening night, from Terry, Sonia and her agent. She had no one else to wish her luck.

The dressing room not only reflected Katharine’s neat, spruce little flat in Lennox Gardens, but was yet another manifestation of her personal fastidiousness. This excessive neatness was becoming a fetish. Her drawers at the theatre, and at the flat, were laden with piles of beautiful underwear, and without exception she changed her under garments at least three times a day during her working week. One set was donned in the morning, was replaced by another for the performance, and this was discarded for a third, fresh set to wear after the theatre. On matinee days she used up four sets, much to the continued amazement of her dresser, Maggie. Other drawers, both at home and at the theatre, contained innumerable pairs of newly laundered stockings, folded and stacked in neat piles alongside clean handkerchiefs, dozens of pairs of white kid gloves of varying lengths, and a staggering selection of silk and chiffon scarves as pristine as the day they left the store. Every pair of shoes she owned boasted shoe trees; her hats were kept on the proper stands; her handbags were stuffed with tissue paper; sweaters were folded into plastic bags; and almost every garment in her wardrobe, from day dresses to evening frocks, hung in a dust-proof bag. Every time an outfit had been worn it was given to Maggie to be sponged and pressed, or was sent out to the dry cleaners.

Katharine was equally immaculate about herself, and was heavily addicted to perfumes and deodorants as if she was afraid that her own very natural and feminine body odours might possibly give offence, and she used breath sprays, mouth wash and toothpaste lavishly. Not surprisingly, she had an enormous distaste for anyone or any place that was dirty, grubby or unkempt.

The tranquillity, orderliness and coolness of the dressing room was like a balm to Katharine after the intensity of the lights and the heat of the stage, and particularly so tonight. Maggie had asked to leave an hour earlier than usual to attend a special family gathering, and Katharine had agreed at once. Maggie’s absence was welcome, and she was glad to be alone to collect herself. She struggled out of the Grecian costume, laid it on the small sofa.

Seating herself at the dressing table Katharine removed the tiresome wig. As she did she experienced a lovely sense of freedom. She unpinned her own hair and shook it loose. After brushing it vigorously until it gleamed, she tied it back with a white cotton bandana, and then creamed off the heavy stage make-up until there was not the merest trace of it left. A folding screen camouflaged a wash basin in the corner of the room, and now Katharine stepped behind this, where she gave herself a thorough body sponging. She then washed her face, cleaned her teeth, gargled, dusted herself with talcum powder, sprayed on deodorant, perfumed herself with Ma Griffe scent and so finished her evening toilette, which was invariably something of a ritual with her.

Whilst she dressed Katharine contemplated the evening ahead and suddenly she wished she had arranged the supper for tomorrow night instead. The two performances had vitiated her energy, and she, who was normally so full of vigour at this hour, felt ready to curl up and go to sleep. But she knew she had to pull herself together, strike a pose of sparkling gaiety and be entertaining for a few more hours. Certainly it was impossibly late to cancel the evening, and undoubtedly Kim was already patiently waiting at the stage door as arranged. And of course there was Victor, who was going directly to the house in Chesterfield Street. She sighed. Having paid punctilious attention to every detail and carefully contrived this entire situation, she was now hoist by her own petard. If only my throat weren’t so sore, she said to herself, sliding the pure-silk-and-lace slip over her head. God, I hope I’m not really getting a chest cold.

This thought was so alarming it propelled her across the room to the dressing table. She pulled open a drawer and took out the bottle of cough medicine she kept there. She was sparing with the mixture because it had a high alcohol content, and on several occasions it had made her a trifle whoozy. She gulped down the medicine and grimaced.

Lowering herself into the chair, Katharine leaned forward and examined her face in the mirror. At least she looked in perfect health, and she recognized she must do everything in her power to ensure this state of well being. Under no circumstances could she permit herself to become sick. The next few weeks were going to be the most important weeks of her life. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with her plans, so diligently and painstakingly formulated. Nothing and nobody.

How hard she had strived to arrange everything to her advantage, to manipulate events, to make her dreams come true. They had to come true. They just had to! Her face, so tender and young, tightened with intensity and her heart raced as she envisioned her triumph if she succeeded in all that she planned. Not if but when, she chastised herself firmly. She was not even going to acknowledge the possibility of failure.

Still preoccupied with her rapidly moving thoughts, Katharine brushed out her hair, carelessly stuck two combs at each side, pulling it away from her face, and filled in her mouth with lipstick. Without even a cursory second glance at herself she rose and went to the wardrobe. She slipped on the black dress, stepped into the black suede pumps and added the turquoise silk scarf at her neck before pulling on the black wool coat. She took a pair of white gloves from the drawer, picked up the black suede handbag and glided to the door.

For a moment her hand rested on the knob. She let her body go slack, and took several deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling for a few seconds. And then drawing on all of her inner resources and every ounce of energy she could muster, she straightened up, stiffened her back and threw back her head. Consummate actress that she was, Katharine was able to summon any facial expression and mood at will, and she assumed a demeanour that was carefree and vital before stepping out into the corridor. And her step was remarkably determined as she mounted the stone stairs.

Kim, who was hovering near the stage door chatting to Charlie, the doorman, excused himself and rushed forward when he saw her approaching. ‘Katharine darling, you look absolutely ravishing!’ he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Thank you,’ Katharine said, giving him a glowing smile. She squeezed his arm affectionately and looked up at him through sparkling eyes. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting.’

‘Don’t give it another thought,’ Kim replied quickly. ‘And at least it’s stopped raining. It was coming down in torrents when I arrived.’

‘Good night, Charlie,’ Katharine called as Kim bustled her out of the door.

‘’Night, Miss. And ’ave a nice evening.’ Charlie nodded in Kim’s direction. ‘And you too, yer lordship.’

‘Good night, Charlie. And thanks so much for entertaining me.’

The door slammed behind them and Kim took hold of Katharine’s arm, hurrying her down the narrow alley adjoining the theatre. ‘Let’s get to the car before it starts pouring again.’

‘Tell me, Kim, how was old Charlie managing to entertain you?’

Kim chuckled. ‘He was regaling me with marvellous stories about the “stage-door Johnnies” he has known in his time. He was frightfully funny, and even a bit risqué.’

‘Oh, and does he think you’re one?’ Katharine asked. ‘Are you his idea of a modern “stage-door Johnny”?’

‘Most probably!’ He glanced down at her. ‘I must say, old Charlie is very devoted to you, Katharine.’ He hesitated before adding. ‘And so is Terrence Ogden. He stopped to exchange a few words with me when he was leaving, and he positively raved about you. He also seemed a bit curious about this evening and our plans. He said he had wanted us to join him at the Buxton, that he had invited us.’

Katharine experienced a small jab of astonishment, and thought: invited us indeed. She said slowly, ‘Yes, he’s having a few chums to supper.’

‘Well, you do agree, don’t you?’

‘Agree about what, Kim?’

‘That Terry is devoted to you.’ Kim coughed behind his hand, and his voice was gruff as he ventured, ‘Actually, I think he has a crush on you.’

Laughter bubbled up in Katharine at the absurdity of this idea, and she was unable to suppress it. She looked up at Kim, her eyes crinkling with merriment. In the faint light from the street lamp she noticed the look of gloomy consternation on his face, and knew she must reassure him instantly.

‘Of course he doesn’t! He was only raving about me tonight because I helped him out in the second act. He almost blew his lines. And as for the invitation, well, he was just trying to be sociable, that’s all.’ Katharine was not sure she believed her own words. Perhaps Kim was correct in his assumption. If so it would explain Terry’s churlish attitude after she had refused the invitation, and his comment about Victor also. But she had no intention of confirming Kim’s suspicions. Rather, she had to allay them, and immediately. ‘Anyway, Terry is in love with Alexa Garrett. They are having a wild and highly-publicized romance, don’t you know?’

‘I see,’ Kim said, sounding less than convinced, even though he knew she was being truthful. He had seen items about Terry and Alexa in the newspapers. On the other hand, Terry had spoken very possessively about Katharine, and in a manner which disturbed Kim. ‘Why does he always call you Puss?’ Kim asked, striving for an off-handed tone without much success. ‘It seems awfully familiar to me.’

This comment momentarily floored Katharine, and she was about to point out that the theatre, by its very nature, bred familiarity, but changed her mind. She was aware of Kim’s tenseness, and sensing the question sprang from a spark of jealousy rather than any oblique criticism of her, she explained, ‘Because when I was a student at RADA, Terry saw me play Cleopatra in Caesar and Cleopatra. He thought I was decidedly feline, and has called me Puss ever since.’

‘Oh,’ Kim murmured, at a loss for words. He looked at her through the corner of his eye and said, ‘I didn’t know you had been friends with Terry for that long. I thought you met him for the first time when you went into the play.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean by that long, Kim. I’ve only been out of the Royal Academy a couple of years. Anybody would think I’m a decrepit old woman, the way you talk,’ she laughed.

They had arrived at the car. Kim released her arm and went to unlock it. He returned and helped her in, then slid into his seat, and he was oddly silent as he drove up the Haymarket and into Piccadilly, heading in the direction of Mayfair. After a while Katharine touched his arm lightly and there was a soft expression on her face. ‘Terry’s not interested in me, at least not romantically, Kim. Honestly.’

‘If you say so,’ Kim replied grudgingly. It was not Katharine’s fault that Ogden had behaved like an ass earlier, and here he was being surly with her.

The last thing Katharine wanted was for Kim to be in a jealous frame of mind this evening because of its extreme importance to her. She needed his goodwill; furthermore she did not want him to be prickly or difficult with Victor present. She said carefully, ‘Even if he were attracted to me in that way, it wouldn’t matter to me. For the simple reason that I’m not interested in Terrence Ogden. Not the least little bit.’ She laughed disdainfully. ‘I know too much about actors and their monumental egos to get entangled with them, my love. Besides, you know I’m not fickle. How could I possibly care for Terry when I’m so involved with you.’

Kim visibly relaxed, and his wide smile virtually illuminated the little car. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Katharine darling,’ was about all he could manage at this moment. Kim knew that he had been leading Katharine along until she made some sort of verbal commitment to him. This was the strongest statement he had heard in the few months he had known her, but for the time being it sufficed. Within seconds his warm, easy-going manner was completely restored, and he eventually launched into a long story about the planting of new trees at Langley. Katharine settled back to listen, although this was only with half an ear.

She was engrossed in her own thoughts. Victor Mason was most prominent in them. She wondered if he had been to the play tonight, but more importantly, whether he had kept his promise to her. Quite unexpectedly, Katharine’s heart missed a beat and she caught her breath. For the first time she was struck by the precarious nature of her immediate plans. They hinged on one man – Victor Mason. If Victor let her down then she had wasted weeks of precious time, and everything would have been in vain. My God, if she had misjudged him the setback would be enormous. She clasped her handbag more tightly, and admitted, with a sinking feeling, that despite her meticulous planning, she had not allowed for one vital contingency: the possibility that Victor Mason might change his mind.

Katharine was a peculiar amalgam of naïveté and sophistication. Whilst she was inexperienced in some aspects of life, she nonetheless had an innate shrewdness and was perceptive about people, often displaying amazing insight. Her understanding of human nature was astonishing in one so young, and she rarely made mistakes in her judgment. She took solace in this now, deciding she had no alternative but to trust her instincts. They confirmed her original assessment of Victor as being wholly correct. She relaxed her grip on the handbag, absolutely convinced he had kept the promise he had made to her several weeks ago. Perhaps not out of friendship, or generosity of spirit towards her, but for one other very simple reason, and it was the most compelling reason of all. Self-interest. Victor Mason needed her, and she had astutely recognized this the first time she had met him.

Cynical as this thought was, it did happen to be the truth, and recalling that Katharine cheered up. Also, to her relief, she discovered she was feeling much better physically. The exhaustion which had been so debilitating at the end of the evening performance had miraculously disappeared. The quick walk from the theatre to the car had been invigorating, and the fresh air, damp though it was, had filled her lungs with oxygen.

‘Anyway, those trees do make all the difference at the far end of the Long Pasture, and Father is really pleased I thought of starting the small copse. It’s going to be invaluable in years to come,’ Kim was saying.

‘That’s wonderful. I’m glad it worked out so well,’ Katharine answered automatically. Kim was given to waxing eloquent about the land, and even though she had heard it all before, more or less, she always endeavoured to show real interest. She had come to understand, very early in their relationship, that Kim’s love of the land reached deep into his soul. He was a dedicated farmer, and would be for the rest of his life. Langley, and all it encompassed, was his life.

‘Well, here we are,’ Kim announced briskly, bringing the car to a standstill in Chesterfield Street.

Katharine said, ‘You know, you haven’t told me much about your sister, except that she’s pretty, Kim. Don’t you think –’

‘And I haven’t told her much about you either,’ Kim interrupted laughingly. ‘It’s better that way. Neither of you has any preconceived ideas about the other.’

‘But she must know I’m an actress.’

‘She does.’

‘Does she work? Does she do anything special?’ Although Katharine was neither nervous nor apprehensive about meeting Kim’s sister, she did harbour a few reservations, even doubts, about the chances of their becoming close friends. Lady Francesca Cunningham, titled in her own right as the daughter of an earl, might easily be one of those cold, snobbish debutantes so typical of the British aristocracy. The fact that Kim was the exception to the rule in this class-conscious society did not guarantee that his sister was cut from the same cloth. And if this was the case they would have little in common, and there would be no real basis upon which to build a friendship. Of course it wasn’t absolutely necessary for them to become bosom chums, Katharine acknowledged. As long as there was a cordiality between them everything would work out, and certainly it would make the situation much easier to control.

‘From your silence, I gather she’s a lady of leisure,’ Katharine went on lightly. Her fingers curled around the door handle and she made to alight.

Kim reached out and restrained her gently. ‘She doesn’t go to work but she does work hard,’ he explained. ‘She’s a writer. At the moment she’s doing research for an historical biography. She’s always poking around in history books and she’s practically moved into the British Museum. Anyway, she’s kind of artistic, so I know you’ll have lots in common. Don’t worry.’

‘Oh, I’m not in the least bit worried,’ Katharine assured him with a bright self-confident smile, and she meant every word, for few things ever fazed her.