by Susan Lewis
“I thought I’d take him to the cinema. There’s a Stephen Spielberg showing in Esher, The Goonies. Apparently it’s got a pirate in it, One-Eyed Willie.”
Ashley laughed. “Sounds just up his street. He’s got a new friend though, did Mum tell you?”
“You mean him?” said Keith, pointing at a weary Caesar, curled up in a makeshift box in the corner.
“Yes, him.”
“From Julian, I hear.”
“That’s right.”
“And a Mercedes for you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Very generous of him, considering.”
“Very,” said Ashley. “Would you carry the tray in? I’ll get out some biscuits.”
Ashley waited for him to go, then bolted up the stairs to give Alex a goodnight kiss. She hadn’t wanted Keith to come with her. The scene of doting parents standing over a sleeping child made her uncomfortable with Keith. They had made that mistake once before and Keith had ended up in tears, and his raging and pleading had woken Alex. She didn’t want a repeat of that. If Alex knew that Keith wanted them back so desperately, and with Julian no longer in their lives, he might just take his father’s part in trying to persuade her into a reconciliation. And right now, feeling as she did, she just wasn’t up to fighting them.
When she went downstairs again, Keith was sitting on the settee, watching television with her parents. She went to sit beside him, careful not to get too close. Her mother was dabbing her eyes as the final scenes of La Traviata were played out on the screen.
Finally the opera came to an end. Mrs Lakeman sighed, and picked up her tea. “Did you have a nice time at Kate’s, dear?”
“Yes,” said Ashley. “She sends her love. So does Ellamarie.”
“How’s Kate’s mother?”
“Not too good, I’m afraid. She was calling Alex Jonathan all day, which didn’t go down too well.”
“Oh dear,” said her mother. “He didn’t misbehave, did he?”
“Not really.”
“How could he? He’s his father’s son,” said Keith, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Well, I’m for bed,” said Mr Lakeman. “What about you, Rachel?”
“Well, there’s a Gene Kelly film on at eleven. Thought I might . . .” She caught her husband’s eye. “No, you’re quite right, I am a bit tired. Besides, I’ve had enough telly for one day.”
Ashley made to follow her mother, but Keith grabbed her hand.
“Goodnight then, you two,” said Mr Lakeman.
“Night, Dad,” said Ashley.
“Goodnight,” said Keith.
Keith pressed the button on the remote control to turn off the television.
“Think I’ll go on up myself,” said Ashley.
“Don’t go yet. Why don’t we have a nightcap? Just the two of us.”
Ashley didn’t want to be rude, but neither did she relish the idea of “just the two of us”.
“Come on,” he said, going over to the drinks trolley. “It’s not often we’re on our own and able to talk.”
She sighed. “I’ll have a Cointreau.”
Seeing his pleasure made Ashley feel sad. It was a strange world that created this mysterious chain of love.
“I was wondering,” he said, coming back with their drinks, “will you be here for New Year’s Eve?”
“I haven’t really thought about it.”
“It would be nice if you could be. For Alex, I mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t really understand about New Year’s Eve yet. He’ll be asleep by ten o’clock.”
Keith laughed. “I guess you’re right. Nothing going on in London then, I take it?”
“Nothing that I know of, yet. How about you? What will you be doing?”
“Haven’t actually planned anything,” he answered. “Play it by ear, I suppose.”
She nodded and sipped her drink. She couldn’t help wondering how things might have turned out had they stayed together. It was at moments like this, when she was feeling lonely and vulnerable, that she remembered all the good times. All the times when they had sat together, just like they were doing now, and talked into the night. There was no doubt she had loved him once, but that seemed such a long time ago now. So much had happened since.
It was dark in the room, only the glow from the fire and a distant lamp lit up their faces, and she thought how romantic this could be. She looked at Keith and found him watching her. She smiled. She would always have a fondness for him, even after all that had happened.
“What would you say to coming out for dinner with me on New Year’s Eve?” he said, quietly.
She turned away and immediately felt guilty for it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s too soon, of course.”
“No,” she said. “Please don’t be sorry. I’d love to have dinner with you on New Year’s Eve. Thank you for asking me.”
“Do you mean it?”
She smiled and nodded.
“I’ll come up to London if you like.”
“No, let’s go somewhere local.”
“OK. I’ll book somewhere. How about the Grange?”
It was the restaurant where he had proposed to her. “OK, let’s go to the Grange.”
He raised his glass to her as if sealing their arrangement. “I was going to ask you anyway. It’s not just because of Julian.”
She smiled.
“You still love him?”
Ashley stiffened.
“Sorry,” he said, “I . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. The answer is yes. Yes, I do still love him.”
“Would you take him back, if he asked?”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I would.”
“I thought you’d say that.” He hesitated, fiddling with his glass. “But you won’t come back to me?”
“Oh, Keith, please,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “don’t let’s go all through that again.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help it. I love you so much, and I miss Alex. It’s terrible seeing him like this you know, only on the occasional weekend and sometimes during the week. I want to help him with his schoolwork and share in his sports days, as his real father, not just a visiting father. And I should have been the one to buy him a dog, and I should have been with him on Christmas Day. I’m afraid of him growing up without me. Afraid that things are happening so quickly that I shall be left behind and I won’t even know him any more, my own son.”
He looked down at the wedding ring that she still wore, despite the fact that they had been divorced for over two years. “Things are different now, you know,” he said. “I hardly drink any more, or gamble. I haven’t looked at another woman in ages. It’s only you that I want, Ash. You and Alex, my own family.”
Ashley pulled her hand away and sat forward.
“I’ll wait, Ash.” he said. “I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll wait. I’ll always be here if you need me. I’ll always care. And I’ll never let you down again, I swear it.”
“Oh, Keith,” she said. “I believe you really do mean it.”
“I do, Ashley. I’ve never stopped thinking of you as my wife. And all that business three years ago . . .” he looked away unable to carry on. Ashley reached out for his hand. She knew how painful it was for him to talk about the way he had threatened to kill himself if she didn’t go back to him. And then the threats to take Alex away to a place she would never find them.
He gripped her hand tightly. “Just tell me that maybe one day there is a chance you will be my wife again.”
“I can’t say it. You know I can’t.” She leaned back and rested her head against the settee. Life would be so much simpler if she could love him again. They could be a family again, a real family. And Alex would have his father and she would have the love and security she wanted. She would always want to work, she knew that; she also knew that Keith would take her back on any terms, just so t
hat he could be with Alex again. And she wouldn’t have to dread going into the office every day. She could join an agency nearer to home. If she were to return to Keith, then everything would be all right. It would all work out.
She felt his arm go round her shoulders and allowed him to take the glass from her hand. Turning back to her he took her in his arms and kissed her gently. Feeling confused and lonely, she let him go on kissing her.
ELEVEN
The reviews for Bob McElfrey’s production of Twelfth Night were, in the main, exceptional. Even Bob himself had not dared to hope for such a reception. Modestly he put it down to the modern interpretations of Shakespeare’s plays that had plagued the theatre in recent years, and the critics seemed to agree with him.
“If we didn’t know it before, we certainly know it now,” wrote one, “we want our classical Shakespeare. And we want our lighter Shakespeare too. Thank you to Bob McElfrey for giving it.” “It is a piece of theatre, unsurpassed in recent years,” wrote another. “A delicate, and romantic story, told with all the feeling and humour we have come to expect from one of our finest directors.” There were also those who wrote jubilantly, of how the timing and delivery had them “laughing in the aisles”, and “crying out for more”. But one critic had been cruel in her write-up on the performance given by Maureen Woodley: “She was better cast as Viola disguised as the man, it was only then that she approached belief.”
Bob thought that was a bit strong, but he had to admit that for some reason Maureen had not got to grips with her character. And what was worse, she didn’t seem to care. Bob had been so angry with her he had hardly spoken to her when they had all joined up for the first-night party afterwards. He didn’t want to risk a showdown, not when everyone else was basking in their triumph. But no one had been surprised when he had called for rehearsals again the following day.
The stage manager had booked the rehearsal room for the day. Bob felt it might be better for Maureen to be away from the theatre until they played again tonight. He had called the whole cast for the afternoon; Maureen’s wasn’t the only performance that needed sharpening, despite what the critics had said.
Ellamarie was sitting at the side of the room with Nicholas Gough. They were watching Maureen rehearse with David Flood, who was playing Orsino. Every now and again she caught Bob’s eye, and her heart turned over. Eventually Bob grinned and turned his script table away from her, deciding that he really must concentrate harder on the task in hand.
Ellamarie smiled, able to read his mind, and felt a surge of joy that Christmas was finally over and they were back together again. She returned her attention to Maureen Woodley. Despite her feelings towards Maureen, she had to admit that she was a gifted actress – at least this morning she was. Ellamarie shook her head, and wondered what had happened to Maureen the night before.
Bob hardly interrupted Maureen’s performance at all, there was no need, but whenever he did, Maureen responded perfectly. And she smiled at him, and laughed when he delivered the lines himself. Then, with the scene over, she turned to him for his approval, and got it.
The next scene did not include either Maureen or Ellamarie, so they both watched as the others rehearsed. At least Maureen did, but Ellamarie was still, from the corner of her eye, watching Maureen. Maureen barely took her eyes from Bob.
As the morning wore on Ellamarie’s expression turned from interest to incredulity. Maureen Woodley had a crush on Bob! Ellamarie was shocked. She’d no idea that Maureen harboured feelings of that kind for him. She’d certainly never noticed them before. When had this started?
Ellamarie became so engrossed by Maureen’s double-edged performance that she hardly noticed when Bob called out for the others to come and join the discussion. He turned to look at her, and Maureen’s face contorted with anger. Ellamarie flinched to see such venom.
“I want you all to listen to this,” Bob was saying, as the others crowded round. “We’re talking about options for pauses.” Everyone laughed and groaned. “Yes,” he said, holding up his hand, “that old one.” He turned to David and Maureen. “Right,” he said, “run that last bit again.”
“Where shall we take it from?” said David.
“Take it from ‘My life upon’t’,” Bob answered, and stood back to watch with the audience of other actors.
“My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy?”
“A little, by your favour.”
“What kind of woman is’t?”
“Of your complexion.”
Bob held up his hand. “Maureen, why not pick up the cue for ‘Of your complexion’ immediately, but then hold for the rest of the line. Do you see what I mean? Of . . . your complexion.’ I think you’ve been caught a bit on the hop there, maybe you shouldn’t be so slick with an answer. Try it.”
Maureen smiled at him, and turned to face David. “Of . . . your complexion,” she repeated. “Oh yes!” she shrieked, turning back to Bob. “That’s exactly right. It feels absolutely perfect. Thank you.”
Bob nodded to her, then looked round as he felt the stage manager tugging at his sleeve. She was pointing to her watch.
“OK, everyone,” he shouted. “Get some tea, and back in ten minutes. I’m not going to run the whole thing through, but I do want you all here, so no running off.”
He went back to his table and took the libretto for Don Giovanni from his case. He’d have to spend the day at Lilian Bayliss House tomorrow rehearsing, so he might as well take the opportunity of this break to go over the opera again. He opened it, groaned inwardly, and decided a cup of tea might help.
Pushing open the door of the small kitchen at the end of the room, he stopped at the sound of Maureen’s high-pitched voice. Nobody had seen him come in, and he was just in time to hear Maureen, with an affected American accent, drawl towards Ellamarie’s back: “O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou, Romeo?” She lowered her voice and mimicked Bob’s mildly Scottish tone. “At home with my wife, dearest.”
“Maureen!” She spun round as Bob snapped her name. “A word, please.”
Maureen followed him out into the hall. He motioned for her to close the kitchen door, then waited beside his table. There was no one else around, they couldn’t be overheard.
“Maureen,” he said, the smooth tone of his voice belying the anger in his eyes, “you know there are still things that need perfecting in your performance. Perhaps if you concentrated a little harder on that, and less on other members of the cast, we might get somewhere.”
Maureen’s face turned puce, but she didn’t quite have the courage to say what was on her mind.
“Now go and get your tea and work over your lines with David. By ridiculing Ellamarie you are also ridiculing me, and I will not stand for it, do you hear me? You are not irreplacable.”
To his dismay, she looked on the brink of tears. He hadn’t expected her to cry. Shout, and stamp her feet, yes. But not tears.
“Look,” he said, his voice conciliatory, “I’m sorry that I’ve had to speak to you like this. We won’t mention it again, OK?”
Still without speaking, she turned quickly and went back into the kitchen. He watched her go. He didn’t trust her. She was an actress, and a damned good one. And again, not for the first time, he remembered that she had said she knew his wife. He would have to watch her. Or perhaps more to the point, he would have to watch himself.
“Feel like some food?” Ellamarie asked.
“Mmm, yes, I do.”
“Shall we go out? We can always go somewhere in the King’s Road. Have a pizza or something?”
Bob thought about it. “I’d rather stay here. Why don’t I go out and get a takeaway?”
“Sure. What do you fancy?”
“Chinese?”
She nodded. “Shall I come with you?”
He shook his head. “No need.” It was a good opportunity to get to a phone and ring his wife. Something he had been meaning to do
all day, but the afternoon rehearsal hadn’t ended until five and he hadn’t had the opportunity, with Ellamarie being so close at hand.
He picked up his keys from the bureau and, stooping to kiss her, left.
Ellamarie was particularly excited about tonight’s performance. All her friends were going to be there, and they were going on for dinner after, at the Villa Dei Cesari. She was sad, though, that her father couldn’t be there too. He would adore the play, she just knew it. She would mail him copies of the reviews.
One critic had gone so far as to say that Ellamarie Goold was someone to look out for in the future, “I’m sure,” he had written, “that we will be seeing a lot more of this gifted and beautiful young actress”. She wished she could be there to see his face when her father read that. He would be real proud. Her mother probably would be too, but her mother hardly ever showed any emotion. Poppa had thought to call her at the theatre before she went on last night, and it had meant so much to her. It had been so long since she had last seen him.
She undressed and went to fill the tub.
She was longing to know what Bob had said to Maureen earlier, but knew she couldn’t ask. He didn’t like to discuss what went on between him and other members of the company. This was as much for her sake as for theirs.
She had played with the idea of telling him that Maureen had a fad for him, but she hadn’t. Hell, what was the point anyway, Maureen would get over it. A pity Blanche’s cousin, whatever his name was, had gone back to the States so soon.
The phone began to ring, so she pulled a wrap round her and went to answer it.
It was Kate calling to wish her good luck, and to tell her that her mother and father wouldn’t be able to make it after all.
“Is Joel still coming?” Ellamarie asked.
“You bet he is. He’s picking me up at seven thirty. Does that leave us enough time to get there?”
“Plenty. It doesn’t start till eight thirty. By the way, Nicholas Gough was asking about you today.”
“Oh God!” said Kate. “What was he saying?”
“Just asked if you were coming tonight.”
“What did you say?”
