Did its bright colour have a psychological significance? And what was the point of writing everything down? Ian had begun to tell her once, but she had not been sympathetic and he had dried up. Val said nothing. They shared a conversational vacuum. Did she find it easier to converse with Ian, or was this little book her sole means of communication?
If we can’t communicate, we can’t expurge ourselves of all the things that hurt us, and so they keep right on hurting us. That’s what’s called hell. Hell isn’t a place, there’s no down there. If we look down all we can see is our feet. There isn’t any down. It’s all up. We look up at the moon. If we stood on the moon it would be exactly the same. If we stood on the moon and looked down, all we would see is our own two feet. We’d have to look up to see the earth. Is that right? Can that be right?
No matter. Hell isn’t a place. It’s all the hurtful, painful things we lock inside of us. Hell is self-inflicted.
Perhaps I should get a little book. I would play safe and buy one with a green cover, just in case there is a psychological significance. Green is God’s colour. If it has a significance it must be a good one, because He used it over and over again. Think of all the things He made green: trees, grass, the sea in a special light, my eyes.
I would write in my little book: There was a storm in the air. I could smell it. I could see it a long way off as a dark patch with splits of white. I wasn’t afraid, by that I mean I had no sense of foreboding, or of terrible dread. It might fizzle away to nothing, like a cracker, fierce and sparkling and quickly spent. And even if it didn’t, I wasn’t unduly alarmed, even though I admit to a childish dislike of thunder storms, because, as I have been at pains to point out, it was a long way away, I hazarded a good half hour away, and my father was due home in considerably less time than that.
The table was laid. Señor don José Alvarez, who is very old and whose villa sits on rocks above a sparkling white arc of sand, brought the yellow roses that made such a delightful centre-piece. The señor is fascinating, his skin is like an almond shell, he is very gallant and often brings gifts. Not all are as acceptable as the roses. Once he brought sea urchins. He told me to split them open and eat them with lemon juice. I might have enjoyed the taste more if I hadn’t known what I was eating.
I was admiring the roses and thinking about the sea urchins, and I didn’t notice the spinning hands of the clock, or the fingers of darkness grasping the sky. It was very dark. Hot, still, waiting. I didn’t like the waiting, yet I wanted the waiting to last for ever, because of a peculiar tight sensation in my breast. I experience that feeling even now, in bad thunder storms. I knew this was going to be a bad one. I don’t know how I knew. I didn’t think, ‘This is going to be a bad thunder storm.’ I felt it. I suppose I must have been having a premonition after all, because I felt it as a knife cutting downwards from my throat.
The thunder, when it came in giant rolls of sound, sound I could only liken to the sea, roughed up and magnified many times, was an anticlimax, a relief. Let what had to happen, happen. I couldn’t live out my life in a vortex of waiting.
The lightning flicked the sky with a gentle whip at first. The clap of thunder had released the rain, it splashed down in fat drops, and the drops ran into one another to soak into the dry earth. The lightning was still a gentle whip making patterns, drawing circles and lines, filling the sky with a macabre beauty. I ran to the door to see if my father was anywhere in sight, definitely not to revel in the skyline.
It was an unfortunate impulse. As I looked, the lash tautened, and straightened into a point of descending white fire. It barely touched my skin, yet they said I was lucky to live, after being struck by lightning. They said not to worry, because the long jagged scar would eventually fade, and anyway, I could always wear a high necked dress. I couldn’t take much of it in at the time. I became very hysterical. I cried out for my father.
When he came, he said he wouldn’t leave me alone in a bad storm again. He didn’t, not while I was under his roof, except in my nightmares. He didn’t mean me to be alone then; I’m certain he would have crept into my nightmares, to cuddle and comfort me, if it was within his power. But it wasn’t then, and it isn’t now, and so I relive my nightmares alone. And I scream at him and shout at him, for leaving me alone.
There. If I had a little book, that is what I would write down, and I would be purged. But I haven’t got a little book, and far from writing it out of my system, I’ve etched it more clearly in my thoughts. For a while longer I must endure my own inner hell.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was an effort, but Karen did not turn back the cover of Val’s purple notebook. It sat on her bedside table, in all its glossy splendour, as tempting as a grape. Begging to be devoured.
Karen picked it up, dusted beneath it, put it back. It fell from her grasp, falling open on the floor. She lifted it up, swiftly closing it to, but not before her eyes alighted on one letter. A capital M in the middle of a sentence.
M could stand for anything. It could be the M prefacing Monday, or Manchester. A word given a capital letter to mark a special significance. A name. Lots of names started with M.
All right, Mitch started with M. And it was her firm belief that if she dug to the root of Valerie’s disorder, she would find a man. A man as evil and lascivious as Mitch.
No, she would not look in the notebook, even though it would explain all that was supposition. It was slightly more than that to suppose Valerie had tumbled out, not only facts, but thoughts that might be mad, pungent, or just nonsensically feminine. Thoughts that no other human eye should pillage.
Ian was back. Though technically he did not live in the house, coming in only for meals, it felt his absence as sorely as did the feminine usurpers. It was something less tangible than the ashtrays staying empty and cushions not looking as if they’d been in a rugger tackle, but a feeling that the pulse was taking a long pause. Then Ian was back, and with him the ambient sense of wellbeing.
‘Any phone calls?’ Without waiting for her reply he strode over to the telephone table, picked up and examined the pad. ‘Ah! I see the butcher phoned. To tell you he was out of liver, but could do two nice pork chops. Also, Alice Newby phoned. Did you forget to pay for the newspapers?’
‘No.’ Karen’s mouth fell open in perplexity and surprise. ‘It was about a paper pattern I ordered for a dress. She was checking on the size. But how did you know? They were trivial calls. I didn’t make notes.’
‘Not notes, not in the recognized sense. But doodles. Did you know that every time you answer the phone you doodle?’
‘No, I didn’t. Thank you for telling me. I’ll be on my guard.’
‘Please don’t. It makes a change from crossword puzzles. And I’m getting quite expert at deciphering doodles.’
‘Well, I’ll still be on my guard. I might doodle something terribly indiscreet.’
‘Or revealing.’ His eyes held hers for a moment, searchingly. As if she didn’t show much of what went on inside. Which was all to the good, considering.
‘Where’s Val?’ she asked, sounding as brittle as glass, the way she always sounded when talking about Val.
‘Visiting an old school friend. Kate Stevens. Apparently they bumped into one another at lunch time, and Kate invited her round to her flat for the evening. So it’s grilled rump steak à deux.’
‘It’s pilchards on toast. You didn’t give me enough warning.’
‘How much warning do you want, to put on a pretty dress and—?’
‘Is this an invitation to dine out?’
‘What else.’
‘That makes all the difference!’
When she was ready, she went into Val’s room. The mirror in there was full length and she wanted to see herself in the cream dress. The material had handled well. The neckline, high, of course, gave the column of her throat a look of fragility. The bracelet length sleeves did the same for her wrists. Luckily she had spent her wages on a pair of strappy sandals. The
purchase had left her insufficient money to buy even a hankie, but as she preened, taking in the effect of chic simplicity and long slender leg, she was glad she hadn’t scrimped.
She never could enter this room without crossing to the window. It always had been, and always would be, the focal point, for her. The moon, which had given only a pinchpenny gleam of light for the last three days, shone as though it had been neonized. The trees clustered close to the house, protectively.
‘Do I need a coat?’ she asked Ian.
‘No. If it’s cold I’ll lend you my arm.’ It was a flirtatious remark said with neutral gravity. It was an assertion, an affirmation of what she already knew. Ian would always willingly lend an arm to someone incapacitated by a bad mood, or an unfortunate predicament. It occurred to Karen she’d had her share of both; she was determined the evening wasn’t going to be rumpled by so much as a frown.
‘Hungry?’
‘Famished . . .’
‘Those dancing sandals?’
She grinned and said positively: ‘You bet they are!’ She needed that hint of toughness about her if they were going to dance, make girl-man fun. They did have fun. When later, sometime just before dawn, he asked: ‘Enjoyed yourself?’ She leaned her head back against the door and said: ‘Let me put it this corny old way. If good times could be boxed and kept, this is one evening I would keep for ever.’
‘So good?’
‘So good.’
‘I’m glad.’ He said that sincerely, neither under-emphasising, nor over-emphasising. The truth doesn’t need gilding.
‘Will you come in?’
His sharp: ‘No,’ raised her eyebrows. He modified it to: ‘Better not.’ He picked her hand off the knob. ‘It’s too late to talk. And if I come in I might just forget myself. So,’—he gave her hand a gentle squeeze and let it drop—‘goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow,’ she repeated. It had a blissful ring to it. ‘Oh! Not tomorrow.’ Her voice sharpened, almost to recoil. ‘I might not see you tomorrow. Of course, I’m not sure. The arrangement won’t be properly finalised until I’ve had the phone call.’
‘What phone call? What are you talking about?’
‘Mrs Franks. Angela’s mother. You remember me telling you Angela wanted me to get in touch with her parents. Well, we’ve . . . er . . . corresponded, and Mrs Franks is going to ring me tomorrow, to let me know if it’s convenient and . . .’ She realized she was saying too much, and her tongue was too agitated to be discussing something as innocuous as a social invitation. It was just that she’d been on edge ever since Mitch told her about the trio, scheduled to appear tomorrow, going sick. It was possible, just possible, they might be permitted to fill the gap.
‘It’ll be a wonderful break, darling. Bit more ambitious than I intended for a start, but . . .’
Ian was saying: ‘Are you all right, Karen? Is there anything you want to tell me?’
‘No, it’s just that . . . it will mean cooking for yourselves, a bacon fry-up, or something. Or if you’d prefer it, I could prepare a cold meal beforehand?’
‘Anything. I don’t look on you as a housekeeper, but a friend. A friend, Karen. I never meant you to tie yourself to the kitchen stove.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then.’ Her voice trailed off laconically, so he didn’t need to rely on instinct to know something was wrong. Not with that wilting, turned-down mouth, and those rosier than normal cheeks.
He sighed. A woman’s quick turn of mood was commonplace, not magical; all the same, he couldn’t help but mourn the loss of his gay companion of the evening.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘It’s on, sweetie, it’s on. This evening Mitch and Mandy appear at the Seven of Clubs.’
Karen gripped the phone. ‘Where’s that when it’s at home?’
‘The other side of the Pennines, darling.’
‘I can’t, Mitch. I’m sorry, I’m ungrateful, I know what an awful lot of trouble you’ve gone to, but I can’t.’
He bluffed: ‘Of course you can.’ He wheedled: ‘You’re not going to let an attack of nerves spoil the chance of a lifetime. Who knows, this time tomorrow you may be a star.’
‘I know, Mitch. I didn’t know before, but I do know now. I don’t want to be a star. I don’t know why I let you sweep me up on a dizzy cloud of make-believe.’
‘Now listen to me,’ he cut in. ‘You didn’t take much sweeping, you mercenary little—’ He recalled whatever abuse trembled on his tongue, and suggested: ‘Make yourself a strong cup of tea, and then lie down. When you’re rested you’ll feel better. I promise, what you’re going through is not unusual. By this evening you’ll feel fine.’
‘But if I don’t—?’
‘You will, darling. Tell you what, I’ll bribe some of the boys to come in extra early. We’ll do a complete run through. You’ll get used to the stage, the atmosphere, the feel of the lights. All that will be missing is the audience.’
She took an unsteady breath. ‘Your grandmother’s been working on you again. Because that is what I’m frightened of. I don’t know why, but I’m frightened of the lights.’
‘There’s nothing to be frightened of. You’ll be all right.’
‘But if I’m not. If, when we’ve had a run through, I’m still not all right?’
‘Then we’ll call it off.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Yes.’
The tea helped. But she was too restless, too strung up to lie down. Anyway, there were things to do. House things, meal things. It all helped. It wouldn’t be too bad. Not with a run through.
But there was no run through. They got caught in a traffic snarl up, crawled the last five or so miles, and arrived at the Seven of Clubs with insufficient time.
‘It’s no good,’ said Karen. ‘Without the run through I can’t do it.’
‘You can.’ Mitch hustled her up the stairs to her dressing room.
‘You can.’ His hand was on her elbow, whether his hold was captive, or merely to instil in her some of his strength, she did not know.
Her knees sagged, her jaw felt rigid. ‘I’m sorry, Mitch. Call me everything you can lay your tongue to. I deserve it for letting you down.’
‘You’re not letting me down. I won’t let you blast everything I’ve hoped for, dreamed of. Besides, if we don’t go on, we get black listed. You can’t do that to me. Quit tomorrow, if you like. That’ll be okay. Tomorrow I can look round for another Mandy. But tonight you go on. Is that reasonable?’
‘I hadn’t looked at it from that angle. Would you get black listed?’
‘I’d get sued.’
‘You didn’t mean it when you said that if I wasn’t all right, we could call it off?’
‘No.’
‘Was the first Mandy this much trouble to you?’
‘Not quite.’
‘But then, Val was in love with you, wasn’t she?’ Karen had no idea what made her say that, or even when she had assembled the idea that Valerie had been part of the act, that when Valerie broke up, the act broke up. It was a collation of conjecture and fact, a random surmise that was astonishingly accurate.
Mitch didn’t say. ‘That’s a load of bunkum,’ or, ‘Val was never part of the act,’ or any of the things she expected him to say. His jaw sagged, his face drained, he looked old and ill. He looked—this is almost impossible to believe—but he looked ugly. As if, all the time, his stunning good looks had been dependent on his cocky smile and his bursting self confidence.
And Karen overflowed with sympathy for him. It was unaccountable and unreasonable; he’d driven Val all the way to the black abyss, and had undoubtedly pushed her over, and yet she felt sorry for him. Probably because it was the first time she had seen a man break down and cry.
‘Yes, she loved me. That’s what I worked on to keep her going. Honest to God, I didn’t know she wouldn’t be able to stand the high pressure show business pace.’
‘Was it that, do you think?’ m
used Karen, realizing he wasn’t crying for Val, but for himself, for his shattered dreams, for his lost chance.
‘Or was it the fact that she found out you had used her. That when the aces were down, you didn’t love her at all?’
He didn’t say anything. The tears continued to come, they slid down the furrows on either side of his mouth.
She buckled into him: ‘For goodness’ sake, man, take a hold of yourself. Do you realize we’ve less than fifteen minutes to change? And it takes me twenty just to put on my eyes!’
‘Do you mean,’—he gulped—‘you’ll do it? After what you know, you’ll still do it?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Karen. Her voice broke and she said something peculiar. ‘I can only hope it’s the same thing.’
* * *
Mitch led her on to the darkened dais, squeezed her hand, then left her to take his place at the piano. The act had been announced, the clinking of glasses and the babble of voices had ceased. A hushed silence prevailed.
Karen could smell the roses on the nearby table. They were yellow roses. She had seen them just before the lights were extinguished. She tried to blank out the roses and think of something else during the few remaining seconds before the spotlight pinpointed her aloneness. Something, or someone, to give her the strength she lacked.
Ian, she felt his presence as if he was nearby, but she couldn’t see his face for the yellow roses. The roses out there were buds, the roses she saw were full-blown, spilling petals on the tablecloth. Giving them, Señor don José Alvarez had said: ‘Poor roses. They have bowed their heads to a superior beauty.’ She had smiled, because that is the way to receive a piropo. Like all his countrymen, the good señor was adept at paying extravagant compliments.
The seconds were running out. Mitch began to play the opening bars. The music rolled like waves of sound into her subconscious. Under her breath she repeated the words of the song, to make sure she hadn’t forgotten them. An arpeggio sounded like a clap of thunder, now his syncopating fingers were making the tinkly sound of rain.
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