Not sure whether he meant to be taken seriously or not, Merril did as she was told, hurrying with a certain nervous care across the narrow bridge towards the oak grove and the waiting car.
The driver greeted them both with a flash of white teeth, and slipped the car smoothly into first gear as soon as they were inside.
Torrin seemed to lapse into a sort of trance through the journey, and she dared not disturb him until they came within sight of the theatres along the Strand an hour later. The cloudburst that had descended on the millhouse had transformed the streets of London to dark mirrors, reflecting the glitter of coloured lights, bright jewels, sparkling along their route. Something of the excitement of the West End on a Saturday night gripped Merril then, and she turned excitedly as they passed the theatre with Torrin's name in lights for everyone to see.
A feeling of pride ran through her unexpectedly and she felt a twinge of guilt for belittling his success. He had a right to be conceited if any man had, though now she really thought about it there were few signs of arrogance in his character. Self-confidence, perhaps, but not conceit. Nothing his success didn't warrant. She had been mean-minded towards him and it was like scales falling from her eyes to understand that. Soon she would tell him so, and she would make amends for that terrible outburst at the millhouse.
The car dropped them outside the stage door, and even at this early hour a knot of fans stood outside in the rain, surging forward with little cries of delight as soon as they recognised Torrin. He signed their autograph books, thanked them with a modest shrug for their extravagant comments on his performance, then hustled inside past the stage doorkeeper with one arm under Merril's elbow as if to make sure she didn't escape. In fact, he was leaning on her almost as if he required her support.
'Are you going to be all right?' he asked her once they were safely within the ill-lit corridor backstage.
'Everything seems unreal—no, I mean more real. Odd, though. Different,' she admitted, confused by his glance. 'I'm seeing things differently now,' she added with a meaningful smile.
'I'll get Tom to call the theatre doctor,' Torrin told her, pushing her on ahead of him. 'Go in.'
Put out that he had misunderstood what she was trying to say, Merril pushed open the door into the dressing-room where she had met him two days ago. It was empty now, but there were signs of someone's presence, with a full-length fake fur slung over a sofa against the far wall. The bulbs round the make-up mirror were on and a man's voice singing a song from the show came from behind them as they went inside.
'Not before time, darlings, where have you been?'
A small, dark man of indeterminate age came into the room.
'Merril, meet Tom, my dresser—'
'And general factotum—hello, darling, you're as beautiful as you were the other night in that glorious pink dress. Whatever happened to you at the party? You seemed to vanish into thin air. Tor hasn't forgiven me for letting you slip away like that.'
'Shut up, Tommy, we've had a bit of an accident.' Torrin's face was like a thundercloud. 'Call the doctor, if you can bear to stop talking long enough to do anything useful, and tell him to come over at once.'
'He's already in, darling. Lydia's been having throat trouble as predicted.' Tom sighed extravagantly and shrugged his shoulders. 'She must have caught that throat bug you had when you were away. You had a voice like a corncrake when you came back, so if she's got it too, God help us all!' He turned to Merril. 'And what have we been up to that warrants the attentions of Dr Foster?'
'Merril had an unscheduled swim at the mill and was a little concussed by the time she climbed out,' explained Torrin, not altogether accurately. 'We don't want her passing out on us, do we? I'm counting on you to take good care of her while I'm working.'
'What's one more swooning female to us, sweetie?' Despite his words Tom gave her a sympathetic smile and went off down the corridor, taking up his song where he had left off, and presumably going in search of the doctor.
'Take no notice of anything he says,' warned Torrin, avoiding her glance. 'He s totally over the top sometimes.' He removed the fake fur and settled Merril down on the sofa. 'I have to get changed now. Don't talk to me unless you have to. I'm not used to having anyone in my dressing-room before a performance—except Tom, of course, and he knows better than to get in my way.'
It was a relief to lie down. Her near-drowning had shaken her up more than she realised, and the turmoil of emotion that had ensued had made her feel exhausted, so she lay back and let Torrin tuck a blanket in around her, closing her eyes and only opening them when Tom came back in again. The two men didn't speak to each other at all, but they worked as a team, Tom laying out all the things Torrin needed and Torrin himself working methodically and routinely at the task of turning himself into an eighteenth-century rake.
Merril watched, fascinated, as the face in the mirror was slowly transformed. It was strangely erotic to see the familiar masculine features enhanced and subtly altered by the application of eye-liner, white pancake, shadows, and finally the black wig. Their eyes met briefly in the glass. Torrin's were blank, dark sockets, Merrill's blue, glistening with love. Seeing them, she knew then what he could read in them. It was plain to anyone what she was feeling.
'Coming up to the half, love,' said Tom, breaking into her reverie. Torrin rose to his feet, wincing as he stepped forward.
'It s nothing, a bruise or something from this afternoon,' he explained as Tom gave him a quizzical glance. He went out.
Tom looked at Merril rather suspiciously after he'd gone, and, busying himself with staying away Torrin's theatrical make-up, he told her, 'It's tough at the beginning, before a show settles into its stride. We all try to protect each other to make sure nobody blows it by letting their personal life affect their performance.' He blew powder off the back of a hand mirror. 'It's particularly hard for Torrin, as he carries the whole show.'
'I take it that's some sort of warning?' she asked, playing with the fringe of the tartan blanket she had been wrapped up in.
'Take it as you choose. Tor would have my guts for garters if he imagined I was warning off his lady-friends.'
'I suppose he has plenty of those,' she muttered, unhappily aware of how little she knew of his personal life.
'Yes, what do you expect?' Tom eyed her pale face. 'Oh, I am a beast! You look absolutely jiggered, poor darling. Here, would you like a tot of brandy?' He went to a cupboard and took down a glass and a bottle. 'Medicinal purposes only. Tor won't have a sip before a show—he's a real puritan. But it obviously pays off. You saw the first night, didn't you? Wasn't he out of this world? I've been telling everyone for years how wonderful he is, but nobody's woken up to the fact till now. But praise be, it's happened at last. If anybody deserves it, he does. Here—sip it slowly. Don't throw it back or he'll be accusing me of trying to get you drunk.'
Merril did as she was told and submitted to her blanket being neatened up along with the rest of the room. 'There now,' said Tom when he'd finished, 'Doctor should be along in a minute. I'm going to put my feet up while I've got the chance. It's mayhem in here during the change.' So saying, he draped himself in a chair with his feet on a corner of the dressing-table and opened a magazine.
'You can listen to the show if you like. Press that switch there. That's right,' he nodded as Merril did as he directed. 'Now you can drool over his heavenly voice,' he added with a friendly leer.
The doctor's visit coincided with Torrin's brief period off-stage during the second act. Merril was shocked by his appearance. Underneath the white make-up his face seemed hollowed and he collapsed on to the end of the sofa, nearly crushing her legs before she could get them out of the way. Tom was on his feet at once.
'Who wanted me?' said the doctor, looking from Merril to Torrin.
'He does.' It was Tom. He was peering into Torrin's face, his own face wreathed with concern.
'Look at Merril first,' protested Torrin. 'She was concussed earlier this afte
rnoon.'
The doctor gave her a routine going over. 'Nothing that another stiff brandy won't cure,' he announced? Then he looked at Torrin.
'It's nothing much. I think I've cricked my ankle. I just need to sit down for a minute or two.' He leaned back, trying to look at ease. But the doctor wasn't to be put off. 'Let's have the boot off. Which foot is it?'
Torrin held out his right leg. Tom took hold of the heel and gently eased the boot off. Gentle though he was, Merril could feel Torrin wince with pain, both hands clenched and beads of perspiration dripping down his forehead even though it wasn't a particularly hot evening.
Now she saw why he had walked back so slowly from the riverbank and had taken his time about crossing the bridge as they left. Dr Foster's face looked grave. 'You've fractured it, by the look of things. Does it hurt?'
'Only when I jump on it.'
The doctor gave him a quick glance to see if he was joking, decided he wasn't, and adopted an admonitory stance. 'I know it's no use telling you to put it up for a few days—I remember you after that parachuting accident.' He sighed. 'It's like whistling in the wind. I'll give you a painkiller, then I want you to let me strap it up for you. If I were you I'd pop into Casualty and let them do it properly after the show. Won't be able to put your boots on --'
Torrin gave an exclamation of disgust. 'Look, I'm on in a minute.' He got up, reaching out for Tom's arm, and hopping about on one leg in an attempt to get the boot back on to the now visibly swelling ankle.
The doctor, taking something from his black bag, gave Tom a look of desperation. 'Can't you talk sense into him?'
The voice of the stage manager came over the speaker. 'Act Two, Scene Three beginners, please.'
'That's me,' muttered Torrin.
'Take these, then, unless you want to pass out on stage,' ordered the doctor.
'Will they slow me up?'
'I doubt it. They're not horse pills.' The doctor, evidently admitting defeat, retreated into mild sarcasm. 'I'll be waiting for you when you come off—or when they carry you off, whichever's the sooner,' he added, patting him on the back. Torrin gulped down the painkillers and, the boot now crushed back on, was already at the door.
'Oh, hell,' muttered Merril, unable to help herself after he'd gone. 'It's all my fault.' Then she blurted out to Tom what had happened that afternoon, omitting the reason for her sudden dash towards the bridge, but finishing up in a small voice, with the words, 'No wonder he's being cool towards me if it means he can't go on next week. He's really going to hate me!'
'Darling, we'll all hate you, the entire universe will hate you if he can't go on next week. Without him the show is just another moderately successful West End hit. With him it's the best thing to have happened in the world of theatre for decades. I shall personally strangle you if he's in any way prevented from going on next week. My God! That this should happen now!'
Then he surprised her by chucking her under the chin. 'Cheer up, sweetheart. The only thing that would stop Tor from setting foot on stage is if the roof fell in. He's had far worse injuries than this in his time, and it hasn't made a scrap of difference. The man's impervious to pain. He's not like us ordinary mortals. Fear not, I won't be getting an excuse to strangle you just yet. And make sure I never do. I'm like a raging animal defending its young when it comes to protecting Tor Anthony from the hordes of ravening scalp-hunters with which his path is habitually strewn. You don't look like one of that breed, but who knows? One can't be too careful.'
Merril bit her lip, not quite sure how to take Tom's warning, then she began to giggle. 'You don't like me at all, do you, Tom? I'm quite nice when you get to know me. And if you need any help against the scalp-hunters, all you have to do is whistle. I'd like to see them routed too!'
'Yes, I bet you would, you naughty girl.'
'He is gorgeous, isn't he, Tommy? I didn't trust him at all when I first met him. I thought he was just another egomaniac of an actor—all show and no substance. I felt I couldn't believe a word he said to me. I've never met anybody quite like him before.'
'And you won't, my poppet. Don't treat him lightly—he's an original.' They exchanged smiles, and for the first time that evening Merril began to feel she had an ally.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dr Foster was waiting in the wings for Torrin as the final curtain fell. Merril had slipped out of the dressing-room after him. Tom, following the action on stage through the speaker, had already gone ahead, his face showing concern.
There had been too many curtain calls and Torrin had gone back again and again, his electric smile vividly in place, with no outward sign of the pain he must have been suffering. When the audience finally released him he allowed the two men to help him back to his dressing-room. Feeling helpless, Merril trailed along behind, wanting nothing more than to put her arms around his broad shoulders and tell him how wonderful he was. But other things came first.
He collapsed at once on to the sofa, arms out along the back of it, and extended his right boot. 'Do your worst, Foster.'
First a knife had to be found, sharp enough to cut away the thick leather as it was now impossible to pull it over the swollen ankle. Torrin exchanged a constant patter with Tom over the doctor's head as the job was quickly carried out. Merril turned away with a little gasp when she saw Torrin's red and swollen ankle, visibly throbbing as the blood pulsed through it. Dr Foster didn't say anything, but he gave Torrin a look that plainly told him he thought he was a fool to have gone on stage that evening.
Even now the audience could be heard over the speaker, the applause like the regular rise and fall of surf upon a distant beach, and Torrin looked as if he was having second thoughts about coming off so soon, but the doctor got to work at once, giving him no option but to lie back and give in.
His eyes seemed to darken as the fingers probed along the fractured bones, but his only sign of pain was when he lifted a hand and said irritably, 'Take this damned wig, Tommy.'
Merril's heart went out to him as she watched him drop his head back, cropped hair longer than when she had first seen him. Now she wanted to caress him, smooth away his pain, run her fingers through the short, rumpled blond strands. Despite the brocade jacket and flowing shirt, his masculinity was tantalisingly enhanced, sending spirals of desire racing through her body.
'I'm going to have to get some new boots from somewhere. Will you see to it, Tom?' she heard him ask.
'Will do.'
'You'll have your ankle strapped up. You'll have to have them fitted over it,' the doctor warned.
'No problem,' said Tom, taking charge. 'Marie's already gone, but I'll give her a ring first thing in the morning. Can you stay in town tonight, for a fitting tomorrow?'
'Make it early. I want to have a nice relaxing Sunday.'
'Yes. Rest up,' advised the doctor, giving Torrin a suspicious glance. 'No flying, understand?'
Merril was amazed to see Torrin actually look evasive. 'Who? Me?' he asked, quickly changing the subject. 'Merril, is that all right?' He gave her a hurried glance and she nodded, but he was already making some joke to Tom and their eyes didn't meet, and she suddenly felt left out, not knowing half the people they were talking about, nor understanding all their in-jokes.
Torrin still seemed distant, hardly looking at her, and certainly not making any attempt to include her in their light-hearted banter, but she put it down to the racking pain he must be in, and admired him even more for treating it with so little concern. He was tough—maybe not as tough as Azur or her father, but he had the sort of courage she admired. Honesty forced her to admit she should have suspected as much from the first. She would tell him as soon as they were alone.
Dr Foster had just finished his task when there was a knock on the door and a woman's voice called, 'Are you decent, darling?' It swung open to reveal a tall, dark-haired woman, glossily made-up, a dazzling smile on her face. 'Sweetie, so it is true! I thought you were a little slow on the turn at the end of my court speech. You poor,
poor darling!'
Making much of her entrance, she paused dramatically until all eyes were on her, then she moved into Torrin's arms, extending her graceful body alongside his on the couch. 'They said you'd done something to yourself, but I couldn't believe them. Why on earth didn't you mention it? We could have propped you in an armchair for the whole of the last act.'
'Yes, you would, too,' smiled Torrin, evidently pleased to be petted by so glamorous a female. One of his arms slipped around her shoulders.
'Anything to steal the show, Lydia darling,' quipped Tom. 'But even you have to wait until he's crippled.'
'I wouldn't risk it, otherwise,' she laughed throatily. 'We've decided to whisk you away to a nightclub.' She gave Torrin a critical look. 'Yes, I think mat might do the trick. Just what the doctor ordered.'
'You might be, Lydia, but he doesn't always take his medicine,' rejoined Tom. He came to stand over Torrin with folded arms.
Torrin gave Lydia a rueful shrug. ' "Another time", he's trying to say.'
'Tom, you're a bossy beast. You come with us, anyway. Or do you have to nanny darling Tory?'
Darling Tory! thought Merril, saying nothing. She found Tom's eyes on her.
'I think he's fixed up in that department.' He raised his eyebrows, but Torrin cut in with a curt, 'I'm not in the 'mood for a lot of fuss. I'm going to have a good night's sleep, got to get another pair of boots fixed by Wardrobe first thing --' He looked exhausted as he spoke, and Merril wanted to clear the lot of them out of his room and let him get out of his stage clothes and into something more comfortable. Can't they see he needs rest? she thought helplessly.
Tom must have had the same idea. Several other members of the cast called by, but he did staunch duty at the door to keep out the autograph-hunters and the fans and other visitors backstage, and eventually Torrin managed to get his dressing-room back to himself. He removed his make-up and started to get changed, struggling a little as he tried to balance on one leg to put his trousers on.
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