Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 28

Norman Rook, Terry’s dresser, was walking so rapidly he was almost running, and Katharine was finding it hard to keep pace. Finally, when they neared the top of the Haymarket, she caught up with him and tugged him to a standstill.

Breathlessly, she said, ‘Please, Norman, can’t you slow down a bit? I’m really puffed.’

‘Oh, sorry, ducks,’ he muttered apologetically. ‘I’m anxious to get back to Albany as quickly as possible.’ He set off walking again, and if his steps were not exactly leisurely, at least they were more measured. Katharine was now able to keep abreast of him, and several times she stole a look at his face, conscious he was plunged in gloom. But fortunately, now that they were away from the theatre, his agitation seemed to have lessened. When Norman had appeared in her dressing room fifteen minutes earlier, his distress had alarmed her to such a considerable degree that she had responded to the urgency in his manner with swiftness, and without really thinking, anxious to be of help.

The brisk walk had given Katharine time to sort things out in her mind, and she found one fact singularly troubling, and so perplexing. This was Norman’s reaction to Terry’s drunken state. In her view, it was not only rather extreme, but unwarranted in many ways. Every actor, herself included, hated to miss a performance, but sometimes it was unavoidable, usually for health reasons. Terry had only been out once, since the play opened, and that was nothing short of fantastic. A record. She herself had missed three shows because of a cold, and John Layton, the second male lead, had been absent for two weeks with a dislocated knee cap. It won’t be the end of the world if Terry doesn’t appear tonight, so why is Norman so frantic? she questioned herself.

Katharine clutched the dresser’s arm so forcefully, and her grip was so tenacious, that he had no alternative but to stop again. ‘I don’t understand you, Norman! Why are you so worked up about Terry missing tonight’s show?’

Norman stared back blankly. ‘I’m not!’ he protested. He took a deep breath. ‘Hell, I wish he wouldn’t even attempt it, I think he’s bloody bonkers! Terry knows I’d lie in my teeth for him. I could easily say he has laryngitis. But he won’t listen. I don’t know how I’m going to stop him going to the theatre tonight. That’s what worries me, duckie. Restraining him.’ He gave her a sickly smile. ‘Terry’s twice my size.’

Katharine was satisfied with the explanation and recognized the truth in it. ‘Yes, I know he makes two of you. But look, why can’t you simply lock him in the flat, Norman?’

‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of that! But … Well, Terry can be bloody difficult when he’s boozed up. Belligerent, for starters.’

That sense of dismay Katharine had experienced in the dressing room, reactivated, and it struck her that Terry must be far worse than she had imagined. She wondered what had motivated him to behave so irresponsibly. Still, there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on that. Action was the imperative.

‘Maybe we could find somebody to help us,’ she suggested. ‘I could ask Victor Mason to run over! He’s as big as Terry, a lot bigger in fact and more powerfully built. I bet he could handle Terry easily.’

Norman gawked at her. ‘Don’t be daft, ducks, we can’t drag other people into this mess.’ Not bloody likely, he thought to himself. And without another word he swung around and rushed on, obviously propelled by the urgent need to get to Albany, and Terry, as speedily as possible. Katharine stared at his retreating figure, filled with exasperation, and then she set off after him.

The dresser, small and spry, was bounding ahead like a wiry terrier, his raincoat flapping out behind him as he dodged between pedestrians. My God, he’s behaving like a maniac, she thought, her exasperation flaring into real annoyance. It occurred to her then that perhaps Norman was afraid Terry had managed somehow to get out, and was already staggering drunkenly to the theatre. Yes, that’s obviously the explanation, she decided, and instantly changed her mind. She knew John Standish’s flat, where Terry was presently staying. Apart from having a strong oak door, there were also three locks, because of John’s valuable antiques, paintings and other objects of art. He made sure it was difficult to break into – or out of, for that matter. She increased her speed in an effort to catch up with Norman. When she drew level with the Piccadilly Hotel, she saw, to her surprise and immense relief, that Norman had finally stopped and was actually waiting for her.

‘You are being unfair,’ she gasped, positioning herself determinedly in front of him. ‘You promised to fill me in and you haven’t. Not only that, you’re behaving so strangely I’m beginning to think you’re hiding something. What’s wrong, Norman? You haven’t told me everything, have you?’

Norman gulped several times, striving for control. Finally, he said, ‘No, I haven’t, love.’ He shook his head sadly, and his shoulders sagged with weariness. ‘I was going to tell you everything when we got a little closer to Albany. Honest, I was. I wasn’t going to let you walk into that … that shambles unprepared. I just didn’t want to tell you in the middle of the street …’ He took her hand in his and said slowly, in a lower tone, ‘Terry’s not just sloshed, Katharine. He’s been … Terry’s been stabbed.’

For a moment his words did not seem to penetrate. Katharine gaped at him, uncomprehending, and then a look of horror washed over her face as his words finally registered. ‘Stabbed,’ she repeated, her voice quavering. She leaned against the wall, trembling from shock, and her heart suddenly began to pound. ‘Is he all right?’ she asked.

‘Yes, yes, he’s all right,’ Norman quickly assured her. ‘Sorry for blurting it out like that. I didn’t mean to upset you. He has a flesh wound on his upper arm. Not too deep, thank God. My wife’s there. She used to be a nurse, and she managed to stop the bleeding earlier.’ Norman sucked in his breath, rushed on. ‘The doctor isn’t there. I didn’t send for one.’

When Norman saw the flash of anger and panic on Katharine’s chalky face, he cried hurriedly, ‘I couldn’t, Katharine! The doctor would have had to report the stabbing to the police, and there would be an investigation and lots of lousy publicity. You know what the papers are like when they get hold of something like this!’

‘But are you sure he’s going to be all right?’ Katharine persisted. ‘Really sure?’ she demanded, clutching Norman’s arm, her eyes searching his.

‘Yes, I am. Honest to God, ducks. And so is Penny. I told you, she stopped the flow of blood and was bandaging him when I left. The wound isn’t all that serious. Luckily. By now I hope she’s managed to sober him up a bit.’

For a moment Katharine did not trust herself to speak, as she acknowledged the gravity of the situation, and also grappled with a variety of emotions. Uppermost was her enormous horror. Intrepid though she was, she nevertheless had an overwhelming abhorrence of violence, whether verbal or physical, and when confronted with it she was rendered helpless. Now she felt nauseous, and her head had started to ache. But conscious of Norman’s beseeching eyes, she somehow caught hold of herself. She said slowly, ‘He really can’t go on tonight, Norman, even if he is sobering up. He’d never get through the show.’

Norman agreed. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be able to talk some sense into Terry. He’ll listen to you. That’s the main reason why I came to get you. You will give it a try, won’t you, love?’

‘You know I’ll do anything to help.’ She hesitated, reluctant to ask the next question. But she screwed up her nerve. ‘Norman, who do you think … stabbed Terry?’

Norman grimaced and shook his head. ‘I couldn’t make head or tail out of what Terry was saying.’

‘You don’t think it was Alexa Garrett do you?’ Katharine’s voice was hushed.

‘No. No, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Norman asserted, but to Katharine he sounded unconvincing, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze, which was shrewdly assessing.

‘Then who?’ she pressed.

‘I … I … Honestly, I’m not sure.’ Norman thought for a second and volunteered grimly, ‘There was some sort of altercation though. A lot of bloody stuff was broken. John’s going to be in a hell of a rage when he finds out. He lent Terry his flat, out of the goodness of his heart, and now half of his valuables have been damaged, and he’s only been gone for a few weeks.’

‘You don’t mean some of those jade pieces and the porcelain things in the drawing room, do you, Norman?’ Katharine asked, incredulity spreading across her face.

He nodded, unable to respond.

Katharine exclaimed, ‘That’s just awful, Norman. Terrible. John spent years collecting those lovely things, and he was so proud of them. Terry will have to replace everything, that’s all there is to it,’ she concluded firmly.

‘Yes,’ Norman replied. But with what? he thought. Terry’s dead broke and up to his eyes in debt. Not to mention a lot of other rotten lousy problems. Norman was about to confide some of his crushing worries about Terry, but instantly changed his mind. Terry would have his guts for garters if he betrayed any secrets, and besides, Terry’s present condition was the most vital priority just now. Norman said quickly, ‘Come on then, me old love. Let’s shake a leg. The bloomin’ sand is running out. Don’t be too shocked when you see the boy, Katharine. He’s a bit under the weather.’

‘No, I won’t.’ She took his arm and hurried him down Piccadilly, as anxious as he was to get to the flat.

They were only a short distance from Albany. The entrance was just a stone’s throw away from the Burlington Arcade, and adjacent to the Royal Academy, the famed art gallery. Albany House, built by Lord Melbourne in 1770, had been turned into gentlemen’s chambers at a later date, pied-à-terre in the heart of Piccadilly for members of the English aristocracy and men of letters. The chambers, generally referred to as ‘rooms’ rather than flats, had become exclusive and desirable places of residence over the ensuing centuries, and those who lived there considered it a privilege to do so.

Norman ushered Katharine across the courtyard and up the steps to the glass doors which opened into the building. She sneaked a look at him, and saw at once that he seemed calmer now that they had finally arrived. They went in, and were greeted by an ancient uniformed porter, who looked as if he had been left over from the Battle of Balaclava. The stone-flagged hall was shadowy and silent, and their footsteps echoed hollowly as they crossed to a second set of doors at the other end. These led out to the Rope Walk, a covered walkway traversing the entire interior area of the building which was designed in the style of an atrium.

When they reached the door of John’s flat, Norman inserted the key and they went inside together. They were greeted quietly by Norman’s wife, Penny, who was standing in the hall near the drawing room, and it was most apparent she was relieved to see them. Penny, a petite and dainty blonde with pretty features, was pale and her face was tight with worry, but she was coolly controlled.

‘How is he holding up?’ Norman asked.

‘Not too good. He’s very shaky. But fortunately his arm hasn’t started to bleed again,’ Penny responded, summoning a cheerful tone. She nodded in the direction of the drawing room. ‘Let’s pop in there for a tick, before you see him, and I’ll fill you in.’

Walking into the drawing room, Katharine saw at once that Norman had not exaggerated in the least when he said the place was in a shambles. If anything, he had underplayed the result of the altercation. More like a bar brawl, Katharine commented to herself, compressing her lips. The room, which she had always admired for its beauty and elegance, was in great disarray. Two large Chinese porcelain lamps had been smashed and, with their dented silk shades, had been placed in a corner out of the way; and several small antique tables with broken legs were laid on their sides next to the lamps. A large and extraordinarily lovely Venetian mirror, hanging above the white-marble fireplace, was cracked and splintered down the middle, and John’s collection of prized pink and green Chinese jade ornaments had been reduced to dozens of small pieces. They lay on a newspaper on top of a circular Georgian rent table, looking like a rare jigsaw puzzle about to be reassembled. The pale blue carpet had several cigarette burns and dark splotches where red wine had been spilled, and the same ugly wine stains splattered across the cushions on the pale blue velvet sofa, also streaked down the blue silk draperies at the window.

Katharine was appalled. It was apparent to her that either Penny, or Norman earlier, had endeavoured to clean up and restore a semblance of order, but even so the considerable damage was only too visible. Her eyes swept around the room again, and her face reflected her distress. ‘How could Terry let this happen?’ she cried, turning to Norman who was close behind her.

‘I don’t know,’ Norman murmured miserably. ‘I’ve also been wondering how he could let himself get stabbed.’

Katharine flushed deeply. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said. She hadn’t meant to sound so callous, or dismissive of Terry’s injury, certainly more important than broken furnishings. She looked at Penny. ‘You said Terry was shaky. What do you think about his appearing tonight?’

Penny shook her head. ‘I think it would be disastrous, Katharine. I’ve tried to sober him up, and certainly he’s a lot better than he was, but a real hangover’s settling in.’

Norman groaned. ‘I’m at my bloody wits’ end! It’s up to you now, Katharine. Perhaps you’ll be able to persuade him to stay put for twenty-four hours. What he needs is a good kip.’

‘I’ll give it a try,’ she replied. ‘Shall we go in and see him?’ Katharine followed Norman and Penny out of the drawing room. Norman suddenly halted at the bedroom door at the other end of the entrance hall. ‘Perhaps I’d better warn him. Tell him you’re here, Katharine. He didn’t know I’d gone to fetch you.’ He hurried into the bedroom and Penny and Katharine hovered outside the door, which stood open a few inches.

They could hear Norman talking in a low tone, and then Terry’s voice reverberating loudly, as he shouted, ‘Jesus bloody Christ! What did you have to go and do that for? You silly sod!’ There was low murmuring, as Norman attempted to calm Terry down, and then he poked his head around the door and motioned for them to come into the bedroom.

Katharine hesitated imperceptibly before moving forward, realizing that Terry was most probably discomfited because she was seeing him in a disreputable condition: The great lover as the rake.

Penny gave her a little push and she was forced to take a few more steps, and suddenly Terry was in her line of vision. Her heart dropped when she saw him, but she was able to keep her face expressionless, her shock concealed, and her smile barely faltered.

Terry was lying on top of the bedcover, propped up against a pile of snowy white pillows, wearing only black silk pyjama bottoms. His wounded left arm was almost completely covered in bandages, and she noticed that he had sustained other injuries. His right shoulder and arm were black and blue with angry bruises, and there were ragged vivid scratches on his neck. And apart from his battered body, his appearance was so much worse than she had envisioned, she was further alarmed. Terry looked ghastly. His unshaven face was puffy and swollen and without a drop of colour, and his blue eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed with faint mauve smudges underneath them. He seemed slightly dazed, his eyes glazed, and he had trouble focusing on Katharine. There was an aura of such terrible dissipation about him, Katharine was sickened and yet curiously sad for him.

A pressing question dangled on the tip of her tongue: Who did this to you, Terry darling? But she was unable to utter the words, fearful of exciting him or causing him more pain at this moment. Instinctively she knew, too, that he would not tell her.

‘Hello, Puss,’ Terry said, his voice weak and hoarse, as if his loud shouting of a few seconds before had drained him. ‘Fine pickle I’m in, eh?’

‘Yes, love, it is,’ Katharine answered, producing a radiant smile, one that was also loving. Her voice was softly comforting, as she continued, ‘But it could be worse, you know. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep. Why, Norman just said to me all you need is a good kip.’ She smiled again, and remarked in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘You’ll be back on stage tomorrow night.’

Gathering the remainder of his diminished strength, Terry pushed himself up on the pillows and positively glared at her. ‘Tonight! I’m not missing a performance. Not because of this piddling little scratch. Not bloody likely, Puss.’

Somewhat to Katharine’s surprise, Terry did not sound at all slurred. Quite the contrary, he was enunciating clearly; on the other hand, there was no question in her mind that he was incapacitated. He would not be able to meet the fierce demands placed on him by his taxing role. His hands resting on top of the bed trembled slightly, and it was very clear to her that the quantity of alcohol he had drunk, lack of sleep, the knife wound and the fight in the drawing room had all taken their considerable toll.

Katharine approached the bed and stood at the foot. She said, in her most commanding voice, ‘You can’t possibly go on, Terry dear. It would be insane to do so. Honestly, you won’t get through the first act, never mind the whole play. Now be sensible.’

‘I’m going on, I told you!’ Terry half screamed, his voice surprisingly vibrant again. ‘I appreciate your concern, Puss, and it was sweet of you to come over,’ he continued, speaking now in a softer key. ‘But I’d be grateful if you ladies would buzz off, so that Norman can help me to get ready. I’m not a blasted zoo tea, you know.’ He fell back against the pillows and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. His hand shook so much he slopped half of the water on the table before getting the glass finally to his parched lips.

‘Just look at you,’ Katharine cried with fierceness, her eyes blazing. ‘You’re trembling like a leaf. You’ll never make it.’

Terry smiled at her grimly and his tone was sardonic. ‘Oh yes I will. I’ve had a hell of a lot more stage experience than you, my pet. Once I’ve done my make-up and get into my costume, I’ll hit the footlights with my usual aplomb. And I’ll be perfectly bloody fine. I’m an old trouper, didn’t you know?’ He laughed wildly.

‘Now listen to me,’ Katharine said. ‘I’m not even going to permit you to go to the theatre, never mind hit the footlights. Over my dead body, Terrence Ogden. You’re out of your mind thinking you can try it.’ She paused and the look she gave him was deadly serious. ‘You have a responsibility to the audience! And a responsibility to the rest of the cast. It’s not fair to burden them, and me, with your problems. You know we’d all have to carry you. I don’t mind doing that, but I’m sure the others would resent it. And just think how mortified you’d feel later, for giving a lousy performance. You love acting too much to give less than your best. I know for a fact that you could never live with yourself, if you behaved disgracefully on a stage. You couldn’t stand the humiliation, for one thing.’ She glared at him, her defiant eyes dared him to contradict her.

Terry laughed even more hysterically than before, and cried out dramatically, ‘Ah, my sweet Kate, you’re so young, so idealistic, so filled with noble thoughts …’ He broke off and reached for the glass of water. ‘“Tempt not a desperate man.” Romeo and Juliet. Act … I forget which act, but never mind, my sweet, sweet Kate.’ He flung out his arm, making a grand gesture, and the water splashed out of the glass on to the sheet. He looked down at the wet patch and shook his head, smiling to himself. ‘Tears. Ah, yes, tears.’ He lay supine on the pillows and murmured, ‘“To weep is to make less the depth of grief.” Henry VI. The Bard always got to the heart of the matter, did he not, my sweet Kate.’ He closed his eyes wearily. The eyelids fluttered and then were still.

Katharine’s troubled face now met Norman’s, and he shrugged, helpless and resigned.

Penny said, ‘I think Terry’s falling asleep. Perhaps we should let him rest for a while.’

‘Oh no, I’m not, Penelope. The wise and wonderful Penn – ell – ohpee,’ Terry cried, opening one bloodshot blue eye and leering wickedly at them.

Katharine turned to Norman and said carefully, ‘I agree with Penny. Terry’ll feel better in about half an hour, then you can get him ready.’ Aware that Norman was about to protest, she signalled him to be silent with her expressive eyes, and rushed on, ‘Maybe you should run a bath in the meantime.’ Her cool blue glance rested on Terry and she remarked casually, ‘When you’re ready, Norman and I will take you to the theatre. Come on Norman, Penny.’ She swung around and walked across the room, her steps purposeful.

‘Thanks, Puss. I knew I could rely on your understanding,’ Terry muttered, raising himself on his right arm. Instantly he collapsed on the mound of pillows, looking more exhausted than ever.

Norman threw Katharine a questioning look once they were outside, and Penny began crossly, ‘What kind of idea is –’

‘Hush,’ Katharine whispered, and pulled Penny after her into the drawing room. Norman followed and closed the door firmly behind him. He leaned against it and said, ‘If you’ve come up with a plan, it’d better be a flaming good one, ducks.’

Katharine sat down on an easy chair, and smiled faintly. ‘It’s not a plan exactly, only a little common sense. Look, Norman, as long as we argue with Terry about going on tonight, he’ll continue to fight us until we’re blue in the face. So … I think we ought to go through the motions of getting him bathed and dressed. Didn’t you see how docile he became when I suggested that you get him ready?’

They nodded in unison, and Katharine proceeded, ‘It’s pretty apparent to me that Terry is wiped out physically, and he’s still a bit drunk, you know. That’s why I don’t think he’ll have any juice left in him by the time you’ve got him shaved, bathed and in his clothes. He’s going to be awfully drowsy after a bath, particularly if you make it a hot one. I have a feeling he’ll simply fall apart, and then we can get him to bed without any arguments, or a struggle.’

Norman smiled for the first time that day. ‘Katharine, you’re a little genius. Of course it’s the only solution. Hell, I wish we had some knockout drops as well.’

‘I have some sleeping pills on me …’ Penny began hesitantly, and stopped when she saw Norman’s glowering expression.

‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you say so before,’ Norman snapped, staring at his wife in irritation.

‘Well, actually, I haven’t had a chance, have I?’ she retorted reprovingly, with a small glare. ‘There’s no need to be so snippy, Norman. Anyway, when you rang me up to tell me about Terry, I threw a lot of things in a shopping bag. A first-aid kit, bandages, aspirin and sleeping pills. I was reluctant to suggest giving him one of those though, because he’s been drinking.’

‘Christ, I didn’t think of that,’ Norman answered, looking shamefaced. ‘But one wouldn’t hurt, would it?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Penny went to her shopping bag and pulled out the bottle. She popped it in the pocket of her cardigan and said, ‘We’ll never get him to take it voluntarily, Norman. I’ll have to crush it and put it in a glass of hot milk. He won’t taste it, if I add a bit of sugar.’

‘Good idea, love.’ He gave Penny a fond look, and added, ‘And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.’ He jumped up. ‘I think I’d better go and run a bath for him. Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

The moment Norman left the room, Katharine turned to Penny and said, ‘This is pretty awful, isn’t it? What’s it all about, Penny darling?’

Penny bit her lip. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ she murmured.

Katharine gave her a hard stare. ‘Did Norman tell you anything?’

‘No,’ Penny responded, returning the stare with one equally as hard.

‘How did Norman find out about the stabbing?’

‘Terry had asked him to pick up a suit from his tailor’s and deliver it here. Norman brought it over this afternoon. He found Terry lying on the bed in a pool of blood, drunk as a skunk. He ’phoned me and told me to get over here as fast as I could, and then I believe he tried to question Terry. But he didn’t find out anything. Terry was much worse earlier, unintelligible, from what Norman told me. That’s about it …’

‘It’s a good thing Norman had reason to come over here today,’ Katharine said with a small shiver, imagining the consequences if Norman had not arrived on the scene at the right time. She looked down at her hands, and when she lifted her head her eyes held a quizzical look. ‘I asked Norman if he thought Alexa Garrett had done it, and he said no. But he didn’t really convince me. I think Norman suspects her, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Penny responded uncertainly. ‘But I suspect her. I think she’s a bit of a Tartar, that one. I wouldn’t put anything past her. Terry’s had nothing but bad luck since she’s been around. Jinxed him, that she has. I never liked her, stuck-up little piece of nothing. She’s led Terry into bad ways, Katharine. Very bad ways indeed, I don’t mind telling you. But then, Terry never did have much taste in women. Always going for the dolly birds. Except for Hilary Rayne. He should have married Hilary, instead of that last wife of his – Megan. I never liked her either, another stuck-up article, if ever I saw one. Exactly like Alexa. Two peas in a pod, if you ask me, and rotten bloody peas at that.’

Katharine was taken aback at this second reference to Hilary in one day, and intrigued and inquisitive, remembering Estelle’s comments about the party. She said, ‘Yes, I agree with you, about Hilary. She’s a lovely person. But she’s married to Mark Pierce now, so she’s hardly available for Terry.’

Penny was startled. ‘Oh, I didn’t know you knew Hilary. Known her long, have you?’

‘Not very long, but she’s –’ Katharine cut off her sentence as Norman rushed in. He seemed elated and he grinned at them both and made Winston Churchill’s V for Victory sign with two fingers. ‘I think it’s going to work. I had to wake Terry to get him into the bathroom. Right now he’s sitting in a tub of hot water, looking as weak as a kitten and sounding very groggy. He didn’t even want me to shave him. Why don’t you go and boil the milk, Penny love, and then I’ll try to get him to drink it. After that, it’ll be never-never-land time.’

Penny hurried out, and Norman peered at his watch. ‘It’s just turning five-thirty, Katharine. Do you want to get off to the theatre?’

‘No, I’ll wait for you, Norman. Just to be sure everything is all right. We can go together,’ she said.

Norman stood in the wings of the St James’s Theatre, watching the last scene of the last act of Trojan Interlude. And silently he applauded Katharine. She was superb. She had carried the entire play with ease and brilliance and immense flair, radiating her own extraordinary magic, a magic quite unique to her. Peter Mallory, Terry’s understudy, was good, but he lacked Terry’s fire and declamatory ability, and although his performance was sound it was without inspiration.

If the audience felt a little cheated because of his lack-lustre performance, they had been more than compensated by Katharine’s stunning protrayal of Helen of Troy. She had given them everything she had, with every fibre of her being, and Norman decided it was probably her most outstanding rendition to date. She had surpassed herself, had held them in the palm of her hand all night long, and now, as the play drew to its finale, they were her entranced and willing captives, breathless in their seats, hanging on every word. He suspected there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house when the curtain fell in a few minutes.

Norman turned and meandered out of the wings, making his way slowly down the stone stairs to the dressing rooms. He had had to come to the theatre tonight, to dress Terry’s understudy, who didn’t have one of his own. In many ways he had been glad to get away from the flat. It had enabled him to clear his head. Terry had dropped off to sleep before he and Katharine left, and Penny had assured him she was capable of coping with any emergency which might arise. Norman had telephoned his wife several times during the course of the play, and to his great relief she had told him Terry was still out like a light, and probably wouldn’t awaken until the next morning. But as a precaution, he and Penny had elected to stay the night there, just in case Terry needed anything.

And tomorrow he would have a serious talk with Master Terrence. It was long overdue. Norman now chastised himself for not having done so before. He was devoted to Terry, and protective of him, and in the six years he had been his dresser they had drawn extremely close and intimate, were like brothers. Norman, failed and frustrated actor that he was, guarded Terry’s career as he would the Holy Grail, and he was prepared to go out on a limb for him at any time, to ensure his position and standing in the English theatre. Talent such as Terry possessed was rare and precious, and it had to be cherished and nurtured. To Norman it was a national treasure that belonged to the people, to be preserved for them.

Norman hovered outside Terry’s dressing room, waiting for Katharine to come off stage. He had done a great deal of thinking in the past few hours and had at last resolved to confide in her. She was the only person he dare trust with Terry’s secrets. Norman sighed under his breath. Terry’s troubles were becoming too weighty and complex for him to carry alone, and after the nightmarish day he had spent, he knew he must unburden himself, seek objective advice. And quickly, if he was to avert further disaster. He was not sure she could properly advise him, but sometimes it was simply enough to voice fears. Communicating them to someone else helped to clarify them and often produced solutions which otherwise might have remained elusive. And at least Katharine might be able to make Terry see sense.

He heard her laughter as she tripped lightly down the steps, and he went along the corridor to meet her, smiling broadly. He grabbed her, somewhat roughly, but with genuine affection, and hugged her to him. ‘You were smashing, love,’ he exclaimed. ‘Staggering. You pulled out all the stops.’

‘Thanks, Norman.’ She exhaled several times. ‘I did it for Terry,’ she said softly, and with the sweetest of smiles. ‘I acted for both of us tonight. But it was rough going at times. Look at me. I’m soaked to my skin.’

‘You’d better get out of your damp costume immediately,’ Norman ordered in a fatherly manner, bundling her towards her dressing room door. ‘By the way, can I buy you a drink later, love?’

‘That’s so sweet of you, Norman, but I have a date.’

‘Just one. Ten minutes of your time. It’s important, Katharine.’

She noted the anxiety in Norman’s voice, and she thought, Oh God, Terry’s taken a turn for the worse. She said swiftly, and with a degree of nervousness, ‘Is he all right? There’s nothing wrong is there?’

‘No, he’s fast asleep. Actually, I need a bit of advice … About Ter … our boy …’ Norman’s voice trailed off. He gave her a pointed look. ‘Understand what I mean?’

‘Yes, I do.’ She did not have the heart to refuse him. Also, she was worried about Terry herself, and riddled with curiosity about these recent events, and her inquisitiveness now got the better of her. She said, ‘Kim Cunningham’s bringing a picnic over to my flat later. We’re going to have a midnight supper.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He’s very romantic. Anyway, we can have a drink there, Norman. We have plenty of time to talk before he arrives.’

Norman was hesitant, shrinking away from this suggestion. He always felt faintly ill-at-ease when he was with the nobs. Being the son of a man who had spent forty years of his life in service to one of the premier dukes of England, he had been brought up to know his place. And his place was certainly not at any social gathering, particularly one of this intimate nature. ‘Oh well, if his lordship’s coming courting, perhaps we’d better leave it.’

‘Don’t be silly, Norman. I want you to come. And I certainly want to help you and Terry if I can.’

‘Okay. And thanks, Katharine, you’re a real brick,’ Norman beamed. ‘I’m going to pop along and help Peter, but I won’t be long. Knock on the door when you’re ready to leave.’

‘I’ll hurry. About fifteen minutes,’ she said, disappearing into her dressing room.