‘That was the time I was out of touch with you,’ said Stella.
‘I wasn’t in touch with anyone much, I was fighting my way back.’ After a bad time in his life and career, but he did not say this aloud. ‘I owe her, give her a chance.’
‘Sure. She will have to be a good worker.’ But Alice was quiet, alert and industrious. There was a private side to her: the easy, all-knowing, uncensorious commonwealth of the theatre observed that Alice trawled the town a bit. Stella wondered whether Coffin knew – but did it matter?
Alice was a tall, well-built young woman, not a very good actress but not one to be underrated. Stella grabbed her, physically took her by the arm and stared in her face. Alice opened her eyes wide with surprise. ‘Tell me, quickly, was I terrible?’
‘No, just the same as usual. Good, I mean. Stella, you’re always good,’ said Alice quickly. Alice was a minor member of the company with a few lines that prevented her being a mere walking understudy, but she was also deputy stage manager and helped with props; in short, a humble member of the theatre, while Stella Pinero was a famous actress with a long career behind her and this very theatre named after her. But this was a democratic company in which leading lady and minor actress could talk to each other on friendly terms. Alice admired Stella and also feared her. Not only was Stella famous and practically the owner of the Pinero Theatre in the old church, together with the Theatre Workshop and the small Experimental Theatre – all great things in themselves – but her husband was Commander John Coffin, Head of the Police Force of the Second City.
Stella went into her dressing room, sat down in front of her looking glass where she stared at her reflection. She was still a beauty, would be till she died; she had grown into beauty, a rare benefaction of nature but one given to her.
Her make-up needed touching up, and mechanically she redid her lips and puffed on some powder. Her mind was not on it, but her hand was so used to the job that it smoothed her eyebrows and checked the line of her lips with its usual skill.
She was not on for some time in the next act so she could sit back, breathe deeply and give herself good advice. Such as:
Stop going into a panic.
Pretend it’s all a joke.
Tell your husband.
Oh, no, not John, not yet.
Her call came, the first call, to remind her she should soon be in the wings awaiting her cue. Stella remembered the days when a boy came round to bang on your door with the news: you’re on, Miss Pinero. Now, the word came over the intercom.
She moved towards the wings, not waiting to be prompted.
She could hear the dialogue. Here was Lady Chiltern (acted by Jane Gillam, a beautiful girl, very nearly straight out of RADA where she had won an important prize). Lady Chiltern was a difficult part because she was so humourless and stupid, but Jane was doing what she could with it.
‘Mrs Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible!’
And here was Fanny Burt as Mabel Chiltern – she had better lines and even a few jokes, but Wilde reserved the best dialogue for the men: ‘She is coming up the stairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural.’
Not brilliant dialogue, Stella thought as she moved forward, but it got you on stage.
Here she went: ‘Isn’t that Miss Chiltern? I should so much like to know her.’
Stella stayed alert through the rest of the play. She had come to a decision. Speed seemed necessary, so she was off the stage as soon as the applause finished – to her pleasure there was a good show of enthusiasm – and slipped away to her dressing room without a word to the rest of the performers.
There were thirteen members of the cast; in the original production there had been fifteen, but money was easier then, and Stella had been obliged to cut out the two footmen. Of the remainder, ten were what she thought of as her ‘repertory company’ inasmuch as they performed for her whenever she produced a play herself and did not buy one in. Most of these actors were young, and local, from the drama department in one of the nearby universities. Stella had early realized the importance of cultivating your neighbourhood to win affection and bring in the audiences. She had a lot of support always from the friends and families of her young performers.
But you also needed an outsider to provide some extra excitement and here Jane Gillam, a star in the making, and Fanny Burt came in. The two men, Michael Guardian and Tom Jenks were attractive performers. Stella Pinero herself provided glitter.
In her dressing room, Stella let her dresser remove her hat and garments as Mrs Cheveley. She did not appear in the last act, but had duly turned up for the last curtain. ‘You pop off, Maisie,’ she said to her elderly dresser. ‘I know you want to get home. I will finish myself off.’
‘I’ll be dressing Miss Bow next week?’
‘That’s right.’ Stella was creaming her face, removing the last of her make-up – she never used much, the days of heavy slap were over.
Stella had introduced a fortnightly change of programme to entertain her limited audience in the Second City, which made a frequent change of programme an economic necessity.
‘A bit of an unknown quantity,’ said Maisie, hanging up a green silk mantle. As an old hand, she was allowed a certain freedom of speech. ‘But she’s done well; starring roles straight from college.’
‘Yes.’
Irene Bow was a graduate of the University drama department; she had been lucky with parts and had performed well in the Theatre Workshop production of Barefoot in the Park, and her crisp, rapid style of delivery would go down well in Michael Frayn’s Noises Off. Stella now had two weeks to herself.
‘You have a nice rest then, Miss Pinero,’ said Maisie. ‘You’ve earned it.’
If only, thought Stella.
Maisie turned round at the door. ‘Are you all right, Miss Pinero?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You look a bit white.’
‘Don’t you worry, Maisie.’ Stella was rapidly doing her face, repairing what ravages she could and concealing any paleness with a thin foundation cream from Guerlain. ‘You get off.’ What she meant in her silent heart was: Please go away and leave me to think.
Stella went to a locked drawer on the make-up table and withdrew a thickish envelope. She looked at it for a moment before opening it.
Three old letters, two very recent ones, and a photograph. How wrong she had been to let that photograph be taken.
Not drunk, not mad, just silly, she told herself. I cannot even claim that I was so young, she added. He was, I wasn’t. Stupid, I was, carried away by emotion. Even now, when she knew what he was, what he had become, she remembered his physical beauty.
She looked away from the letters, and inside herself let the dialogue go on: I did not know then that I would meet John Coffin again, that I would marry him and become the wife of a top policeman. When I married John, I tried to tell him of a few past affairs, but he laughed and said he did not want a General Confession, and he had not been without lovers himself.
It was, she admitted to herself, one of her treasured moments, because it showed what a nice man John Coffin was, with a knack for good behaviour. He was also tough-minded, resolute and quick-tempered. Oh dear, she could hardly bear to think of all that being turned against her.
He was fair, she told herself, very fair.
For some reason, she found this no comfort as she stared at her face in the looking glass, for fairness could be a very sharp weapon. She touched her cheek with a careful finger. ‘I must look after my skin, stress is bad for it. Maisie was right, I am a wreck.’
She leaned, resting her chin on her right hand, and, ever the actress, mimed tragic despair.
Possibly not a wreck, she allowed herself, withdrawing her hand, she had been a beauty and still was. Like many actresses she could make herself beautiful. She turned away from the looking glass to get dressed.
Her hasty movement knocked the letters and the photograph to the ground. Three old letters from her, and two new
ones from him. Unwelcome, unwanted letters, threatening letters, demanding letters.
Pip Eton, student, actor, stared up at her from the photograph on the floor. How he had changed from what he had once been, to a treacherous beast. Once her lover, now … What could she call him but a blackmailer, a criminal, a traitor?
No, be fair, she told herself bitterly, it is you, Stella Pinero, whom he invites to be the traitor. And to betray whom? Your own husband, not sexually as a lover, but professionally as a policeman.
A reviewer had once called Stella the ‘modern comic muse’. Stella had valued that comment, she knew that she was a very good, possibly great comic actress, but now she felt a sting. Life had offered her a comedy, she reflected bitterly, and now she was being asked to play it as tragedy.
She put the letters and the photograph into her big black crocodile handbag which she had bought when she had won the Golden Apple Award on Broadway, and forced herself to calm down.
She could always kill someone. Preferably, Pip; if not, then very likely herself.
Her husband was away from home tonight, she would have the place to herself. There were times when it was better to be on your own.
Dressed in her street clothes, Stella sped through the back corridors of the Pinero Theatre, ignoring a wave from Jane Gillam and a cheerful shout from Adam Fisk, who had played Lord Chiltern, to join them for a drink – they were going on to Max’s for a meal afterwards. ‘Can’t manage tonight,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Have a lovely time.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’ said Adam to Fanny and Jane. ‘She always comes at the end of the run. Tradition.’
‘Her husband, I expect,’ said Jane.
‘Why do you say that?’
Jane shrugged. ‘Just think so.’
Stella stepped out into the open air, took three deep and calming breaths, then walked briskly to where she lived with the Chief Commander in the tower of the old church now converted into the theatre. There was one good thing about living on the job: you did not have far to walk home.
She let herself in, switched on the light that illuminated the winding stair and listened, in case Coffin had come back, then walked up the stairs into silence.
There was no cat or dog to greet her, both animals of the earlier generation had died within a few months of each other, as if, rivals and enemies as they were, they could not endure life without each other. And although Stella had often cursed the old cat, a battered old street cat, for waking her in the morning with its paw on her face, and grumbled at the dog for demanding that late-night walk, she missed them, too. They had been replaced by a sturdy white peke called Augustus, but he had declared himself Coffin’s dog who must go where the boss went, so he was off now with Coffin on his travels.
She made herself a pot of coffee, prepared a sandwich with cheese and, defiantly, a crisp spiced onion, something no performer would normally do, which she sat at the table in the kitchen eating. The strong hot drink together with food helped her to clear her mind.
‘I don’t see the way forward yet, but I know I need to think it over and I will do that best on my own.’
She could not talk it over with her husband because it was his career that could be ruined.
‘I am not a fool,’ she said aloud. ‘I know it is not the sexual element that would do him in – society is not so unsophisticated – nor the fact that I look as though … No, I won’t utter what it looks as if I am doing. And it’s not that, even, it’s the security side that would destroy him.’
She drank some coffee. The darkness outside seemed to creep in behind her eyes so that she could not see. ‘Emotional mist,’ she said in a loud voice, shaking her head.
She went down the stairs to the large sitting room one floor below and poured herself a large glass of whisky which she then carried upstairs. She had seen tired detectives come back to life after a slug of it, so she guessed it would do the same for her.
As she sipped it, she heard a rustle at floor level. She turned slowly to see what was there. A small grey mouse sat staring back at her. In the old days the cat had brought them in as an unwanted present for her mistress. This one must have made its way there under its own steam, or be a survivor. She found that thought comforting.
‘Hello, friend,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, you are safe with me tonight. I know how you feel: trapped in a hostile world.’ She drank some more whisky. ‘Fear not. Appearances to the contrary,’ she added, ‘I won’t eat you.’
The mouse slid quietly away on his own business. He was a resident, knew the ways of the house, would not be seen again for some time.
Stella finished her whisky, then took herself upstairs to her bedroom. Off the bedroom was a small dressing room contrived out of a corner of the room.
She looked at her clothes hanging in a neat row behind a glass door. She changed into a comfortable trouser suit, packed a small bag.
One more task and the most painful: a lying letter. She hated deceiving her husband, partly because she was a naturally truthful person – which all actresses must be, since nothing shows up more on the stage than falseness – but also because the Chief Commander had a sharp eye for an untruth.
Dearest,
A late call from Silverline Films for the part of Annie Burnett, the prosecutor, in their new detective drama series. My agent says I simply must try for it … I am flying out to New York overnight.
Give me time. I will get in touch. I have to think.
Truth will out, she told herself, as she wrote the last words.
Then she scrawled: ‘I really want this chance’. Again the truth; she did want such a chance, if offered. Her career had been on hold lately, and Coffin knew she fancied this part. Heaven knows, she had talked about it enough. He would believe her, accept the letter.
‘All my love,’ she ended.
Then she went across to the fax machine which lived on a shelf from which the messages popped out and slid to the ground. None there at the moment.
She wrote a note for her assistant in the theatre – Away for a few days – and the same to her co-producer, both of which she then faxed out to them.
Hardly had she moved a step away when the fax rang and a message spilled itself out in front of her. Slowly, feeling heavy with premonition, she bent down to pick it up.
IN THE NEXT MINUTE THE TELEPHONE WILL RING. ANSWER IT.
Stella picked up her bag and turned away. That was one bell she would not answer.
She was at the door when the telephone rang. It became hard to breathe. She hesitated, knowing that she wanted to ignore it, but she was like a rabbit before a stoat. Stuck, frozen.
But you never knew with telephone calls. Perhaps it really was a summons from her agent. She knew it would not be John Coffin. He was driving down the M40 – probably, she didn’t really know where he was. He had a professional knack of disappearing. The thought went through her mind as she picked up the telephone; if he can disappear, so can I.
She held the receiver in her hand without speaking.
‘I know you’re there, Stella. I can hear you breathing.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Silly question, it was supposed to be secret, but it was this man’s life’s work to get at secrets.
A laugh came back as a reply. ‘I want to meet you, Stella. I think you need to see me to take me seriously. This is serious.’
Stella did not answer.
‘Come on, Stelly, I won’t eat you.’ He laughed, and Stella felt sick. ‘Meet me at Waterloo, under the clock. Remember, that, Stelly? It was always the same place, wasn’t it? Be there.’
Stella stood there, still clutching her bag. ‘No, no, I can’t, I can’t.’
She picked up her bag, went down the staircase and out of the door.
Outside, in the night air, she looked around in case anyone was there.
Silence, quiet. Not a mouse stirring.
A whole day after Stella had gone away, John Coffin, Chief Commander o
f the Police Force of the Second City of London, let himself into his home. He was back some twenty-four hours before he was expected, and meant to have a quiet time working. He was accompanied by the white peke Augustus who had appointed himself dog-companion to Coffin and insisted on going everywhere he could with him. Coffin had gone away after the bombs had exploded; his departure had not been unconnected with that happening. His assistant, Paul Masters, kept him in touch.
Coffin was glad to be back; he had observed that the play running at the Pinero Theatre was no longer An Ideal Husband which meant, he hoped, that he would find Stella at home.
He put down his bags and ran up the stairs, calling out: ‘Stella, I’m back.’
He was a big man, but spare of frame and light on his feet. His hair, which had been reddish in his youth, had darkened with the years and was now greying neatly about his temples. He was neat in everything he did. Thin as a young man he had never put on weight, although he took no exercise, other than running up and down the stairs of his home in the tower; he took part in no sports and never had. ‘We didn’t in my day in working-class London,’ he said once, ‘except a bit of street football and pavement boxing. Pugilism, more like,’ he had added thoughtfully. But there was muscle beneath the suits, which, under Stella’s control, were well and expensively tailored. Still done in the East End of London, but now he knew where to go. And how to pay.
‘How come you have such muscles here and there?’ Stella had said once.
‘Inherited,’ Coffin had answered. ‘Runs in the family.’ Though he had hardly had a family. Orphaned, he had only discovered in later life that he had a disappearing, much married mother, who had provided him with two siblings, one half-brother, a stiff Edinburgh lawyer, and the other, from another alliance, his darling half-sister. Mother herself remained an absentee, except for leaving some extraordinary memoirs.
Coffin's Game Page 2
