Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Fascinating woman,’ he said later. ‘I would never have picked her.’

  ‘So, what do you think, Julian?’ Alex now urged. ‘A few days in Edinburgh?’

  ‘You’re not really serious, are you?’

  ‘About what?’ Alex asked innocently.

  ‘Skiing in Aviemore.’

  ‘Of course.’ Alex looked completely bewildered. ‘That was always our plan.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Alex!’ Julian exploded. ‘Stop playing games. That was before you tried to bloody kill me!’

  ‘Oh.’ Alex looked enlightened—or he pretended to; Julian had long since given up trying to tell the difference. ‘I wasn’t trying to kill you.’

  ‘Well, yourself then,’ Julian answered sullenly. ‘How the hell do I know?’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself either. It was just a test, that’s all, just a test.’

  ‘Well, it was a bloody stupid test and I think you’re a bloody madman and I’m not bloody going.’ Julian realised he wasn’t sounding very sensible but Alex always did that to him.

  ‘Are you chicken?’

  ‘Of course I’m not chicken!’

  There was a long pause while Alex waited for Julian to regain his composure, then he continued calmly, ‘Did you have a nice time in Innsbruck, Julian? Before we left for Berchtesgaden,’ he added hastily as he caught the look in Julian’s eye.

  ‘Yes, of course I did,’ Julian snapped.

  ‘Then let’s repeat that in Aviemore,’ Alex said persuasively, ‘and we can spend a few days en route in Edinburgh, you can visit the castle, we can go to the theatre …’

  Edinburgh was somewhere Julian desperately wanted to go. Perhaps he’d stay there and Alex could go on to Aviemore alone, he thought.

  But Alex didn’t go on to Aviemore alone. By the time they were due to leave Edinburgh they were having such a good time that Julian saw little reason to alter their arrangements.

  It was a pretty little chalet and they settled in comfortably from the moment they arrived. Perhaps it was because there weren’t many snow-bunnies around, or perhaps it was because he was trying to make amends (Julian couldn’t work out which) but Alex was extremely attentive and considerate and, once again, excellent company.

  ‘That’s very good, Julian. Really.’ Alex watched like a proud parent as Julian showed him the progress he’d made. He’d been taking skiing lessons for three days in a row now and the improvement was considerable.

  ‘You should have a go at the higher slopes,’ Alex urged. ‘Do you want to come up with me tomorrow?’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Julian protested. ‘I’m not ready.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, I don’t, do I?’ Alex answered with a touch of impatience. ‘No one knows until they try, do they? There has to be a first time for everything.’ Julian continued to look doubtful. ‘Hell, Julian,’ Alex goaded, ‘we’re only here for another three days. If you chicken out for too long we’ll be on our way home and you’ll never know if you could have done it.’

  Julian felt a flash of anger. How dare Alex suggest he was ‘chickening out’? Just because he wasn’t the natural athlete that Alex was and had to tackle things with a little more caution …

  ‘Anyway, don’t take my word for it,’ Alex backed off, smiling amiably, aware that he may have gone a little too far. ‘Ask your ski instructor.’

  Julian did. Hans said yes. ‘Sure, why not?’ was his laconic reply. ‘Start from the middle station—don’t go up to the top—and keep a watch on the weather.’ He shrugged. ‘You can only fall down, can’t you?’

  Apart from the fact that his name was Hans and that he was German and had a suntan, Hans was everything one didn’t expect a ski instructor to be. He was ugly, nearly fifty, had a potbelly and was short on charm.

  There was a blizzard warning the following day and the top station was closed.

  ‘Hans said to watch out for the weather,’ Julian commented a touch nervously as they waited for the chairlift. ‘Perhaps we should leave it till tomorrow?’ He was rather wishing he hadn’t let himself be talked into this. Maybe Alex was right, maybe he was chicken. Hell, what was wrong with that? He’d never professed to being the athletic type.

  ‘If you leave it till tomorrow you might never get a go at it,’ Alex replied. ‘Once these blizzards set in the slopes can be closed to skiers for days.’

  There were only two more people in front of them now, it would be their turn for the chairlift any second.

  ‘And if the weather was any real problem, they wouldn’t be operating the lifts, would they?’ Alex reasoned. ‘Make up your mind Julian, it’s now or never.’ Alex swung himself into the chair and Julian found himself clumsily following suit, nearly dropping one of his stocks in the process. There was no backing out now, he thought glumly.

  ‘Well done.’ Alex gave one of his proud parent smiles.

  There weren’t as many people as usual out on the slopes that morning and those who were appeared very experienced to Julian as he watched them swooping down the mountainside. If this is the middle station I’d hate to be at the top, he thought, and he looked longingly at the chalet, so tiny, way below.

  ‘Blizzard warning,’ the voice announced through the loudspeaker. ‘All chairlifts and cable cars up the mountain will cease operation as of this moment. All skiers are to make their way to the chalet immediately. Thank you.’

  Julian looked around. The other skiers had gone. Only he and Alex remained.

  ‘Shit, Alex.’

  But Alex appeared to take no notice of the announcement whatsoever. ‘No worries, you’ll be fine. You ready?’ Julian gave a sick nod. ‘Right. Off we go!’ Alex dug his poles into the snow and took off.

  Julian stared after Alex, waiting for him to stop so that he could make his own haphazard way down the mountain, safe in the knowledge that Alex was watching protectively.

  But Alex didn’t stop. Well maybe he did, but there was no way Julian could tell. A minute after Alex had left him, the air turned white and Julian could see no further than several metres. A minute after that he could see no further than one metre and a minute after that he was totally blind in a world of white.

  He skiied a few metres down the steep slope, then fell over and picked himself up. A few more metres, then over he went again. And again. And again. Each time he fell over he heard Hans’ words: ‘Well, you can only fall down, can’t you?’ But he had to fall over in the right direction. Somewhere down the bottom of this mountain was the chalet.

  As the blizzard whirled about him, Julian knew that the chances of his falling all the way down the mountainside through this blinding white and landing right at the doors of the chalet were a thousand to one. But he tried not to think about that. He tried not to think about anything except keeping on going.

  Each time he fell he told himself not to panic. And each time he picked himself up out of the snow it seemed to work. It was only when he lost his goggles that he lost control. That was when the panic set in. He groped about desperately on his hands and knees as the driving snow knifed its way into his eyes. It was useless. He struggled to his feet. And then, to his horror, he realised that he’d lost one of his stocks. While he was groping for the goggles he’d slipped his hand through the leather loop.

  Julian’s heart pumped wildly and he began to whimper. Stop it, Julian, stop it, he told himself. You mustn’t lose control. The stock must be just to your left. Kneel down. Don’t crawl around, stay perfectly still. He dropped to his knees and carefully felt about to his left. When his hand touched the rod of cold metal his whimpers turned to sobs and he clutched it to his chest gratefully. Then he sat back on his heels and, for several seconds, he wept with relief.

  When he finally stood up his panic had gone. There was no time for panic. He had to keep on going.

  So he skiied and fell and struggled to his feet. And skiied and fell and struggled to his feet again. G
et up, he told himself when every aching muscle told him to stay there. Get up, he told himself, when his body told him to curl into a ball.

  On and on. The mountainside was endless. He must have passed the chalet ages ago. He felt as though he were falling down a huge abyss.

  Then, through the painful cracks that were his eyes, a colour other than white appeared. A hazy yellow. And, as he fell forward, his elbow hit something hard. Something other than snow. It was a step. And there were voices. And then there were other hazy, yellow glows. People with torches, the light of the chalet behind them. He had actually fallen down the mountainside and into the back porch of the chalet.

  Did I say it was a thousand to one chance? Julian asked himself. Try ten thousand. Hundreds of thousands. A million to one chance. And he wanted to laugh.

  They thawed him out, and fed him soup. The doctor announced that no serious damage had been done, although he stated gravely that ‘another half hour and it might have been a different matter altogether’. All the while, Julian looked through the sea of faces at Alex. Alex, who was so concerned.

  ‘Hell, Julian, what happened? I thought you were right behind me.’ Julian didn’t say anything. ‘And when I looked back, you weren’t there.’ Still Julian said nothing. ‘Christ, you were lucky.’

  It was only later, when they were alone, that Julian asked sharply, ‘Why didn’t you look back?’

  ‘I did. I told you. I thought you were right behind me, but when I looked, you weren’t there. You waited too long before taking off, Julian. You should have left straight after me.’

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you wait for me then?’ Julian could feel himself shaking with rage.

  ‘Wait for you?’ Alex held up his hands in innocent outrage. ‘Are you joking? There was a bloody blizzard!’

  Julian could take no more. ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard!’ he screamed hysterically. ‘You do want to kill me, don’t you? You want to rig my death and then you want to watch me die—that’s what you want, isn’t it, you sick fucking bastard!’

  Alex looked astonished. He’d never seen Julian so angry. ‘Good God, Julian, why should I want to kill you when you write such wonderful plays for me? I just want to be your source of inspiration, that’s all.’

  An image flashed through Julian’s mind: an image of himself, terror-stricken, whimpering and crawling about in the raging blizzard. And then he hit Alex. He hit him as hard as he could.

  The blow didn’t make much of a connection. Alex saw it coming, went with it and fell back onto the sofa. He was surprised that Julian should resort to violence. To the best of Alex’s knowledge Julian had never hit anyone in his life.

  Julian hadn’t. And the action startled him out of his hysteria. He stared down at Alex who looked back, surprised but unruffled.

  ‘I don’t need your sick mind for my inspiration, Alex,’ Julian hissed. ‘So from now on, you lay off me. You understand? You play your macabre games with someone else.’ He stormed off to the bar to get drunk.

  The blizzard raged solidly for two days. On the third day it abated enough for rescuers to find the corpses of three mountain climbers.

  Julian and Alex watched as the bodies were carried by on stretchers. Julian turned away to avoid Alex’s fascination. He knew that Alex was imagining the frozen blue-white faces in the body bags.

  On the fourth day the blizzard cleared enough for Alex and Julian to drive back to Edinburgh. They returned the hire car and flew to Heathrow. Julian had changed his ticket to connect with a flight to Sydney the same day.

  ‘But I thought we were going to spend a few days seeing the shows in London,’ Alex grumbled.

  ‘You can if you like,’ Julian said. ‘It’s Christmas in two weeks and I’m going to spend it with the family in Wagga.’

  ‘But you loathe Wagga,’ said Alex incredulously. ‘You don’t even like your family that much.’

  At that moment Julian felt a great love for his family. He ached for the familiar sanity of Gwen’s afternoon teas, Norman’s beer with the news on telly and Wendy’s raucous twins. He was going home, he insisted.

  ‘Oh all right,’ Alex gave in with bad grace. ‘We’ll go home.’

  Julian was relieved in one way that Alex decided to come with him. It would save any hassle for Maddy, although Alex appeared to have forgotten completely his desire to chase up Madeleine Frances.

  Maddy was confused by Julian’s telegram: Heading straight home. Will ring from Sydney. She hoped nothing was wrong.

  Julian couldn’t bring himself to ring her from London. Maddy would know by the sound of his voice that something was wrong and he wasn’t up to telling her the story. By the time he rang from Wagga he’d be able to say, ‘I was pretending I could ski and got lost in a blizzard’. Perhaps, from the secure suburbia of his childhood home, he’d believe it himself.

  Maddy spent Christmas Day and Boxing Day morning at Windsor. Then it was back to London on Wednesday afternoon in time for the evening performance.

  She had left Jenny with Robert and Alma, promising to return on Sunday. But she didn’t.

  Douglas came back on Saturday.

  Maddy walked into her dressing room after the matinee to find him waiting there for her. She was so surprised that all she could think of saying was, ‘How come Sam let you in?’ Sam the doorman never let anyone beyond the stage door before checking with the actors—let alone into the dressing rooms.

  ‘I slipped through,’ Douglas explained. ‘No one noticed.’ Maddy knew this was a lie. No one ‘slipped through’ the stage door when Sam was on duty. But she let it pass.

  ‘So what do you want?’ she asked coldly, the anger starting to set in.

  There was a tap at the door. In the instant before it opened, Douglas gave a quick shake of his head to Maddy and stepped behind the corner screen.

  The mild, bespectacled face of Maria, Maddy’s nineteen year old, sixteen stone dresser, peered through the door. ‘Ready for me, Miss Frances?’

  ‘Give me ten minutes, Maria. I need to make an urgent phone call.’

  ‘Sorry about the drama,’ Douglas said when Maria had gone, ‘but I can’t let anyone know I’m here.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. In fact I’m amazed you had the audacity to come back to London at all.’

  He seemed a little taken aback at her vehemence. ‘I’m sorry I was away so long without contacting you, but I had my reasons. I—’

  ‘I know your reasons, Douglas. Or Daniel, or whatever your bloody name is this time.’ The control she’d been fighting to maintain was rapidly disappearing and she knew it but she didn’t care. ‘And which funny voice are we using today, Scots or bog-Irish? I thought I was the actor in this relationship.’

  ‘Oh. You saw the Armagh broadcast.’ Douglas nodded as though that explained everything. ‘I didn’t think you would. Or rather I didn’t think you’d recognise me if you saw it.’

  Maddy stared back at him, momentarily speechless. How could he be so cool?

  ‘Well, you have to admit, the accent was spoton,’ he continued. ‘And I must have had a touch of charisma to make such an impression in just a few seconds.’

  Maddy’s outrage was genuine. ‘I don’t find this at all funny. We’re talking about the IRA, for God’s sake. We’re talking about a terrorist bomb, we’re talking about—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Douglas interrupted. ‘I also know how that newscast must have appeared to you, Madeleine, but you’re wrong.’ She tried to interject but he continued. ‘I mustn’t stay here any longer. If I’m seen it could be dangerous. For you more than me. Could you meet me later—at a safe place where I can explain everything?’

  She wanted to believe him. She so wanted to believe him. Maddy nodded before she could question her motives. She wanted to be alone with him. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers. She wanted to feel his hands on her body. Oh God, she must be insane, she told herself.

  Douglas crossed to the telephone and dialled a number. ‘Has a Mr Cob
urn checked in yet?’ he asked. ‘Yes, thank you, put me through.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Everything cleared? Good.’ He checked his watch. ‘Make it 1800 hours.’

  He hung up and turned to Maddy. ‘The Grafton Hotel, Tottenham Court Road. I’ll meet you at five to six—that gives you half an hour. Wait by the third floor lifts. If I don’t acknowledge you, you mustn’t acknowledge me, understand?’ She nodded.

  He opened the door a fraction and glanced down the corridor. It was empty. When he looked back at her he smiled for the first time. ‘Don’t wear the wig, it’s a bit conspicuous. Besides, I prefer the real thing.’

  Maddy caught sight of herself in the mirror—the crinoline, the powdered face, the beauty spots and the fully-coiffured, white wig. She had completely forgotten she was in costume. But she was too worried to smile at her incongruous appearance.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ Douglas said and kissed her lightly. ‘Now give me two minutes, then come and distract the doorman. Talk to him from the side door, not from the check-in window.’ Another glance down the corridor and he was gone.

  Maddy took off her wig, quickly brushed her hair and followed exactly two minutes later. Right outside the door she bumped into the dresser. Had Maria seen Douglas? she wondered briefly. ‘Are you ready, Miss Frances?’ The bovine face was unruffled. No, she couldn’t have seen him.

  ‘Just one more minute, Maria—I have to give a message to Sam.’ Maddy dashed off down the corridor before Maria could offer to deliver the message for her.

  There was no sign of Douglas. She circled around the front window of Sam’s office which faced the stage door and called to him through the side door. ‘Sam, do you have a moment?’

  Sam took his head out of the sports pages and jumped to his feet. ‘Of course, Miss Frances.’

  ‘I was wondering …’ She lowered her voice confidentially so that he would join her at the door, which of course he did. ‘I was wondering …’ Good grief, what was she wondering?

  ‘What, Miss Frances?’ Sam whispered back, flattered that she should confide in him.