by Jules Wake
Now that our little snowy tableau was complete, we stood in a convivial circle chatting as we drank our hot drinks.
Philippe seemed surprisingly solicitous which was a tad unnerving. Was he trying to impress Marcus, who was standing next to me? He kept checking that I wasn’t too cold and being overly complimentary about my skills as a make-up artist.
Surely his instincts weren’t so off that he thought Marcus was gay. Besides, Philippe had recently married his much younger boyfriend.
‘You alright to get home Tilly, darling?’ asked Philippe when we finally started to say our goodbyes. I was the only one heading over the river. ‘Do you want someone to grab you a cab?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, smiling at him, slightly perplexed. We’d had plenty of late-night sessions before and he’d never worried. ‘I’m going to get the tube from Charing Cross.’
‘OK. Take care, sweetie. See you soon.’
‘I can walk down with you,’ volunteered Marcus.
‘Don’t worry I’ll be fine. I do it all the time.’
‘It’s just one of my things.’ He shrugged and fell in step with me as I started southwards. Our breath hissed out in puffs of steam in the cold night air, as we crunched along together.
‘OK.’ I could see that arguing with him would be a complete waste of time.
We headed down to the busy thoroughfare of the Strand towards the station.
‘I enjoyed tonight. Backstage … it was.’ He nodded and his quiet admission warmed me just a little bit inside. He hadn’t said much all evening and although it had been pleasant, a part of me wanted him to be impressed. This is what I did. This was the important part. I didn’t want him to think I was a flake. That would have put him in the same category as my parents.
‘Sorry I shoved you out of the way. You looked a bit …’
He laughed. ‘Yeah I had no idea it got quite so lively. Like Formula One in the pit stop. That was quite something.’
‘We’ve practised quite a few times.’
‘Has it gone wrong?’
‘Has it ever.’ I giggled at the memory. ‘Quite spectacularly once. Thankfully in one of the early techs, technical rehearsals. Originally the change was only five seconds and we had another wig for him but we couldn’t do it. After that, we tweaked the scene and redid the wig to add a couple of wild bits that we could just pin up and down for the scene.’
‘Must be stressful with the guy timing it all.’
‘The stage manager. It’s fine, we’ve got two seconds’ grace, it keeps us on the straight and narrow.’
‘If you say so. I’m not sure I’d want someone breathing down my neck with a stop watch.’
I lifted one eyebrow and didn’t say a word.
‘I’m quite intrigued to know what happens, what with all the blood.’
‘You ought to go out front and watch. It’s quite a long one but you should see how it all comes together. Obviously, this show’s finished but you could get a ticket for Romeo and Juliet.
‘Ballet?’
‘Don’t be a big girl’s blouse. It’s not just about the dancing. You work there now, you should see how it all fits together.’ For the first time, I felt his equal. Two professionals. No, perhaps not. Professionals were solicitors, barristers, accountants.
‘Hmmm, I suppose so.’
‘Or the gala performance, which is a selection of opera and ballet. It’s a big charity thing. But the dress is Monday. That would probably be ideal.’
‘Isn’t it a bit short notice?’
So he knew that seats to watch a dress were hot tickets. He’d learnt something then.
‘Jeanie likes you.’ I stopped. That sounded rather horrid, as if I was trying to say I didn’t but I ploughed on, hoping he hadn’t spotted the quick pause. ‘She’ll get you tickets.’
As we arrived at Charing Cross, one of tomorrow morning’s early editions on the late night news stand caught my eye, sending my pulse rate into overdrive. Crap, crap and more crap.
One of the redtops had the headline:
New role for Pietro D’Angelis, The Gardener
Italian Stallion, Big Voice, Big …
On the front of the paper that Jonno wrote for was a picture of Pietro naked and, despite the strategic blacked out bit, there was no doubt he was standing very proud. Pietro’s worst nightmare. Even from here his pose suggested something pretty sordid.
Marcus caught sight of the headlines a second after me. His face tightened.
‘Damn. I thought we put a lid on that sort of thing.’ He tapped at his pocket as if searching for his phone. ‘I’m going to have to make some calls.’ He pulled his phone out. ‘Goodnight Tilly.’
Without a backward glance, he turned and paced away through the snow, leaving me with my heart thumping painfully. Bloody, bloody, bloody hell.
Chapter 19
I burst into the flat clutching the newspaper, my cheeks glowing with cold and agitation.
‘Felix,’ I cried. ‘Have you seen the papers?’
Felix looked everywhere but directly at me.
My heart somersaulted and I ploughed to a clumsy coltish halt. ‘Felix?’
He hunched into the sofa, teeth gnawing at his lip.
Like the tumblers in a lock, falling one by one, realisation thudded into me.
‘You didn’t?’
Silence yawned between us. All I could hear was rushing in my ears.
‘You promised me. You promised.’
I thrust the paper under Felix’s nose stabbing at one particular line.
‘How could you? Poor, poor Pietro. He must be distraught.’
Despite his olive skin, Felix’s face paled and I could see the pulse leaping in his temple. He didn’t say anything. What could he say?
‘Look! Look what it says! How could you? His picture, naked.’ I shuddered. ‘I know him. He’s a granddad. He has a family. This is just awful.’
The paper quoted a source close to Pietro. Used a line verbatim. The exact words Pietro had used to me. Which I’d repeated to Felix. This was my fault.
‘I’m sorry Tilly but Jonno kept saying he needed more. He kept hassling me. And he …’ Felix dropped his head in his hands. ‘Sorry. This …’
‘I-I can’t believe you. You said you hadn’t told him. You lied to me.’
Felix shrugged. ‘I knew it would come out. And Jonno, he’s, he’s the sort of guy that knows things …’
‘Like what? Knows things about you? Don’t be ridiculous. You fiddle your expenses? You steal towels from hotels?’
‘I …’ Felix looked panic stricken. ‘He was going to tell you-’
I was too incensed to listen.
‘After Katerina, you knew. You promised. You lied to me.’
I couldn’t bear to look at him or even be near him. I walked out and slammed the door so hard it bounced open again hitting the wall behind, the knob smashing the plaster leaving a spider web of cracks creeping across the white painted wall. I took refuge in the spare room, and threw myself on the bed.
All I could think of was how Pietro must be feeling. Would he turn up tomorrow? How could I face him? My stomach turned over and over as I stared up at the ceiling long into the night.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep, and I woke the next morning to hear Felix knocking at the door.
‘Tilly, please. Can we talk?’
What did we have to say? I couldn’t forgive him this time. I buried my head under the pillow, hoping he’d go away.
‘Tilly, please. I’m away tomorrow night, not back until Friday. Please Tils.’
Reluctantly I swung my legs off the bed and opened the door.
‘Felix.’ I stared at his haggard but hopeful face peering back at me through the narrow opening. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I messed up.’ The words were accompanied by the familiar beseeching puppy dog plaintive look.
‘You said that last time.’ My unemotional words mirrored the numbness that had se
eped its way into my body.
‘Please Tilly, we can get over this.’
‘Can we?’ I asked hollowly.
He reached out his hands, the warm touch of his fingers burning my ice-cold wrist and I stepped back.
‘You used to laugh about the papers.’ His brown eyes were earnest as he tried to give me a smile, as if jollying me along. ‘Say they made stuff up. Tomorrow it will be fish and chip wrapping. People will forget. Please Tilly, don’t stay mad at me. I promise I won’t ever, ever do anything like this again. It’s happened. We can’t do anything about it now. It might not even have been me, you know. Jonno said there were rumours. The video was in circulation. Anyone could have, you know, at any point.’
Despair settled like a solid lump in my stomach. He really didn’t get it. ‘It wasn’t anyone. It was us.’
Chapter 20
As I arrived at work I saw Jeanie snatch a newspaper away from Vince. The rest of the tabloids had taken up the story. There were pictures, stills from the film. What none of the stories revealed was why Pietro had done the films. No in true gossip style, they’d just laboured the point that he’d been a porn star in his youth, a raving sex maniac, who had slept his way to the top.
‘You should be sympathising with him, not dribbling,’ she snapped. ‘The man’s got a right to his privacy. Its…it’s,’ she turned puce. ‘Disgraceful,’ she finally spat.
Vince folded the paper away, shame-faced. ‘Sorry.’
‘Whoever let the papers have the story and these pictures should be hung, drawn and quartered. Scum.’ Jeanie’s face twisted in fury.
A red flush raced up my cheeks, a lump lodging in my throat. She’d tear me limb from limb. I wanted to shrivel up and die right there and then. I felt just as sick now as I did last night when I spotted the headlines.
‘This is going to set a lion among the pigeons.’
‘But our snow orchestra made the front page today,’ I said, hoping to divert her. Heavy rain had denuded our little gang of props and diminished their shape, the arrangement of clumps of grey snow were all that remained of the heavy snowfall two nights ago.
I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I met Jeanie’s intense scrutiny.
When my phone rang, I jumped. Christelle. Oh, damn.
‘And you, are you going to use that phone or just keep pulling faces at it?’ she growled.
Screwing up my face, I avoided meeting her eye. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing my sister this afternoon. I double-booked myself. She’s got the day off. We were going to have lunch and go shopping together.’
And I’d completely forgotten to phone her. My mind was somewhat occupied with other things.
Chapter 21
Those panda eyes turned my way as I rushed up to her.
‘Did you enjoy it?’ I bubbled. ‘Wasn’t Pietro amazing? So many curtain calls. The audience loved him. Did you enjoy the show?’
Christelle’s silence almost felled me. With a sombre face, she merely nodded and a cold heavy lump settled in my stomach. I stared at her, my shoulders almost sagging under the disappointment of her disinterest. Determined not to cry, I lifted my chin firmly, pulling my mouth into a grim line and stared hard at her.
Then, I realised she was a touch dazed, as if she’d just stepped into brilliant sunshine and couldn’t yet focus.
Marcus nudged me. ‘I’ll bill you later. You can give it back in your next lesson on Thursday.’
Had my sister’s company been so unbearable? He nodded downwards.
Balled in Christelle’s hand was a man’s white hanky streaked with black mascara. The glassy look cleared, and her eyes lit up with an inner glow I’d never seen before. Stepping forward, she threw her arms around me. ‘Tilly, it was wonderful,’ she sobbed into my shoulder as she burst into tears. ‘S-s-simply amazing.’
For a moment, uncertainty overwhelmed me.
She sighed. ‘Stunning. Gorgeous. Sublime.’
‘You really liked it,’ I breathed.
‘Oh Tilly, it was so wonderful,’ she enthused. ‘I can’t believe you work here. You’re so lucky. All this.’ She waved her arm around at the magnificent building. ‘It’s amazing. You’re amazing.’ She stepped back and studied me before saying very quietly. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Marcus.’ My head whipped around at the sound of Alison’s brusque tone. ‘Glad I caught you.’
‘Any progress?’ I heard her ask as I pretended to listen to Christelle now raving about the costumes.
‘Not yet,’ answered Marcus.
I strained to hear more.
‘But the paper is adamant that the emails came from here.’
My heart sank like a stone to the soles of my feet. It had never occurred to me to ask Felix how he relayed the information to Jonno.
She was still buzzing half an hour later in Balthazar where we’d retired for coffee and the most amazing mince pies. Just as well because I was lost in thought myself. Marcus had tactfully melted away before I’d had a chance to find out what he thought. It left an irritating question mark. Unfinished business. Had he enjoyed it?
Christelle, hemmed in around the tiny circular table, surrounded by my friends and colleagues, gaily talked away to Guillaume and Patrice, two members of the orchestra.
‘Is that really your sister?’ rasped Jeanie in my ear as she sipped an espresso.
‘Mmm,’ I replied.
‘What happened? Thought you said she was a bit of a stiff.’
‘She usually is,’ I said, watching my sister as she tossed her glossy hair back, talking animatedly to Guillaume. ‘We’ve been … better.’ Sadness tinged the moment. I didn’t know that much about her as an adult. I’d never met any of her friends.
Shrugging, Jeanie eyed Christelle thoughtfully. ‘She seems OK to me.’
I looked away from the concerned expression etched on her face, deliberately quashing the pinprick of guilt. I’d never asked my sister or parents to a performance but they wouldn’t have come, would they?
Jeanie sucked in a sharp breath as if she’d just realised the time. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m late.’
‘Late?’ I queried but she was already out of her chair, the blush staining her cheeks, clashing with her red hair.
‘See you tomorrow,’ she said hurriedly and left.
Christelle sank into silence when we finally left the café and touched my arm.
‘Thanks Tilly. Your friends are all so …’
What? I realised I was dying to know what she thought.
‘I had a lovely … no a fantastic time. They’re all so fascinating. Philippe’s from the same part of Paris as Maman and he paints as well as plays the violin.’
He was also partial to the odd séance and owned a collection of antique Ouija boards but I didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm.
‘He told me about his wedding. Sounded wonderful. They released fifty white doves.’
I looked at her. Deadly serious.
‘Can you believe he wore white tie and tails? How dashing is that? Can’t imagine many men would agree to that?’
Bless her.
‘You should have seen the groom,’ I said, biting my lip trying not to laugh at the expression on her face.
Her mouth dropped open.
‘I don’t suppose you get so much of that in chambers,’ I teased.
She giggled. ‘God, no, Mr Hartington-Smyth would burst out of his pin stripes.’ She sobered for a moment. ‘What about Guillaume? Is he …’ she stumbled on the word, ‘gay too?’
‘Guillaume. No,’ I couldn’t resist, ‘although he does live with Gary.’
Christelle’s face fell – a lot further than I’d expected. Interesting. I took pity on her. ‘Yes. Gary – the hamster.’
‘He has a hamster. How sweet.’
Sweet? Owning a small furry rodent? Not to my mind but I could see that Christelle might have been impressed by his sexy French accent as well as the six-foot frame which showed to great advantage in a dinner suit.
She didn’t even know that he played violin with the touch of an angel and had the talent scout from the modelling agency around the corner panting into her espresso every morning.
When we said our goodbyes, with a proper cheek to cheek kiss, I felt something warm in my chest. Today had been quite a day.
Chapter 22
It was a surprise to receive a phone call from Christelle a few days later.
‘Hey Christelle. How are you? Did you enjoy the other night?’
She giggled. She seemed to be doing a lot more of that these days.
‘Yes, I had a lovely time thank you. Sorry to call you so early but I thought I’d better let you know straight away, so we can arrange how I get the presents to you.’
‘Let me know what?’
‘I’ve got to work this weekend. I’ve got a court appearance first thing on Monday and I have to interview a witness on Sunday.’
‘Oh, right.’ I wasn’t quite sure why she felt the need to phone me and tell me first thing on a Thursday morning.
‘Tilly!’ She said in an accusing tone.
‘What?’
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’
‘Forgo…’ Oh pants. In a weak moment while we were watching the ice-skating at Somerset House, I’d agreed with her to travel to Yorkshire this weekend to see Mum and Dad. With everything that had been going on, it had slipped my mind. I sighed, acknowledging to myself that it had probably been a deliberate strategy. Classic Tilly avoidance tactics.
Felix had thankfully been away with work all week but he was due back this weekend. The week had been punctuated by apologetic texts and I was dreading his return. Suddenly the thought of being away from him and away from work sounded rather appealing. Although going to Yorkshire was possibly a bit drastic.
‘Can’t you change it?’
‘No, it’s taken weeks to get this guy to talk to me. He’s a whistle-blower. I need him to make my case water-tight.’
‘Whoa. Whoa. I can’t go up on my own. Why don’t we go another weekend? I’m sure Mum would rather see you … both of us.’
