Guilt Trip

by Judith Cutler

  Horribly, I battled with tears. The only way I could overcome them was weird. I found myself prompting each actor not just with the right word, but with the right intonation, and in pretty nearly the right voice. There were blushes and some very strange looks. What I’d done was take revenge on the wrong ones. I’d humiliated people who had suffered the lash of Emilia’s tongue almost as much as I had. I hung my head in shame as I gathered the props afterwards.

  Rather than face the cast, I dawdled in the dressing room area where we stored the larger items till almost everyone had gone home, no doubt puzzling and annoying Griff as well. The windows had a fine view of the rest of the industrial estate, including the unit where Paul worked. Two or three white vans drove up in rapid succession and parked at such an angle I could no longer see the unit, or, drat it, what the drivers were loading or unloading. A figure wandered round my side of the second van. Paul. Someone followed him; even from this distance I could see that Paul was taking a bollocking. A second man joined the first: all three disappeared behind the van. I’d have done anything to hurtle after them and explain that the police presence had been all Emilia’s fault, and that they should settle any problems with her.

  But even as I stood there, Emilia got into her car and drove off. And Griff was calling me, and I had to go.

  We left without saying anything. I didn’t say how disappointed I was not to have read the part, any more than Griff spoke of his fears for the next day. Thank goodness for Classic FM to drown the silence. But even that couldn’t stop me feeling as if someone had been sitting on my shoulders pressing my head down all weekend.

  It was a nice argumentative Radio Four Today programme which got us through the drive to Ashford’s William Harvey hospital the following morning. Despite his fears of not finding the right department, Griff wouldn’t hear of my going into the hospital with him. Reluctantly, I obeyed his orders to go to the Outlet to hunt for bargains – last season’s clothes, of course, at reduced prices. But there was nothing in my size except stuff which made me wonder why anyone had ever even thought that clothes that colour and that cut would ever sell in the first place. I wasn’t even tempted by the underwear shop.

  While I sat in the Outlet car park – much cheaper than the hospital one – I got a text from Paul. What was all that about the fucking filth? Not good news, Lina.

  I texted back that it was nothing to do with me. Easier than a long explanation. Then I texted again, on impulse. What if I left the planks we used as a desk outside? Would that help?

  No response.

  At long last I was summoned back, to find Griff acting perky, although it wasn’t long before I winkled out of him the news that he had to have yet another test the following week.

  ‘Monday or Tuesday: they’ll let me know. Nothing to worry about,’ he insisted. ‘Though they say it will be a bit more intrusive and will take at least half a day.’

  ‘So the cat’s still on the roof, but someone’s getting a ladder,’ I joked, ready to weep with terror. If only there was someone I could share all this with. ‘What will you tell Aidan?’

  ‘Do you really think he needs to know?’

  ‘Absolutely. Especially about the ladder.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Now, have you had anything to eat? You know you have to think about your blood sugar levels. No? Here, have this banana. Then we might have a browse round TK Maxx – you always nose out something good for me . . .’

  I thought about texting Morris, or even phoning him, but pride clicked in. If he wouldn’t contact me, why should I bother to contact him? My pride took me through the rest of the day, but by Tuesday morning I was getting really desolate. Just as I was thinking that Morris had forgotten all about me, and my afternoon with the glue and paint was getting longer and longer, the phone went.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’ve been trying to find time to get in touch all weekend.’ So that was all the explanation I was going to get for a silence I found quite weird, given the fact I’d sent him that photo of Paul. And what had happened to yesterday? I was ready to scream and shout and cut the call. Instead, I took a deep breath.

  ‘Well, you’ve got me now,’ I said reasonably. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Manic. At the highest level. Now, this man who warned you off the play and the estate: the face is familiar. What does Freya have to say?’

  ‘Fuck all. She sent a minion – Wayne, the man I’d checked out the dodgy antiques centre with – but clearly he was under orders to give nothing away.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know anything?’

  ‘So why did he bother driving over? No, he was holding something back. Griff and I kept our heads down all weekend, just as he told us to, and the only excitement has been taking Griff for more tests – something to do with Nuclear Medicine, whatever that means. And he’s got to go back again next week. Morris, I’m so scared!’

  ‘About Griff or this Paul guy?’

  ‘Do I have to choose? It can’t be both?’ What I wanted was for him to come back to England now – yesterday, for preference – and provide strength and comfort.

  ‘I’m surprised Freya Webb isn’t being more forthcoming, I must say. I’d offer to have a word with her, but I think it might be counterproductive, don’t you?’

  We shared a brief laugh.

  ‘Look, this idea of you and Griff coming over here for a bit.’

  ‘I told you, he’s got another test next week. If they’re coming this thick and fast there must be something really wrong with him.’ I swallowed a sob. ‘And don’t ask me to leave him here, because you know I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can’t. But actually I could really do with your advice – professional advice.’

  I said cautiously, ‘You’re the expert. I’m just a restorer.’

  ‘I just want you to do what you did with – what’s his name? Wayne? – only for me. In rather grander surroundings. Fancy a trip to Paris?’ Wouldn’t I just! ‘With Griff too, if he’s up to the journey? Staying over till Saturday or Sunday, all expenses paid by Europe? – and I can’t imagine him saying no to a taxi to Ashford International station, first-class travel and accommodation, the room just across the corridor from ours at a rather nice hotel . . .’

  ‘Oh, Morris: he’s got this damned play. And there’s another rehearsal on Thursday. He won’t miss that.’

  ‘And you won’t leave him at the moment. OK.’

  It seemed the conversation was over.

  Griff came bustling up as I stared at the dead phone. ‘My dear one, don’t forget this evening.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘This evening. The rehearsal.’

  ‘But today’s Tuesday, Griff.’

  He sighed, clearly trying not to speak to me as if I was an idiot. ‘Emilia changed the day, dear one. Don’t you recall? Right at the last minute?’

  ‘Maybe I was collecting props and stuff and didn’t hear her,’ I mumbled, still ashamed.

  ‘Ah – you were putting those things in the dressing room, no doubt. I’m sorry – I should have told you. But what with one thing and another . . . So can you break off soon? I’ll make some sandwiches so you can eat while I drive.’

  ‘I can break off now. But I have to make a phone call – dead urgent.’ As he left the workroom, I was already reaching for the phone. ‘Assuming I could come over to Paris,’ I began, as if there’d been no interruption, ‘what’s the deal?’

  Morris took his tone from me. ‘I can probably put everything into place for tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the details. And I’d better make sure you get back in time for Sunday’s rehearsal, right?’

  ‘Forget the travel for a moment. I’m to do what I did with Wayne, in grander surroundings. Does that mean what I think it means?’

  ‘Consultant antiques expert.’

  ‘But I’m not . . . I mean, you are, with your degrees and such, but I—’

  ‘You’ve got gifts a lifetime of study wouldn’t provide.’

  I said sharply, ‘You know I c
an’t turn my divvying on and off like a tap.’ But at least I’d done all that reading before the jaunt with Wayne.

  ‘I know that. And I also know you observe things I don’t even know are there. OK? Ask Griff if you’re not the best.’

  ‘He’s biased.’

  ‘So am I. Listen, this could make your career. Yes, and mine, to be honest. It won’t work if you slide in looking miserable and scared. Think confident. Posh clothes, day and evening, both of you, because I can’t imagine Griff wanting to miss out on where you’re going to operate. Borrow your father’s title for good measure if you want and if it’ll make you feel more at home. Oh, Lina,’ he added in a totally non-professional voice, adding a few suggestions about how we might pass the hours when I wasn’t being consulted, ‘just say yes.’

  ‘You did say yes, of course?’ was Griff’s response. This was the first time Griff had driven our new car, and he made sure we were safely on to the main road before he started asking questions.

  ‘Provided you’re well enough.’

  ‘With my pills and trusty spray I’m up to anything, my child. Abseiling down the Eiffel Tower apart. Best bibs and tuckers, eh? And you’re to be Lady Elham? My, my.’

  My lower lip came out. ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Maybe a subtle hint – “Of course, this is Ms Townend’s professional name: really, she’s a member of one of Britain’s leading families . . .”’

  ‘I’d like that better. After all, it’s true – I’m part of your family. And with sarnies as good as these, very glad I am too.’

  This evening Emilia was all charming smiles and pretty compliments. She made a particular point of thanking me for all my discreet contributions. She thanked the cast for the special effort they’d made to get here tonight instead of Thursday. Her hand was still bandaged, but very lightly. No ring was visible.

  Off we went. Without her marked script.

  ‘Of course we won’t need it, will we? Everyone’s so good, you could manage without it? Without little me, indeed.’ There were lots of cues for obedient bursts of laughter. ‘But – oh, Lina, would you be an angel? Just in case?’ She slung a huge bunch of keys at me.

  Thanks to all that practice on French beaches with Morris and Leda, my catching was good, and I took them in mid-air, without so much as a fumble. Gerald remarked they could use me in the England cricket team.

  As I went through the door, she called, ‘And darling, the central locking’s on the blink – use the passenger door.’ I turned to see her making a turning gesture: I had to use the key manually.

  Her elderly but still gleaming Mercedes was parked slightly apart from the rest of the cars as if to make a point.

  Front passenger door. Keys in lock. And the most amazing racket. I thought our car alarms were loud, but this would have wakened the dead. Or at least brought the occupants of every single unit on the estate to their windows. For some reason, it didn’t have any apparent effect on the people in the oast.

  It didn’t take me long to go and fetch Emilia. Just to make sure there was no argument, I left the theatre door wide open. No one could miss that din.

  ‘Dear God, what have you done this time?’ she demanded with a huge heave of a sigh.

  I responded with an even bigger shrug. ‘Front passenger door.’ I slung the keys back.

  Gerald, guessing, probably correctly, that she wouldn’t be able to catch them, intercepted deftly.

  ‘For God’s sake! I said on no account to touch the passenger door!’ From a safe distance she zapped, and the alarm subsided.

  It was so quiet that you could almost hear the plop of heads being pulled back through windows in the other units as people realized the show was over. Despite myself I looked around, trying to make it a general scan, but actually eager to see if I’d attracted unwelcome attention from Paul’s boss. Or bosses. Or even Paul himself. If I could have run up a flag saying sorry I would have done. As it was, I gave a huge shrug as I headed back inside. Only to have to head straight back out again to get the missing script.

  As I sat trying to look a cool efficient prompt, but actually smouldering and ready to puff into flames if anyone crossed me, I kept letting my attention slip – once so badly that I did the unforgivable and lost my place in the text. This time, although she’d have been justified, she didn’t scream at me. Perhaps she could see the heat shimmering over my head, which was ready to erupt if I was provoked. But why did she have it in for me? From past experience I knew I didn’t bring out the best in women, just as I brought out the lech in older men. But surely this wasn’t a sexual jealousy thing? Not unless she fancied Griff, in which case she was in for a sad disappointment. In any case, he hadn’t been her first choice for leading man – she’d only thought of him when Andrew Barnes had thrown in the towel. And she must have known he was gay.

  He was far from gay at the moment: she was lashing into his handling of two vital speeches as if he was an infant learning to read. We all pretended not to hear. As for Griff, he looked iceberg cool, but then, he was a wonderful actor. He ran through the speeches as she demanded; far from being appeased, she wanted them changed again and again. At last she deemed them acceptable – probably because he’d gone right back to his original interpretation and she was too ratty to notice.

  The rehearsal continued. The action moving up to the balcony, everyone’s attention was off Griff. Only then did he pop a pill and puff his spray.

  Eventually, I had to chip in with a missing word for Emilia herself. Just the word, Lina, nothing clever. Really professionally, she continued without missing a single beat. But she looked at me with something like loathing.

  As I waited for the next slip, I continued to ponder. Was someone putting pressure on her to get rid of me? That didn’t make sense – not just me, anyway; everyone here had had some problem with her acid temper since they joined the cast. They’d dealt with it by becoming anonymous, just as Griff had suggested Freya Webb’s colleagues would have. I didn’t really do anonymity, even when I was trying to creep round under radar. And when I did, blow me if I didn’t activate some car alarm. I’d been the one to tip water over her, of course, and point out that the smoked fish was inside the oast, not outside. But she’d been edgy before that.

  As for Griff, he’d never explained why people didn’t stand up to her bullying – maybe I’d press him again tonight.

  Or maybe I wouldn’t. I’d had a text come through:

  Get the fuck out of here. Go by a new route.

  If only I had a guardian angel – or perhaps I did. Wine-Box Lady had a nosebleed, the sort that wasn’t going to stop soon. Any other time I’d have grabbed the chance to read her part. As it was, I caught Griff’s eye and tapped my watch.

  ‘Early start tomorrow,’ I mouthed.

  He was on his feet packing away his gear before you could say police raid. I’d never bundled the other props so quickly or so carelessly; in fact, I just dumped everything in the oast roundel and, pretty well scooping Griff up, legged it to the car. We needed to go north-east, of course, so I headed south-west.

  Fortunately, he was too full of what he referred to as ‘sound and fury’ to notice that we were on the wrong road. Only as he saw a sign to Bexhill did he twig.

  ‘Bloody satnav,’ I muttered, glad to find a lay-by to pull into to tell it to take us home. For once I blessed the wretched thing’s habit of choosing weird routes: no one would predict some of its odd choices. Surely.

  And no one did. At last – I shoved a bone-weary Griff into the house, locked everything in sight, and thanked heaven for the next morning’s early start.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Driven by a calm, smart but tough-looking woman in her forties, our car arrived outside the front door bang on six fifteen. It was not, I’d guess from the amount of dials and things on the dashboard, your standard taxi. It swept us up to the main international station entrance, and despite the no-waiting signs the chauffeuse made sure our cases found their way to t
he top of the escalator without any help from us. She was so solicitous that I believe she’d have popped Griff into a wheelchair at the merest sign of a gasp.

  Once on the train, again with the minimum of effort, I couldn’t argue with the idea of a champagne breakfast, not just this once, since Griff hadn’t been so full of life since the chest pains had begun. If he had any difficulties he gave not the slightest indication: in fact, he was so full of fun, the journey passed in moments, even the bit deep in the Chunnel which had me reaching for his hand.

  It would have been nice if the fairy tale had continued with Morris greeting me in Paris with flowers and wide open arms (quite a tricky manoeuvre, now I come to think of it). But at least a man with a discreet sign for ‘Monsieur Tripp and party’ greeted us and swung us off in another upmarket car into the city that always made me squeak with excitement and disbelief.

  The hotel we drew up to nearly made me squeak again, but I decided that the daughter of an English nobleman would treat even somewhere as grand as this as her birthright. Several quirks of fate separated me from ownership of Bossingham Hall, of course, but who was to know?

  My lower-class origins gave themselves away when I wondered dourly – but not aloud – who was footing the bill for all this sumptuous modern elegance, not just for me, of course, but for Griff too. His room was indeed just across the corridor from Morris’s and mine, and it didn’t take him long to tap my door and exclaim at the view, not to mention all the other wonderful things. He gripped my shoulders, shaking them slightly. ‘Promise me you’ll never doubt that you’ve earned this, Lina.’

  Doubt? I knew I didn’t deserve it. ‘But I’ve suddenly been upgraded to an international expert. What happened to the foster child from Folkestone?’ When he still shook my shoulders, I managed, ‘Actually, I know what happened – you did.’ I fell into his hug. What if anything happened to him? Could I face any future without him?