Fragrance of Violets

by Paula Martin

  “Don’t bother, because I won’t be here. Goodbye, Jack.”

  She jabbed the screen to break the connection and sat motionless. The only sound she could hear was her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

  “I’ll get you a drink,” Sally said quietly.

  Abbey clenched and unclenched her hands. She felt empty, numb, as if she’d been punched in the stomach and all the air knocked out of her.

  Sally handed her a large glass of red wine. “Here, you need this. Come on, scream and shout, or bang your fists against the wall, or even cry your eyes out, if you want.”

  She gave Sally a weak smile and downed half of the wine in one long gulp. “I can’t believe this is happening, Sal. We’ve had a wonderful weekend in Paris, and he said he loved me, but all the time he was hiding this from me.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Sally agreed. “Has he never given you any hint?”

  “No, and he did lie, even though he said he didn’t. The book signing session in Carlisle—he told me it was a meeting.”

  “A meeting with all his fans, presumably.”

  “And there’s another thing. Farrell knew, so he must have been sworn to silence. I bet Jack panicked when I told him Farrell was Louise’s boyfriend.” She brought her hand to her cheek. “Oh God, surely Louise hasn’t been in on all this?”

  Sally shook her head. “She would have told you. You two have always been close.”

  “And she knew I was starting to fall in love with Jack.”

  As soon as she said it, the pain that shot through her hurt more than any physical wound.

  “Abbey, I’m so sorry,” Sally said. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “At the moment, I want to stay here and get very, very drunk, but I have to drive to London tomorrow morning, so that wouldn’t be sensible, would it? And I still have to pack some clothes, so I suppose I should go home.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  “I’ll be all right, Sal. Oh, to hell with it—” She held out her glass. “Pour me some more.” She’d be all right if she could numb the pain and stop thinking about Jack. She threw the wine down her throat and stood up. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “We’ll use the back door, so you don’t have to go through the bar.”

  “You’re worried I might slap the sneering grin off Nathan Garside’s face?”

  “I’m thinking you might hit him as hard as you want to hit Jack.”

  Abbey fought to keep her mind blank as they walked through the dark village, but anger seethed through her. When they passed the small park, she glanced at the wooden bench and looked away again. The last thing she needed was any reminder of how Jack kissed her the night they sat there.

  As they neared Eagle Croft, Sally hesitated. “I know you don’t want to think about this right now, but what about the drama club?”

  Abbey stared at her. “Oh, heavens, you’re right. Hopefully Angie Moore will take over.”

  “How long are you going to be away?”

  “Sylvia said it was a three week run so—” Her voice trailed off as a river of ice chilled her blood. After the play ended, what then? How could she come back home if Jack was still here? “I don’t know, Sally.”

  “Tell Angie I’ll help her at the club. Not that I know much about drama but I’ll do what I can, and if you give your mum all the details about the festival, I’ll collect them from her.”

  “Thanks, and I’m sorry I won’t be here for your Teddy Bear picnic.”

  “That’s the least of your worries.”

  They stopped outside the house and hugged each other.

  “Good luck with the play, Abbey, and I’m sorry about everything else. Call me if you have time, will you?”

  “Yes, I will, I promise.”

  Her mother looked up with a smile when Abbey went into the living room. “How was Paris?”

  “Fine,” Abbey snapped, and went on, “I’m going down to London tomorrow. I’ve decided to do the play.”

  Edwina frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Abbey compressed her lips, but her anger refused to be bottled. “Yes, dammit, everything’s wrong.” She took a few steps to the bookcase, pulled out the three Rycroft Saga books, and flung them on the coffee table. “You want to know who wrote these? You want to know who turned me down for the role of Maggie Rycroft? It was Jack. He wrote these damned books. He’s John Tyson. And that’s why I’m going back to London.”

  * * * * *

  After Abbey’s call, Jack sat on the edge of the bed and thumped the mattress half a dozen times with his clenched fist while his breath escaped from him in a deep groan.

  Earlier, he’d done a search on the web and found some interesting background information about Marsha Hewitt, enough to justify adding a penalty clause to her contract. He’d been about to call Farrell when Abbey rang him and dropped the bombshell. He winced as he heard the echo of her cold fury.

  When his phone rang again, he jumped. Was this her calling again? He grabbed the phone but his heart sank when he saw Farrell’s name.

  “I was about to—” he started.

  “Jack, Abbey called me.”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Oh yes, she called me, too.” Shock jerked through him. “God, man, it wasn’t you who told her, was it?”

  “She knew, or at least she suspected. She didn’t say how or why, but asked me if John Tyson was your pen name.”

  “And you confirmed it? Thanks a million, Farrell.”

  “I wasn’t prepared to lie, Jack.”

  “No. Of course not. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Louise has just played hell with me, too.”

  Despite all his churned-up feelings, Jack laughed. “I bet she has. Louise used to be a real little spitfire at times. But, forgetting all that for the moment, Abbey told me Marsha Hewitt had backed out of several shows. I’ve found some info online, but I need you to get all the facts and then contact the casting director fast. I want Marsha out, and I want a contract for Abbey by—oh, lord, when? Check when The Importance of Being Earnest opens in London, will you? She said she’d been offered a role and I’m sure she’s going to do it now. Find out the date of the opening night, the gala night, whatever they call it. That’s when I want the contract ready for her.”

  After he finished his conversation with Farrell, he called room service and ordered a bottle of Scotch. While he waited, he sank down on one of the leather armchairs and heaved a huge sigh.

  Who could have told her? Whoever it was, he damned him or her to hell and back.

  Later, after he’d downed one Scotch and started another, he directed the blame back to himself. He should have been honest with her right from the start, or at least on the day she told him how devastated she was when she didn’t get the part.

  Would she ever give him the chance now to explain why he’d turned her down for the role, and why he hadn’t told her he was John Tyson?

  Two drinks later, he shook his head hopelessly. Even if she accepted his explanations about all this, the same kind of situation could arise again and again. She would never be able to trust anyone not to hurt or disappoint her, until she put her anger and resentment in the past where it belonged. Would that ever happen?

  Anyway, she’d all but told him she didn’t want to see him again.

  “Goddammit,” he grunted, half in frustration, half in despair.

  He turned his attention back to his laptop screen. Before Abbey’s call, he’d been about to turn down an offer from Planet Earth magazine for an article about renewable energy resources in America. He’d done plenty of work for them in the past but hadn’t wanted to go to the States when everything was going so wonderfully well in Rusthwaite.

  Regret surged through him as he realised there was no future for him there now. He typed an email accepting the assignment and clicked send.

  Involuntarily, he turned his gaze toward the bed and, as the memory of their weekend together rus
hed back at him, picked up the bottle of Scotch and refilled his glass. Tonight he was going to drink far too much.

  * * * * *

  Abbey set off early on Monday morning. When she reached the motorway, she glanced to her right at the line of Lakeland hills, hazy and softly beautiful in the morning sunshine.

  A sob caught in her throat. Memories, hurt, and heartache threatened to overwhelm her, and she knitted her brows, trying not to give way to tears. As she drove south, she steeled herself again.

  No tears. Hold on to the anger. It was the only way she was going to get through all this.

  She couldn’t even define what angered her the most—Jack turning her down for the Maggie Rycroft role, or the fact he hadn’t told her he was the author.

  Part way through the five hour drive, she stopped at one of the motorway service stations for a coffee, and found a message on her phone from Peter Stones, telling her where the rehearsal studio was.

  “If you can get there this afternoon, that would be wonderful, darling,” he said. “Give me a call when you’re back in town.”

  There were also several messages from Louise saying, “Call me,” and after taking a deep breath, she rang her sister.

  “Abbey, how did you find out about Jack?”

  She flinched. Even hearing his name hurt. “John Tyson, you mean, don’t you?” That helped. Thinking of him as John Tyson made it all less real.

  “Farrell told me last night. I could hardly believe it.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “What about you and him now?”

  She gave a short laugh. “Oh, heavens, Louise, this is the end of everything between him and me.” As she said it, a stab of agonising regret threatened to penetrate her numbness, and she went on quickly, “I’m on my way back to London. Peter wants me for Importance again, and I’ve told him I’ll do it. I wasn’t going to but—” The pain was becoming stronger, and she bit her lip hard. “But there’s nothing to stop me now, is there?” she went on, adopting a falsely bright tone.

  “Abbs, come and stay with me.”

  “Why?” She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t sublet my apartment, so I’m going back there.”

  “I don’t want to think of you sitting on your own when you’re upset about Jack. I know you love him, and I know how hard it is when something like this happens.”

  Love him? Yes, she’d been on the verge of admitting she loved him, but she’d get over it. Push him into the past. Treat it all as one big mistake.

  “I’ll survive, Louise. Anyway, my life’s going to be hectic for the next few weeks.”

  “Okay, but call me when you get back to London.”

  “Will do.”

  Shortly before midday, she pulled up outside the large Victorian house in North London which had been converted into six apartments. Hers was on the second floor, and she stood for a few minutes by the window which overlooked the narrow street flanked by long terraces of identical brown brick houses. It was the last place she thought she’d be this week and, for a second, she yearned for the leafy lanes and the beautiful hills and valleys of the Lake District.

  She blew out a sigh, tossed back her hair, and clicked her phone. There was no time to sit around and mope about Jack. If the previews started on Friday, the next few days were going to be frantic.

  She called Peter, and then called Louise again, to reassure her that she’d arrived safely.

  “Abbey, I need to see you,” Louise said as she was about to end her call. “It’s about Dad.”

  She gave an irritated shake of her head. “Not now, Louise, I don’t have time. I have to be at the rehearsal studio in Kilburn by one-thirty.”

  Besides, she had enough on her plate at the moment without thinking about her father.

  Peter Stones, the middle-aged director with receding dark hair and black-rimmed glasses, greeted her with a bear hug when she arrived at the studio. “Abigail, darling, you’re the answer to my prayers.”

  She laughed. “Let’s hope you’re still saying that in a week’s time, Peter. I flew in from Paris yesterday, and I’ve driven down from Cumbria this morning, so please don’t expect miracles from me today.”

  “No problem, darling. First, you’re going to meet the rest of the cast, and the Wardrobe Wendies are frantic to measure you for the costumes. We’ll do a quick table reading of your scenes, and tonight I’ll talk you through the set and the blocking. It’s similar to the Manchester set, except the stage is bigger. Come on, let’s make a start.”

  It was after midnight when Abbey returned to her apartment. The afternoon had been frenzied and, even though Peter had taken her out for a meal in the evening, it was a working dinner. She spent the time before, after, and in between courses making notes in her script, drawing sketches of stage positions and movements, and highlighting the lines when she had to move up or down or across the stage.

  She sank down on the grey velour couch and closed her eyes. Her mind reeled with all the information she’d absorbed during the past ten hours, but at least she hadn’t had any time to think about Jack. Quickly, she sat upright again. No, she wasn’t going to think about him now, either. She grabbed her script from her bag, and started to read through her lines. Until she came to the line where she had to say, Jack? No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all.

  She flung the script down on the coffee table. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

  She had the following morning free to revise her lines, and most of them came back to her easily. Only a couple of longer speeches caused a problem, and she recited them over and over in her mind as she drove to Kilburn after lunch.

  On the first run through, she kept her script in her hand to remind herself of the movements. On the second run, in the evening, she managed without it, and only made two minor errors.

  The next two days proved to be even harder work when they did the final rehearsals on the stage at the theatre, culminating in a technical run on Thursday morning, and a full dress rehearsal in the afternoon. There were a few hitches with the scene changes, but Peter assured them these would be resolved before the first preview on Friday evening.

  After the dress rehearsal, she went for a drink with the cast at a nearby pub, but returned early to her apartment, needing some relaxing time on her own. She enjoyed a long, leisurely bath, and was sitting in the lounge reading the evening paper when her phone rang, and Louise’s name appeared on the screen.

  “Sorry, Lou, I simply haven’t had any time to call you. We’ve started early every morning, and I’ve not arrived back here until nearly midnight most nights.”

  “Are you at home now?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, I’ll pick up some pizza from the place around the corner from you.”

  “Louise—” she started to protest.

  “No arguments, I’m coming over. What pizza do you want?”

  “Oh, anything will do, but no garlic bread. I don’t want to reek of garlic tomorrow.”

  Louise arrived thirty minutes later with a huge pizza divided into quarters. “There’s a bit of everything. That side’s vegetarian, peppers and mushrooms, and this side is pepperoni and spicy chicken.”

  She also brought a bottle of red wine, and Abbey laughed after they’d demolished most of the pizza. “I needed that. I’ve been living on sensible salads all week.”

  After they cleared away the debris, Louise poured them each another glass of wine, and Abbey gave a resigned sigh. “Go on. I assume you’re here because you want to tell me something.”

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Louise asked, and shook her head. “No, sorry, that sounds as if I’m making a joke, and it isn’t a joke at all.”

  “What isn’t? Is this about Dad?”

  “Partly.”

  “If you’re going to ask me to see him again, the answer’s no.”

  “Abbey,
he’s dying. The cancer’s spread to his liver and lungs, and it’s gone too far for them to do anything. He went into a hospice today. St. John’s in Hampstead.”

  Abbey stared unseeingly at the floor. Her innate sympathy fought with all her other conflicting feelings. “How long does he have?”

  “Weeks, maybe less, and he does want to see you, Abbs. I managed to contact Ellie, too. She’s coming home as soon as she can book a flight from Peru.”

  Abbey raised her eyes to her sister again. “I know I should, but even when I think about it, everything tightens up inside me.”

  “Will you at least consider it?”

  “Okay.” She nodded and drank some more of her wine. “You said it was partly about Dad. What’s the other part?”

  Louise hesitated. “Don’t blow your top, Abbey, but it’s about Jack.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s something I think you should know. The reason he wouldn’t agree to you playing Maggie Rycroft.”

  Abbey gave a bitter laugh. “Because he hadn’t forgiven me for rejecting him ten years ago?”

  “That’s not what Farrell said. He found the email Jack sent him after he watched your audition video.” Louise reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here, you can read it for yourself.”

  Abbey unfolded the paper and scanned the printout: Abigail Barton is by far the best actress to play Maggie Rycroft. Her audition was sensational. She has Maggie’s strength and her fighting spirit—you can see it when her eyes flash so beautifully—and, at the same time, she manages to show Maggie’s sensitivity and the vulnerability she tries to hide. She’s everything I imagined when I created the character. I’d have no hesitation in offering her the part except for one thing. In total confidence between you and me, I knew Abigail several years ago and, because of something that happened, I’m sure she’ll throw any contract back in our faces once she discovers I’m John Tyson. It’s a risk I don’t think we can take, not for my own sake, but for the sake of the production company. I know Chris is anxious to complete the casting. Therefore, very regretfully, I’m saying we should go for Marsha Hewitt instead.