by Faith Martin
Now just how delicious was that?
All that pale and delicate beauty rendered an unbecoming red? It was almost poetic.
* * *
Throughout the city, many people were thinking many things.
Candace Usherwood, for instance, was sitting in front of her dressing-table mirror and thinking about eyebrows.
Ever since Betty had got that note about Abigail Trent’s ‘flawed’ beauty, Candace had been living in a state of near panic. Because of the tiny, white, almost invisible scar on her left eyebrow, the result of a minor childhood accident… which was definitely a flaw, wasn’t it?
Of course, only someone who was standing really close to her would ever know it was there.
It was not at all like Abigail’s beauty mark, which had been much more obvious and visible.
Still.
Perhaps she should pull out of the competition? Winning a competition wasn’t worth… well, putting your life in danger, was it?
Ever since that horrible letter had come to light, Candace had tried so hard to pooh-pooh it. After all, everyone knew that the kind of people who wrote poison pen letters weren’t really dangerous, were they?
But what if that wasn’t the case this time? What if, whoever wrote that note really had had something to do with Abby’s death?
Helplessly, she vacillated.
The trouble was, she so loved being a part of the beauty pageant that she didn’t want to leave it. She’d never done anything so daring before, even though for all her life she’d felt the urge to be a bit of a showman. Oh, she wasn’t vain enough to think she could win the actual title. But she did so love doing the ‘talent’ spot and had high hopes of winning the prize for that particular category.
For her, it was the lure of performing in public at the theatre on show night that was the real, glittering prize.
And the thought of giving it up made her want to cry.
All the boys she knew were well impressed when they heard she was a potential beauty queen! For the first time in her life, the contest made her feel like someone special.
And she’d made some good friends too. Oh, not Caroline Tomworthy, but the rest were good pals. Sylvia and Betty and…
But what if Abby hadn’t died because of a sad, silly accident? What if someone really was out to teach ‘flawed’ beauty queens a lesson?
Candace’s eyes shot to her eyebrow again. Could she be next?
And so the see-saw of indecision swept over her again.
* * *
Sylvia Blane was also thinking hard – about a certain handsome florist. And she was frowning. She’d have thought she’d have got much further in her pursuit of Rupert by now, but he was proving a much harder proposition than she’d first thought.
But she wasn’t sure where the problem lay, exactly. She knew she was pretty enough to attract him, and was young enough to appeal to his vanity, without being too young and making him feel ridiculous. Mind you, only a few of the girls in the competition were really young – since you had to be 18 or over to qualify.
He was definitely interested – she could tell that from the way he reacted when she kissed him. He wriggled like a little worm sometimes, she thought with a giggle, so that she couldn’t feel how aroused he was.
But for all his fascination with her, she couldn’t get him to agree to a proper date and to begin a real courtship. With any other man, she would simply suspect that he was only out to get one thing – and that putting a ring on a respectable girl’s finger didn’t come as part of the bargain.
But with Rupert it was almost as if she had the opposite problem. He wouldn’t make any overtures to her at all. Even with her gentle encouragement. She had to do all the running, and all the kissing. And he… well, wiggled about and looked uncomfortable. Even when there was no chance that somebody might interrupt them.
It was almost as if, Sylvia thought with a puzzled frown, he didn’t like her. No, not that exactly. More like… he was afraid of her.
Which was just plain silly.
* * *
Grace Farley had raced home in her lunch hour, as she did every day, and was now sitting by her mother’s bedside, helping her to eat some broth – but every day she seemed to be getting only thinner and thinner, her face ever more haggard and pale and cadaverous.
In spite of the new medication she had sacrificed so much to get a hold of.
‘You’re doing well, Mum,’ Grace forced herself to say encouragingly.
‘It tastes wonderful, Gracie,’ Frances said, her voice as light and ephemeral as the sunshine coming in through the window. ‘You’re such a good girl.’
She smiled tremulously.
Frances Cunningham had never been a pretty girl. In fact, it was generally agreed, even by those who loved her the most that she was rather a plain little thing. But that hadn’t stopped Bill Farley from loving her.
Grace, as ever, had to hold back the hot, bitter tears whenever she contemplated how unfair life could be. Tonight, at the theatre, they’d all troop in again, full of youth and healthy vigour, with not a care in the world…
‘How about some music, Mum?’ Grace whispered gently. ‘Some of those new Doris Day records I got you for your birthday?’
As she played the music for her mother, Grace walked to the window and stared out sightlessly over the city.
It was just not fair…
* * *
Caroline Tomworthy also had a fine view of the city from her office window, but at that moment she wasn’t remotely interested in the view of Oxford’s dreaming spires.
She worked as the personal assistant (she never let anyone call her a secretary) for Mr Thomas Osborne, a coal merchant on a grand scale. He paid her well, not daring to do anything else, and she ran his admin with a cold, hard and competent ease. She knew she was not liked by the other office staff, and didn’t care a hoot. But now it was time to move onwards and upwards.
She’d never had an easy life, but she’d been clever enough at school to pass the exams that would allow her to earn some ‘safety net’ secretarial qualifications. Her first love had always been ballet though, and her grit and determination to succeed had seen her earn a place in the corps of a small company in Brighton.
But even that wonderful time had been blighted for her by the hardships inflicted by a constant lack of money and the jealousy of her fellow dancers, leading to her dismissal by the time she was just 22.
But nothing could keep her down for long.
She was going to live the life she wanted – which was the good life – no matter what it took. She craved not only money, but culture, glamour, and a life less ordinary than one her poor mother could ever have imagined.
At first, she’d thought she could earn it for herself as a ballerina, before deciding she would simply have to do what many women before her had had to do – namely, marry into it.
But she had learned her lessons in life the hard way, and had no illusions that it would be an easy task to catch the attention of a really rich man and get him to propose.
In her nicely appointed PA’s office, Caroline Tomworthy gave a tight, cynical little smile.
But there were always ways and means.
Rich men the world over had always married women far beneath them socially – provided they could provide their would-be spouses something interesting, something that would make the rest of their set envious or intrigued. Which was why, even in Victorian times, lords of the realm married actresses!
She’d almost been on the verge of despair, working in the hated office and performing her mind-numbingly boring job, when she’d spotted the advert for Miss Oxford Honey – and she’d grasped the opportunity with both hands.
A beauty queen title would do nicely.
Now all she had to do was win it, and then she’d be entered for Miss Oxford. And that was a big enough stage from which to lure a big fish.
Looking out from her window over the city, Caroline Tomworthy smiled more ha
ppily. She had no serious doubts that she would win the title. Most of the other girls were silly, young, airheaded little things without a clue.
And her biggest rival – Abigail Trent – was now no threat.
Even so, she wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. If you wanted to succeed you had to make sure you succeeded! You had to be ruthless, clear-headed and let nothing stand in your way.
Which is why she had made sure that she had an ace in the hole.
Already she’d been dropping certain hints in the right ear. And although that ear wasn’t proving to be very responsive just yet, that would soon change.
Chapter 15
Vicky Munnings got home from work at her usual time and went straight to her ‘apartment’. She liked to call it that, since it made her feel marginally better. Although most of her friends lived at home with their parents until they got married, it had always been Abigail’s dream in particular to ‘get a place of her own’.
In spite of how Abby had always called her a chicken, Vicky had secretly seen herself as being braver, more modern and independent than anyone else too.
Both of them had loved going to the cinema to watch the films where Doris Day was living the good life in her own fancy New York apartment and having a grand time with the likes of the dishy Rock Hudson. But it was not so easy to be a society girl in Oxford when your wages hardly stretched to new nylons every week!
But she had sort of managed it.
In truth, her ‘apartment’ consisted of the small annexe that had been added to the back of her parents’ home when Grandma Carruthers had come to live with them. After Gran had died, the family had quickly reclaimed the two rooms – a large bed-sitting room with an adjoining bathroom – as their own, with her father (before his death three years ago) using the one room as a study, and everyone using the other whenever the family bathroom was unavailable.
It had taken her some time, and much persuading, to allow her mother to let her claim the space for her own once she’d reached the age of 18. But she had eventually relented, mostly Vicky knew, because she’d been scared that her daughter might leave home if she hadn’t.
She had promptly redecorated it to her taste and had spent most of her money on refurbishing it with the latest ‘in’ things. Much to Abigail’s tight-lipped envy! Even now, Vicky hugged that almost unprecedented feeling of superiority to herself. It hadn’t been often that she’d been able to make Abigail jealous.
True, the apartment could still be accessed through the main house, with a door leading off the utility room. But it also had its own private entrance via a pair of French doors. A short, rather overgrown garden path led from this door to the rear garden, which was screened by mature shrubbery, and therefore ideal for Vicky’s purposes. It meant that she could come and go unseen, at all hours, without disturbing the family or setting the gossipy neighbours’ tongues wagging.
But when she came home from work that day, she entered the house normally, called out a vague greeting for her mother who could usually be found in the sitting room, and went straight through to her place.
She’d glanced at the large wooden ‘sunburst’ clock that hung in pride of place, then went over to the large, modern Bakelite wireless that she had to play much less loudly than she’d like. She found a station playing a rock ’n’ roll tune from America and slipped off her shoes.
Her double bed took up most of the room, but she’d still managed to squeeze in a sitting area, and was saving up to buy a television set of her own. An unimaginable luxury! She could watch the programmes she preferred on her own, without her parent’s supervision or censorship.
With a sigh, she draped her coat across the back of the room’s single armchair, turned the heater full on to take the chill off the room and then went through to the bathroom. A shower had been installed, because Gran couldn’t climb into or out of a bath. It was annoying, since Vicky rather liked lazing in a bath, but she supposed you couldn’t have everything.
After showering, she emerged in a long silk dressing grown, a gift to herself after Abby had died. She’d needed cheering up and had always wanted to buy something extravagant for herself. Something that would have made her dead friend envious all over again…
She had an hour before she had to get to the theatre. Tonight, they were doing a full dress rehearsal of the ball gown section of the show, and she was looking forward to wearing her choice of dress.
It made her angry that it belonged to the theatre’s wardrobe selection, as she’d have loved to be able to own it herself. But only the likes of that snooty Caroline Tomworthy, who had a really well-paid job, could afford to buy and wear their own dresses. Unless Caroline had a secret sugar daddy who bought her clothes for her? Which might well be the case. There was always something sly and knowing about Caroline.
With a sigh about the injustices of life (and rather wishing she had the nerve to find a sugar daddy for herself) Vicky sat down at her tiny vanity table, squished to one side of the French windows, and began to brush her long blonde hair.
It was the one thing that she’d always had over Abby – her naturally blonde, long, silk-straight and thick hair. She was also slightly slimmer than Abby had been – which she’d always secretly been happy about, for all Abby had maintained that men preferred curves.
Of course, now that Abby was gone, Vicky was well aware that she had to be one of the favourites to win the competition. Her and Caroline – and maybe two of the others.
She bit her lip as she contemplated the stiffness of her competition, then caught herself doing so, and quickly stopped. It wouldn’t do to have chapped lips tonight – being a full dress rehearsal was bound to bring some of the judges to the theatre.
Not all the judges attended the rehearsals, of course, but most of them did. Dirty old men, Abby had called them with her usual contemptuous grin. But that hadn’t stopped her flirting with them, had it?
Vicky continued to brush her hair thoughtfully and think of her dead friend. Her thoughts made her squirm.
It wasn’t until Abby died that Vicky had really begun to see how much she had dominated her life. Ever since they’d met, it had always been Vicky who had done the following – Vicky the acolyte; Vicky the sidekick; Vicky the henchman.
It made her wince, now, to think how easily she’d been led, how mindlessly she’d always fallen in with Abby’s schemes. At school, if anyone had ever slighted her, Abby had made sure Vicky helped her ‘get their own back’. If Abby hated a teacher, Vicky must hate her too. If Abby wore her hair a certain way, Vicky must copy her – whether the style suited her or not.
Of course, that sort of thing might be tolerable when you were 10 or 11. Or even 14. But even after they’d left school and found jobs, Vicky, somehow, had remained locked in her orbit.
Take the beauty contest for instance. Vicky would never have dreamed of entering it. But Abby wanted to, and as usual, she wanted her henchman by her side to bolster her ego and keep her company.
Absently, Vicky stopped brushing her lovely hair and slowly began to smile. Well, that at least, hadn’t worked out quite how Abby had wanted it, had it?
At first, after her friend had died, she’d gone around in a daze, not sure what to do. Her life seemed oddly lop-sided and ungainly. A big chunk seemed to be missing. She wasn’t sure what she should be doing, or how to fill her time. But in a shockingly short time, Vicky had begun to feel better – she was free.
For the first time in her life, she felt as if her life belonged to her – and not to Abigail Trent. And it was wonderful.
And yet… Vicky felt afraid.
Feeling angry with herself, she got up and began to dress hurriedly.
Chapter 16
Christine Dunbar listened to the excited chatter coming from the dressing rooms and tut-tutted angrily. Anyone would think these girls had never worn dresses before!
Everything about them irritated her – their self-absorption, the way they took their youth for granted an
d most of all, their slim, unthinking beauty. She herself had never been exactly slim, for she’d always been too large and too fleshy. But she’d had a naturally curvy, hour-glass figure once – many years ago now. When she’d been in her early twenties. But middle age tended to make one spread so.
She caught herself looking at her reflection in a mirror through an open dressing-room door and was reassured that the corset she was wearing still gave her the illusion of that figure. At least her head of fine blonde hair still looked good! She patted the brassy curls (touched up just that morning by her regular hairdresser) with satisfaction and moved on.
She had lost sight of Robert, and she didn’t like that.
* * *
From a seat in front of the stage, Patricia Merriweather watched Robert Dunbar chatting to one of the girls, who had yet to change into her costume. It was that nice girl, Betty Darville, one of the old lady’s favourites. But even as she watched, Christine Dunbar strode across the stage, her eye firmly fixed on her spouse.
Patricia found herself smiling wryly, and then looked to her immediate left as someone took a seat next to her – or rather, the next seat but one. British social etiquette demanded that you never be so forward as to actually come too close.
She discovered, with some surprise and intrigued delight, that a decidedly handsome older man not quite of ‘her’ generation was seated there. Moreover, one who had the gumption to nod across and smile at her.
‘Dr Ryder,’ he introduced himself smoothly. ‘Are you a fellow judge?’
‘For my sins,’ Patricia agreed, taking up the opening gambit. ‘I got roped in by way of being a “Friend of the Old Swan Theatre”.’ She deliberately sounded the capital letters with mock-importance. ‘But how the devil did the evil fate befall you?’
Clement grinned, rather liking the twinkling mischief apparent in the old girl’s eyes, and decided to step up to the challenge.
‘By dint of not being quick-witted enough to dodge Robert Dunbar.’
‘Ah,’ Patricia nodded wisely. ‘It happens to us all at some point.’
